/ Travel & Leisure

Step into The Rhyming Room

Poetry on typewriter

Would you prefer to write your comments as a poem? Then The Rhyming Room is exactly where you want to be. Take inspiration from our weekly themes or wax lyrical on current consumer concerns…

The Which? Conversation community is fortunate to have many budding poets in its midst who frequently put their thoughts into verse.

On the odd occasion, we’ve even had dedicated conversations encouraging you to show off your creative talents and command of couplets and stanzas, such as those community member Ian led on National Poetry Day last year and at Christmas.

Poets’ corner

Concerned that some of the odes may get buried and forgotten in the depths of Which? Conversation, a number of you have requested a permanent poetry convo.

The space you envisaged was somewhere to store your topical verses so you could easily access them for further enjoyment – and even contribute more when you’re feeling inspired.

So, without further ado: welcome to The Rhyming Room.

On song

Of course, the main idea here is to write poems about your thoughts on current consumer issues.

But for added inspiration, each week, we’ll also be suggesting themes. These could be based on a mixture of world, international and national days, and even dubious celebratory days – so be sure to check back regularly.

Naturally, if you come up with your own celebratory occasion and want to write a poem, that’s OK, too.

Your musings can also be serious or amusing.

The only rules are that the poems must be your own work and it would be helpful to others to mention the subject. You should also always keep our Community Guidelines in mind.

To kick things off, Alfa’s kindly put pen to paper.

Did you ever dream of being a poet
But never quite sure just how to show it?
Let thoughts in your head turn to words that flow
And watch a poem start to grow

Each week there will be a new set of themes
Inspiration may come to you in your dreams
The end of lines don’t have to rhyme
Just come back and share with us in due time

This week’s themes:

Any current issues on Which? Conversation, plus:

Notable upcoming dates:

Fri 26 May: Don’t Fry Day, Dracula Day, Paper Airplane Day, Heat Awareness Day
Sat 27 May: Cellophane Tape Day, Sun Screen Day,
Sun 28 May: Brisket Day, Amnesty International Day, Hamburger Day, World Hunger Day
Mon 29 May: Biscuit Day, Paper Clip Day, Learn About Composting Day, Coq Au Vin Day
Tue 30 May: Water a Flower Day, Loomis Day, My Bucket’s Got A Hole Day
Wed 31 May: No Tobacco Day, Macaroon Day, Senior Health & Fitness Day, Speak in Sentences Day
Thu 1 Jun: Say Something Nice Day, Go Barefoot Day, Olive Day, Heimlich Manoeuvre Day, Penpal Day
Fri 2 Jun: Doughnut Day, Rocky Road Day, Leave The Office Early Day,
Sat 3 Jun: Repeat Day, Insect Repellent Awareness Day, Egg Day
Sun 4 Jun: Hug Your Cat Day, Tailors Day, Old Maid’s Day, Cancer Survivors Day, Cheese Day, Cognac Day

Please check back regularly for themes of the week.

We look forward to reading your compositions!

With special thanks to Which? Conversation community member, Alfa, who assisted with this conversation and came up with the inspired name of The Rhyming Room.

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Another from Alfa’s list before she slaps my wrist.

Straw Hat Day.

Straw hat.
My cat.
Claws that
Pull at
Straw plat.
No hat.
Bad cat!
Lap sat.
Purr, purr, purr.

Profile photo of alfa

Wow, Vynor’s got us to page 2 ✍ 🙂 Keep ’em coming…

A few more celebrated dates:

Thu May 18: Visit Your Relatives Day, Notebook Day, Museum Day, No Dirty Dishes Day,
Fri May 19: Bike To Work Day, Endangered Species Day, Pizza Party Day, The Great British Fish & Chips Supper
Sat May 20: Learn To Swim Day, Plant A Lemon Tree Day, World Whisky Day, World Fiddle Day Weights & Measures Day, Pick Strawberries Day
Sun May 21: Memo Day, Waiting Staff Day, I Need A Patch For That Day
Mon May 22: International Day for Biological Diversity, World Goth Day, Sherlock Holmes Day, Maritime Day
Tue May 23: Lucky Penny Day, Turtle Day, Title Track Day, Talk Like Yoda Day
Wed May 24: Brother’s Day, Tiara Day, Escargot Day, Scavenger Hunt Day
Thu May 25: Wine Day, Tap Dance Day, Geek Pride Day

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Hi Alfa,

That’s all updated – I might have to treat myself to some fish & chips tomorrow 🙂

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Well if you insist! Ian, in the lobby gives us wise sayings and amusing anecdotes every morning. I wondered whether it might be possible to tell jokes in verse. Hilaire Belloc was half way there with Henry King whom he exhorted to “Always keep a hold of nurse, for fear of finding something worse.” I’ve chosen three real old chestnuts and had a go.

A competition was set,
To find the best pun they could get.
A man in his prime,
Sent ten at a time,
But sadly, his entries
Fell foul of the sentries.
For his prize winning bid,
No pun in-ten-did.
A man to the doctor applied
For a cure for wind to be tried.
The doctor, in spite,
Suggested a kite.
A damsel came to an artist’s lair.
The artist happened to be painting there.
She spoke in tones that were subdued,
“I wonder if you think me rude,
But can you paint me in the nude?”

The artist smiled and said “For sure,
But one small favour I implore.
Please allow me socks to wear,
I need to store my brushes there.”

Back to the wilderness for now.

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LOL! Excellent!

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Short note to self on Sunday for Monday.

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When hate comes by,
That’s where bodies lie.
When hate is taught,
Its evil message bought,
That’s when the innocents die.

When hate is at the heart
Of what “teachers” impart,
That’s where murders start.
When hate is the whole,
The religion and the goal,
That’s when lives depart.

When hope is there,
That’s when people care.
When hope’s alive,
That’s when communities thrive.
When hope spreads through
There’s only we, not us and you.

When hope translates
To friendship that relates,
When hopes transcend
The divisions that offend,
When hope is true,
Then life can grow a-new.

When disaffections hide
And troubled souls can not confide,
When disaffections grow
And evil prophets, hatred sew,
When disaffections spread,
That’s where propagandists tread.

When communities are strong
And everyone thinks they belong,
When families confide
And no one feels the need to hide,
When our world, at last, decides
That no religion need take sides,
When countries feel there is no threat,
No need to challenge or abet,
Then poverty can be our goal,
The starving all with food in bowl,
Helping those who really need
To dig the soil and plant the seed.

When Utopia is there for real,
When goodness gives us time to heal,
Then all our problems – large and small,
Will be shared among us all.

Will human kind adapt and say
This is our world, our path, our way?

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More celebrated Days:

Fri May 26: Don’t Fry Day, Dracula Day, Paper Airplane Day, Heat Awareness Day
Sat May 27: Cellophane Tape Day, Sun Screen Day,
Sun May 28: Brisket Day, Amnesty International Day, Hamburger Day, World Hunger Day
Mon May 29: Biscuit Day, Paper Clip Day, Learn About Composting Day, Coq Au Vin Day
Tue May 30: Water a Flower Day, Loomis Day, My Bucket’s Got A Hole Day
Wed May 31: No Tobacco Day, Macaroon Day, Senior Health & Fitness Day, Speak in Sentences Day
Thu Jun 1: Say Something Nice Day, Go Barefoot Day, Olive Day, Heimlich Manoeuvre Day, Penpal Day
Fri Jun 2: Doughnut Day, Rocky Road Day, Leave The Office Early Day,
Sat Jun 3: Repeat Day, Insect Repellent Awareness Day, Egg Day
Sun Jun 4: Hug Your Cat Day, Tailors Day, Old Maid’s Day, Cancer Survivors Day, Cheese Day, Cognac Day

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I’ve been hoping for a Stem Ginger Cookies day but will make do with 29 May. Heat Awareness Day is well timed.

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I think biscuit or cookie days is the closest we will get. But we do look forward to reading your poem Wavechange 🙂

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If you insist.

Stem Ginger Cookies are the best
Who needs Ginger Nuts or the rest?
Chewy, tasty – my great pleasure
Full of sugar, full of fat
Low in salt, so not so bad
Other biscuits are so boring
Chocolate ones are not for me
How could anyone invent Rich Tea?

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Congratulations on avoiding an advert for the generic Cellophane Tape. This is my first – and last – attempt at chemical verses. Of necessity it lacks details but the outline should follow a logical path, even if the scientists among you smile at my efforts to describe the chemistry as it applies here.

Stick To The Facts.

Back in eighteen forty five, they say,
Lived a surgeon, Doctor Horace Day.
He wanted something surgically cohesive,
So invented a pressure sensitive adhesive.

But the sticky tape in rolls so clear
Had to wait for many a year.
Nineteen twenty five, the date
When the inventors finally got it straight.

The tape we use to stick and to hold
Is a complex mix of new and of old.
A chemical mix of this and of that
Joined together on roller and vat.

The outer layer, clear and so tough
Is made from wood pulp, once so rough,
Or cotton seeds, which like the wood
Are mixed and mashed to make them good.

Added chemicals on the acidic side
Are Acetic and also Anhydride.
These make the wood and the seed mutate
To become clear Cellulose Acetate.

Now this thin film is all in a roll
A massive great cylinder, wound round a pole.
To stop it from sticking, when glue is applied
A releasing agent is placed, on the non-sticky side.

This is a chemical, Chromic Chloride based,
Which lets the tape, when the glue is placed
Wind and unwind without getting stuck,
Without a “kerfuffle” and tape in a ruck.

The glue is a compound of complex construction.
Twenty nine chemicals mixed by instruction.
Acrylic resins are used as a start,
Petroleum bi-products added, in part.

These bi-products, previously broken in two,
Acids and alcohols obtained from the brew.
Finally a solvent to bond and to bind,
A Hydrocarbon element of some sort or kind.

So all is fused and gathered together.
A Polymer compound, the mixture to tether.
The glue to the cellophane placed on a roller,
The tape then is then coated by computer controller.

At last the tape is prepared to be cured.
A high temperature oven ready procured.
It dries all the parts as tape passes through,
Back on the roller, ready and new.

Then to the cutter to size and to shape.
Centres to insert, packing the tape.
Into the boxes and off to the shops.
Our need for this tape just never stops.

So when you next pull at the tape end
To stick something down or paper to mend,
Marvel the way the tape interacts,
A product that always sticks to the facts.

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Amazing stuff Vynor! Have you ever had any of your work published? I am assuming it made reference to British Sellotape and not the American Scotch. I have very sticky connections to the latter from which I had to search long and hard to find the right solvent to extricate myself!

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One novel about thirty short stories and some poetry in the file, but, as you probably know, publishers publish one item in a thousand if one is lucky. I submitted a dozen linked stories to a writers workshop and had a favourable response regarding the contents, but the closing paragraph informed me that they were not commercial enough and I should continue writing for fun…which I do. “The Rhyming Room” is somewhere I can write for fun and be creative, but I have to be careful not to regard this space as an excuse for putting rubbish out. So far there is no area where a short story might exist, so my efforts are in verse, and I try to be creative by experimenting with different structures and rhyme sequences. I am also having fun composing music to go with the words and, maybe, one day, history will be made when one appears here. Who knows?

I believe that Scotch tape came first. Sellotape seems to be a product from a firm called “Henkel,” which markets globally with a diverse product list.

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With abject apologies to W.S., who ever he might have been.

Hamlet’s Skililoquy.

To ski or not to ski, that is the question.
Whether ‘tis colder on the behind to suffer
The prangs and harrows of outrageous misfortunes
Or take alarm against the freeze and tumbles
And by opposing avoid them? To fly
To flip no more and, by a jeep, to say we end
The muscle ache and thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.
‘tis a situation devoutly to be wished. To sigh, to weep,
To weep to scream – “Aye, there’s the pub!”
For in that stream of breath what schemes may come
When we have shuffled off this frozen soil
To warm indoors. That’s the aspect
That makes sanity to say “So long” to the wife.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of thine;
The confessor’s song, the loud dame’s contumely,
For prangs from uninspired moves that cause delay
The consequence of a novice trying turns
That impatience merits for unworthy mistakes
When he, himself, might his quiet use make
Of a spare noggin? Who would doubles pair
To shunt and get from under a slippery strife?
But that dread of something uttered under breath,
The undiscovered curse from whose scorn
No reveller can turn, puzzles the will
And makes us rather dare those hills we know
Than fly down others we know not of.
Thus consternation does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native’s show of resolve
Is prickled more with the female cries of doubt,
And skiing enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this rear guard, the ski blades turn awry
And lose the game of traction. – Soft, the snow.
In the glare of media you’re thumped in the orisons –
She’s all my sins remembered!

Time, once more, to move off piste…in a hurry.

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Water A Flower Day.

I’m up a ladder and need a pee,
The front door is locked and I’ve put down the key.
I look for the neighbours in case they might be
Out in the garden and observing me.

Furtive and careful I climb down the rungs.
A casual whistle comes out from my lungs
I walk to the flower bed fully in bloom
A casual attitude there to assume.

The flowers are watered and I am relieved,
I zip up the overall un-observed, I believed.
A there sitting silent alone on his swing,
A child is staring, he’s seen everything.

“That’s better”, I say and smile at the lad,
What else can be done to make it less bad?
“You see that corner, just there by the tray,
That’s where I wee when I’m pushed out to play.”

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Recent Political Debates.

There they are behind their stands
Forming a crescent of coloured bands.
Each is ready with a quip
A jibe with which to lash and whip.
An audience faces, searching clues,
Selected for their diverse views.

Here they sit, the coloured gent
The casual shirted, open vent,
The woman who has seen it all
The suited man from county hall.
The man who only has three teeth
The girl there with her boyfriend Keith.

The spiked hair militant rough and rude,
The grey haired pensioner unsubdued,
The mid-wife who has worked long shifts
The foreign person with family rifts.
Students from the local college
And some with long established knowledge.

And in between the presenter sits,
Working on the opening bits.
The light come up the stage is lit
Music harsh and loud to fit
This battle now of wit and guile,.
The music fades, the faces smile.

Each has their opening minute when,
They make their pitch, which poison pen
Stabs the others, mocks their stances
Jeering with malevolent glances
As they claim to solve our woes,
Promise goodies in eloquent prose.

And now the audience has the floor
Anxious still to question more.
No sooner has that one been raised,
Then all on stage appear quite crazed.
“No you didn’t, what about,”
The presenter has to turn and shout.

A moment’s calm as one’s selected,
Moments next his claim’s rejected,
Mayhem now for who’s to hear
As the voices snarl and sneer.
Audience captures this aggressive mood
Hear the comments cheered and booed.

And so the evening rolls along
Everyone with their merry song,
And when the credits finally roll
The spinners scramble into goal.
“Wasn’t that great, a victory clear”
“Let’s celebrate and drink some beer.”

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The trouble with browsing on Which Conversation, one sees things and the brain clicks.

“I’ve just had a call from an Indian man
Claiming to be from Virgin.
I’ve just spoken to an Asian women
Claiming she was a virgin.
I’ve just dreamt about a woman
Claiming she was The Virgin.
I didn’t believe any of them.
One’s dead,
One’s in bed
And one phones from a shed. “

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Repeat Day.

The olden
Days the wind-
-Up gramophone had
A handle on the side, which
Wound the spring. The records were
Made of shellac and the heavy needle wore the
Grooves as it transferred the music to the horn on the
Top of the turntable. When the record became worn, the groove
Could become damaged. The result of this damage meant
That two or three bars of music could be repeated and
Repeated and repeated. Repeated and repeated.
Repeated until the spring inside the clock-
-Work motor that drove the turn-
-table wound down. The
Record slowly lost
Velocity and it
Came to a

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Effect totally ruined by the site editing. Sorry, this was meant to swell and die on BOTH sides like a spinning top. Oh well, I tried.

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On my computer it looks as you intended, Vynor.

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We got the picture, Vynor, even if the website’s textual architecture made it one-sided.

I very much enjoyed reading your piece as it reminded me of the old wind-up gramophone we used to have when I was very young. I seem to recall the needle went round and round the final innermost groove until someone lifted off the tone arm with its heavy head and turned it back onto its rest. It was then necessary to switch off the rotation of the platter. On ours you could speed up or slow down the motor because some records were made for higher or lower speeds than 78 r.p.m. I wish now that we had kept it as a curiosity but a new Dansette record player with auto-changer supplanted it. People today who agonise over hi-fi don’t know they’re born!

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I can still remember listening to Harry Lauder singing ‘Keep right on to the end of the road’ on my grandparents’ Dulcetto gramophone. The ordinary needles were for single use and the ones with red shanks could be used five times, if I remember correctly. I must have been about eight at the time.

You two are making me feel nostalgic.

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I had fibre needles and a sharpener, which had a rotator spindle and a sandpaper strip to do the sharpening. The needles gave a more mellow tone but less volume. They were kinder to the records. I still have a stack under one of the beds, but my gramophone needs to have a new governor if it is ever to work again. It is a portable machine with the horn under the turntable. I paid five shillings for it in an auction. Ink Spots, Fats Waller, and Beecham conducting Delius and Elgar conducting his own orchestra, with Menuhin I think. What is remarkable about many of these is the inventive way they ended a record and began on the other side, without losing a note. George Thalben Ball introduced me to Handel organ concertos and Boyd Neal gave me a Brandenburg . I was hooked. Bed calls before I drown in nostalgia.

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Addendum. Funnily enough what has stuck is the colour of the record labels. Ink Spots were black (of course) Brunswick, Fats was plum, Blue Decca for Charlie Kunz and the Teddy Bear’s picnic (sadly broken) was red HMV. Ann Stephens was twelve when she recorded that and “Dicky Bird Hop” on the other side. The record companies had their posh labels for premier recordings, and Woolworth copied songs with unknown artists on the Embassy label. We all scorned their efforts.

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I wonder if inquisitive children of the future will be fascinated by an MP3 player. 🙂

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Your comment about fibre needles brought this to mind Vynor:

I had a little gramophone,
I’d wind it round and round.
And with a sharpish needle,
It made a cheerful sound.

And then they amplified it,
It was much louder then.
And used sharpened fibre needles,
To make it soft again.

Today for reproduction,
I’m as eager as can be.
Count me among the faithful fans,
Of high fidelity.

High fidelity,
Hi-Fi’s the thing for me.
With an LP disk and an FM set,
And a corner reflex cabinet.

High frequency range,
Complete with auto-change.
Flanders: All the highest notes neither sharp nor flat,
Swann: The ear can’t hear as high as that.
Flanders: Still, I ought to please any passing bat,
Swann: With my high fidelity.

Flanders: Who made this circuit up for you, anyway? Bought it in a shop? Oooh, what a horrible shoddy job they fobbed you off with with.
Surprised they let you have it in this room anyway, the acoustics are all wrong. If you raise the ceiling four feet… put the fireplace from that wall to that wall… you’ll still only get the stereophonic effect if you sit in the bottom of that cupboard.
I see… I see you’ve got your negative feedback coupled in with your push-pull-input-output. Take that across through your redded pickup to your tweeter, if you’re modding more than eight, you’re going to get wow on your top. Try to bring that down through your pre-amp rumble filter to your woofer, what’ll you get? Flutter on your bottom!

Both: High fidelity,
Flanders: FFRR for me.
Both: I’ve an opera here that you shan’t escape,
On miles and miles of recording tape.

High decimal gain,
Is easy to obtain.
Flanders: With the tone control at a single touch,
Swann: Bel canto sounds like double Dutch.
Both: But I never did care for music much,
It’s the high fidelity!

Vynor Hill says:
7 June 2017

What a wonderful memory you have Ian. Correct, word for word. I’m singing along merrily. I have the whole show, somewhere on cassette tape. Still as amusing as ever. I remember the Hi Fi days very well and visited Tottenham Court Road and the Paddington area where serious bits of kit were available at knock down prices . Happy memories of Revox and Quad to name but two. I have my original sixties speakers and they still deliver the goods.

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Friends and I used to play Skat and Bridge while this played endlessly on the deck. Became ingrained .

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I have just finished a choral composition using a favourite poem by Thomas Hardy. I have had the temerity to add two more verses to it. Sadly, for two reasons, it can not be published here. Firstly, this site does not support printed music and secondly the twenty two pages (about three minutes of music) would take up too much space if it was printed. So I am unable to make history by being the first to burst into song on Which Conversation. No ego trip then. Below is Hardy’s original and my two imposters.

Weathers/Seasons. Thomas Hardy, with two additional verses interspersed.

This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I.
When showers be-tumble the chestnut spikes
And nestlings fly.
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at the “Travellers’ Rest”,
And maids come forth sprig muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the South and West,
And so do I.

This is the weather the farmers crave,
And so do I.
When rosy apples are picked to save
From branches high.
And the plums so ripe with their purple hue,
And the sunset’s glow on the grassy dew;
And animals start fur to renew,
And folk admire the autumnal view,
And so do I.

This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I.
When beeches drip in browns and duns
And thresh and ply.
And hill-hid tides throb throe on throe,
And drops on gate bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.

This is the weather the gardener loves,
And so do I.
When soft snow melts from working gloves
And flower buds try.
And snowdrops with their bells of white,
And days now with extended light,
And hope is there for sunshine bright,
And people long to put things right,
And so do I.

Vynor Hill says:
10 June 2017

In this topsy -turvy world,
An election’s unfurled.
Those who have won
Feel all is undone,
And those who just might
Feel buoyant and bright.

In both there’s surprise,
As ramifications arise.
For both disbelief
For both some relief.

The blue coloured banner
Now blue for all manner
Of woes and regrets
For what it begets.

No mandate, no strength
A waste of great length
And deals must be done
Before brexit’s begun.

The waste of a chance
Opponents to lance,
The stupid mistakes
That slammed on the brakes.

The consolation of power
To live one more hour
To pick up the score
And play it once more.

So anger for change
Desire to re-arrange,
Will haunt and will goad
As they limp down the road.

For reds the surprise,
As they realise
That from wreckage of old
Rises riches untold.

The charisma to draw,
Crowds by the score.
To enthuse and inspire
With passion and fire.

No regretful valediction,
For that odd contradiction
Of losing and winning
The support underpinning.

The triumph and joy
Might gradually cloy
As the dogma’s debated
And positions restated.

Was it promises made
Of cash and more aid
Spending for all
A bonanza, a ball?

Does the country require
What the left now desire?
Should we spend out and splash
Or conserve our hard cash?

For now it does seem,
That most of us deem
To reject Labour’s dream,
Their nationalising scheme.

We’re clearly not glad
With Torys we’ve had.
So no single party
Can afford to be hearty.

A Greek tragedy this,
When all is amiss,
The dust must now settle
There’s a country to fettle!

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Having been foolish enough to write this here instead of copying and pasting it. I nearly lost the lot when the web site crashed. Let that be a warning to all! That’s why my logo is missing.

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A Post Election Conundrum.

We are all getting older,
Age is tapping on the shoulder.
Soon care will be needed,
Financial warning’s heeded.

It costs to assist
What we try to resist.
Help in the house,
When we can just grouse.

It costs to assist
What we try to resist.
Help with our lives
When ability nose-dives.

It costs to assist
What we try to resist.
Placement in care
When nursing is there.

So who is to pay
For the beds where we lay?
Society all?
Not a good call.

So who is to pay
For the beds where we lay?
Those who are in them?
Dementia tax – condemn!!

So who is to pay
For the beds where we lay?
So who pays the bill by and by?
Not I! Not I! Not I!

University colleges’ fee
For something that used to be free.
A debt for the users,
The knowledge pursuers.

University colleges’ fee
For something that used to be free.
The youth have no earnings
To pay for their learnings.

So who is to pay for the right,
To learn when you’re clever and bright?
Society all?
Not a good call.

So who is to pay for the right
To learn when you’re clever and bright?
Give them loans and saddle with debt
That leads to resent and regret?

So who is to pay for the right
To learn when you’re clever and bright?
So who pays the bill by and by?
Not I! Not I! Not I!

Extrapolate further I pray.
For all those bills we must pay.
For nurses and teachers
The police and out-reachers.

There’s finite cash in the pot,
That’s all we have that we’ve got.
Do we hock now and borrow
And pay back tomorrow?

There’s finite cash in the pot,
That’s all that we have that we’ve got.
So who pays the bills by and by?
Not I! Not I! Not I!

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Nothing New Then? Reflections On A Recent Journey.

In this crowded land of ours
It pays to watch the travelling hours
When moving, thus, from here to there,
When to go and when forbear.

It is now a simple fact of life,
That to avoid the stress and strife,
The clock is vital in the plan
Of when to go and when to ban.

The traffic news spreads doom and gloom,
Congestion makes the car a tomb,
Wasted hours in queues that crawl,
Getting no-where – bu**er all.

Each bulletin conveys the fact
At several points there’s been impact.
The emergency services are on the way,
Yet another long delay.

The news that crashes now have cleared,
But tail-backs still are there, it’s feared.
A broken lorry clogs the lane,
Another hour goes down the drain.

Road works, cones and speeds so slow,
Another queue to grow and grow.
More wasted time that could be spent
On family, hobbies and schemes, well meant.

Insurance claims for each collision,
Met with doubt and some derision.
Impatient, careless, tired and worn,
Their vehicles bent and all forlorn,

The victims stand around the wrecks,
As trailers pull them on their decks.
The shiny pride, expensive wheels,
Many still on purchase deals.

Daily in the morn and eve,
Trouble spots just clog and heave.
Cars and vans are nose to tail,
Scheduled plans to no avail.

No one wants a travel ban,
No one wants a ration plan.
Free to move and go at will,
Always wished for, will be still.

Yet this curfew, we self-impose,
It’s here today as highways close.
Now one can’t move as one pleases
With clogged up roads and traffic freezes.

No solution seems in sight,
One dark tunnel without light.
So we queue and move in packs
No more simple there and backs.

Facts in moving, waste of times
One of life’s enduring crimes.

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Just to make the hundredth entry.

While in travelling mode, I’ll indulge in a saga. This tale of woe is more or less what happened.

Sat Nav Sat Naf.

Long way to go
But a route that we know.
Dual carriageway ahead
No map to be read.

Then up pops a voice,
Not one of our choice.
“There’s queues up ahead.
Traffic’s stopped dead.”

There is a back route,
We used to shoot,
When this road was grass
As we came to pass.

We take the next turn
New path to learn.
Set nav up to show,
Just to help us go.

“A mile ahead, right.
Now left at the light.”
A right, a left,
All signs bereft.

Not the way we know,
But she says go.
So on we weave
Ready to believe.

Then lo and behold,
It knocks us cold,
That damn dual lane
Is before us again.

We curse and complain
And again we distain
The queues up ahead
And turn left instead.

This time our voice
Dislikes our smug choice.
“U turn if you can”
That’s not in our plan.

“Take a left in a mile.”
We go right with a smile.
The map adjusts solution,
Planning its retribution.

We agree that we take
A right for the sake
Of direction on map
And head for the gap.

A lane lies before,
One car and no more.
Down a slope,
Brake to cope.

Now in deepest darkest wood,
Can’t turn if we should.
“Bear Left” says our voice.
We have no choice.

Grass grows green
On this track so mean.
A bridge that narrows,
Just fit for sparrows.

A bank so steep,
With gulleys deep.
Blind bends that curve
And test our nerve.

We expect our voice
To now rejoice.
“You’re lost, ha, ha!
I know where you are!”

Many turns and twists
Our voice demands and lists.
Left and right and we obey,
What else is there to say?

Finally, revenge complete,
Forgiven for our first deceit
We find a road that’s broad
And a sign post – Praise the Lord!

Time lost in the maze
Or sitting in a traffic haze?
Our sat nav’s little jest.
Who knows which was best?

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A sideways look and keeping Which Conversation on the rails, based on what people have complained about in their comments.


Which Conversation is a complex beast
Where gremlins come and make a feast.
Entries jump and change in order,
Later entries cause disorder
Mixing up Chronology.

Delete buttons come and go
What they delete is hard to know.
Text that’s cancelled might appear
Not in there but just out here.
Mixing up functionality.

Cancel buttons cause us strife,
Sometimes with a double life.
They work for you and not for me
Is this to be or not to be?
Mixing up clearability.

Text in “Latest Comments” show
But not the place they’re supposed to go.
Worst of all it has been known
That texts are to the ether blown
Mixing up incredulity.

What’s amusing, what is fun
Is that those who make it run
Are themselves a subject to
Those same gremlins that we rue.
Mixing up accountability.

Was there ever software that
Didn’t sometimes fall down flat?
Is perfection so perverse
A distant dream in our universe?
Mixing up achievability.

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Thanks Vynor. That’s the first time I’ve seen an executive summary in rhyme.

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A couple of naughty limericks. Since they relate, they make a pair-a-limerick.

Two behaviourists lately combined
Their bodies for sex, intertwined.
When it was over
They wished to discover
The state of the corporate mind

One said to the other in quest,
In their post coital inquest
“That was great for you
But I haven’t a clue
How was it for me? You know best.

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I hope you are going to enter that in the Pair-a-limerick Games in 2020, Vynor.

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The War Between Power, Climate And Beauty.

They stand tall on the grassy hill side
White, as round and round they glide.
Two together not in sync
But their speeds together link.
A mesmerising flow of power improvement
Catching the eye with their relentless movement.

The humble pylon, close besides
Is dark and still and so it hides,
But moving still, these bladed poles
Demand attention to performing roles.
“Look at me, Yes, look at me,
Nothing else is there to see.

I am moving, I am fine
I’m the saviour, the power divine.
I generate to save the land.
I’m the oasis in the sand.
I take your eye I rule the sky
Power is my battle cry.”

And, yes, we nod and look away.
Memorising yesterday
When hills and slopes were bare and clean
Nothing there disturbed the scene.
Natures loveliness unsullied
In those outlines, ridged and gullied.

Turning back to look again
As these turbines numb the brain,
Unbelievable, can it be?
Those two now have turned to three.
And once again without a pause
Ten more stand upon the moors.

The “farm” a horrid misconception,
Spreads its army in every direction.
There above the virgin vale
Blades just swirl, and swirl and flail.
All in a random, pulsating mass
Blocking all that try to pass.

So, in the name of climate change
Where ever the eye desires to range,
Blades are turning across the sky.
Beauty that has made us sigh
Now provokes a different cry.
Power to cook and clean and dry.

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Been There, Done That.

Yesterday I came to look,
Not for an object or a book,
But, written for some past context,
In Latin with translation next,
A set of documents on file
Forgotten for a little while.

I’d chosen fancy fonts and colours
Thought they’d looked a thousand dollars,
And needed them for something more
Just what I was looking for.
So, the computer came on screen
And I went to where they might have been.

But, no, the documents listed there,
Showed no trace, not anywhere.
I tried a search on drive marked C
I grilled it in the third degree.
A dumb computer has no scorn
Doesn’t care as hair is torn.

Giving up on drives inside
I found a stick in port to slide.
Up came the files bright and clear,
Not one I wanted, nowhere near.
Had I typed them here at all?
Would my lap top heed my call?

Up it loaded slow and steady
Drumming fingers until ready.
Files, forgotten, all were there
But my Latin? Not a hair!
By now a morning, been and gone
Sunlight through the windows shone.

Bad tempered now I slammed the door,
Out and up across the moor.
Miles of air and scenes divine,
Crossness gradually in decline.
Coming back, the keyboard pounded
Latin typed and files impounded.

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Back on home turf with a bit of old fashioned frivolity. The music, rattled round my head as I typed this. Shadows of Marie Lloyd, Gracie Fields and George Robey. perhaps?

A ‘Shade’ From The Music Hall.

I bought a tired old milk float and put some seats inside.
I painted it and did it up, it was my joy and pride.
I charged up all the batteries and took it for a ride.
Folk came out to wave cheer and this is what they cried.

Where’s my pinta my glass bottle pinta, milk all white inside,
Silver top, red top, gold top Jersey, that you once supplied?
Where’s your uniform, coat and hat and bag slung by your side?
Call yourself a milkman? Call yourself a milkman? Well laugh, I could have died!

I took it on the motorway, it whined and wheezed and groaned.
Everyone was tooting horns, as they slowed and stopped and moaned.
A blue light came to see the sight and soon I just was coned.
The officers they stared at me, they thought I must be stoned.

Where’s my pinta my glass bottle pinta, milk all white inside,
Silver top, red top, gold top Jersey, that you once supplied?
Where’s your uniform, coat and hat and bag slung by your side?
Call yourself a milkman? Call yourself a milkman? Well laugh, we could have died!

I ended up in custody and then was sent for trial.
Waiting for the day in court, that took me quite a while.
I said “M’Lord I’m guilty of driving just a mile.”
He banged his gavel, gave a frown in his judicial style.

Where’s my pinta my glass bottle pinta, milk all white inside,
Silver top, red top, gold top Jersey, that you once supplied?
Where’s your uniform, coat and hat and bag slung by your side?
Call yourself a milkman? Call yourself a milkman? Well laugh, you could have died!

When out of jail I came back home, my sentence had expired.
The milk float stood there empty, the batteries rather tired.
Then from the cab a ghost appeared, a milkman all attired.
He waved his ghostly hand at me and said what he desired.

Where’s my pinta my glass bottle pinta, milk all white inside,
Silver top, red top, gold top Jersey, that you once supplied?
Where’s your uniform, coat and hat and bag slung by your side?
Call yourself a milkman? Call yourself a milkman? I was and then I died!

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I enjoyed that, Vynor.

More than a touch of the Lonnie Donegan’s and the Tommy Steele’s, I thought . . . or even Charles Penrose of The Laughing Policeman fame [try it out!].

I reckon some of the younger readers of this site must wonder what on earth we are going on about half the time, but then . . . they haven’t lived.

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An Evening In. (Though not necessarily mine!)

The door closes on the outside gaze,
So much tension to erase.
The suit is off, the shower begun,
The wine glass shimmering in the evening sun.

A track to soothe and sing along,
Words familiar from a long loved song.
The wok from its hook and onto the hob,
Toss and fry baby corn on the cob.

Add tomatoes, peppers too,
Chicken bits to enrich the brew.
The wine glass mysteriously fills itself,
Tabasco pulled down from the shelf.

He arrives, a gentle kiss,
A beer can opens with a hiss.
Supper is served; TV news clips.
The wine takes hold, the mask slips.

“He’s an idiot, a stupid git”
Words in private, meant every bit.
“She’s a liar, that’s not true.”
A smile from the broadcast crew.

Now the soap, a bitter row.
“She’s nothing but a stupid cow!”
“He’s to blame, he’s the one,
Look what she says he’s done.”

Silence then, the credits roll by.
Dishes in the kitchen left to dry.
A look with meaning, nothing said.
A silent sign, taken as read.

He leads the way in that direction.
An unstated thought of missing protection.
Onward treading lightly on the stairs,
Desire overriding – “sod it, who cares!”

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My thoughts on cold calling and pressure selling;

There’s nothing more annoying
Than someone calling at your door
When you don’t know what they’re looking for
Or what they have in store.

But when you’re old and frail
If you’re vulnerable or alone
Cold calling makes you feel
That you’re unsafe in your home.

The companies that do this
Are looking for easy prey
And don’t care what they have to do
To get their deals that day.

Once they get inside your house
They’ll sit and talk for hours
And slowly grind you down
Because they like to have that power.

But please don’t sign that dotted line
Just to see them go
Pick up the telephone
And tell someone you know.

Bullies must be challenged
And firmly shown the door
Don’t let them have a penny
Because they’ll be back for more.

So let’s fight this fight together
And put an end to all cold calls.
Put the spotlight on rogue traders
And name and shame them all.

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Welcome aboard! It’s great to have company. Great poem, great sentiment.
I might have written this elsewhere (short term memory) and the idea was pinched from the internet some time ago.

Please don’t call here. I’m always hard up at the end of the month and can’t afford to buy it.
I’ve found Jesus and I know who I’m going to vote for. I wear all my old clothes and the windows clean themselves.

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Thank you for the welcome to the Rhyming room VynorHill and glad you like the poem. It’s good to be aboard! Rest assured though, poem is all my own work as are any others which I may post on here and no ideas have been taken from elsewhere 🙂

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I can’t claim credit for this, It was one of the members of our softball team who was writing up the match report.

An ancient text – I found a tattered scroll on the field last night. Some travelling bard had written an epic about our victory.

I’ll tell a tale; hard to believe
Of a battle fought this Tuesday eve.
Our brave warriors made their mark
Upon the fields of Regent’s Park

Fielding first, with strength and wit
Fleet of foot and quick of mitt.
The pitcher’s aim was straight and true,
He vanquished batsmen garbed in blue.

More success was found at bat,
Balls were tonked this way and that.
Poor fielders were put through their paces,
Nought but flames left on the bases.

Although the team were victors all,
On a few heroes fate did call.
Dan the Rookie, of wounded knee,
Sprinted home a run or three.

Ale the Wanderer, having fun,
Hit every ball for a home run.
Katie, fuelled by pimms and gin,
Instrumental to the win.

Carly the one with vice-like catch,
Awarded player of the match.
Patrick ran like a hound of hell,
Yet nimble as a young gazelle.

And thus the Wolverines victorious,
Their opponents felled on evening glorious,
Did walk off into setting sun,
Their task complete, a job well done.

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V.G. It reads well.

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Yes – pretty good rhythm throughout. And a well told story.

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Thanks for that, Vanessa. Verse is one of the nicest ways of recording events. When moving home, I unearthed a copy of the tale of when the department I worked in moved from one building to another, highlighting in verse the trials and tribulations. It was set to music and one of my colleagues sung it accompanied by another on guitar. I would reproduce it here but it would mean absolutely nothing to anyone who was not involved.

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I like being both a hound of hell and a nimble gazelle 😀

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And we call ourselves the ‘Which? Wolverines’ in case that confused you.

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How about an accompanying video? Then we can see who plays outside left and who is left outside. 🙂

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The credit needs to go to my colleague Alex but he was ‘too shy’ apparently.. Sadly that’s us done for this year but we did have our best season to date and we are improving year on year.

Ok, we won one the first year, two the second and three this year but it all counts!

We’ll make sure to keep you updated of our season next year though. Not sure it will all be so poetic.

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I think this accurately sums up both your softball performance and also what happens when you hear there is cake going….!!!

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I’m putting in a request to our video department now 😉

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Thanks Dean.

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The steel of Steen is oft unseen,
But rarely when with Wolverine.
There’s Alex, too, who pens a tale
When seeking his own Holy Grail.

Softball’s a misnomer, you know,
‘Cos when it’s hurtling from a throw
Impelled by muscle, or a bat
You really need to duck, or that

Will leave you with a headache dire,
And act to douse the sporty fire
That players all do know and love
Especially if they’ve got a glove

Which Furey wields with deadly force
(She’s stronger than a flipping horse),
But, when all is said and done
It’s really just a bit of fun.

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Love it @carneades! ‘The steel of Steen is oft unseen’ :’D

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With this sudden flurry of activity, I am, at last, one of many. I was debating whether to sit around for a while to see what developed, but the muse got the better of me. This bit of froth is in the form of a monologue – not quite in the style of the late, great Stanley Holloway but along the same lines. Less of the lion and more fish and fowl.


Cuthbert was the only son,
The only son was he.
The subject caused much mirth and fun,
His dad an only son you see.
So Cuthbert was an only, only son,
A singlet on the family tree.

His dad had titles by the score,
Cuthbert couldn’t count the sum,
But Earl was the title that he bore.
Cuthbert had an Earless for a mum
And he was an Earlet boy of four,
An only son, a single straw.

Cuthbert had the poshest home,
A mansion large to run around,
A nanny with a brush and comb.
Posh servants kept him safe and sound,
An entourage just there to roam
Where Cuthbert might cavort and bound.

Cuthbert had a dog called Windy.
They called him Windy, ‘cos he was.
His posh mother called Windy, Cindy,
A proper name and just because.
His dad, the Earl just stuck to Windy,
It seemed to suit him since he was.

One breakfast the Earl became regal.
“You seem to have a gender complex.
That’s a dog, certified and legal,
Cindy doesn’t suit his sex.
You don’t know your b i t c h from your beagle.
The servants you’ll annoy and vex.

Now Cuthbert thought this was amusing.
He asked his nanny, quite soon after
Whether her gender complex was confusing.
His nanny frowned and refrained from laughter.
An answer sought, she kept refusing.
Cuthbert thought her even dafter.

Next he questioned the Earl’s top chauffeur.
His gender complex, bad for his head?
The chauffeur stopped, didn’t concur,
He knew his side of the bed, he said.
The gardener’s reaction caused a stir.
“Someone’s gossiping, I’ll bet it’s Ned!”

The doctor quizzed upon a call,
Cuthbert had developed spots.
“Gender complex? A question tall.
You’re a boy, with boys what-nots,
All you need to know it all.
You’ll grow up and join the dots.”

Cuthbert did.

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Water Worries.

The reservoir is big and wide,
There’s mud and fish and bugs inside.
The pipe is hidden in its water tower
And water flows in –full power.

The reservoir pipe connects to –
Well, it doesn’t really.

Our water exits through tanks –de-silters,
Chemically purified, pumped through filters.
And now as drinking water pure,
To the pipe, from leaks secure.

The mains pipe connects to the distribution pipes,
The distribution pipes connect to the meter pipes.
The meter pipes connect to the house pipe.
The house pipe divides and connects to –
Well it doesn’t really.

The boiler stops it.
The tap stops it.
The ball valve stops it
And there it stays.

For the first time our water emerges, a pure solution,
Crosses a divide and plunges to pollution.

We drink it and our body makes changes.
We wash, adding expensive cleansing ranges.
We wash clothes and detergents pour,
And dishes cleaned with many more.

We flush the toilet, clean with spray,
Shower with shampoo and gel every day.
Mop the floor and tip the waste,
Wash oil and soil with special paste.

The house pipes connect with the sewer pipe.
The sewer pipe connects to the main drain pipe.
Ponds and beds will do their best to collect
The millions of chemical gallons we eject.

Busy lives –worries abound,
No time for the moral ground.
Clean it, wash it, turn the tap.
Cleansers, sprays the germs to zap.

Will our style of life today
Cause the planet to decay?
Not yet enough to make a change.
Nature might this change arrange.

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Predictive Text.

My computer believes in black magic.
It foresees when I type in just “adjec”
That I’m searching a word, that’s “descriptive.”

Adjective appears on the screen
And inside the computer lights green
Mission accomplished, text’s been predictive.

A swear and a curse issues forth
I’m typing “adjectival” of course.
How dare it pre-empt, that’s vindictive.

I put in some more and type “pet”.
My dog has just been to the vet.
Petrol appears on the screen.

I rub out the “rol” and the computer jumps in.
Petrify, petard, petrel, petasus and pethidine.
“Please make the choice that you mean.”

“I want ‘pet’” I shout, “you silly machine
Pet, pet pet” and language obscene.
“Are you looking for petition or petrel?”

When “bot” I have begun to type later.
The computer decides a conflator.
Up comes “botulism” into my text.

Now I know I’ve eaten things dodgy,
And become a little bit podgy,
But the word that I wanted was “bottle.”

Ever helpful, the computer researches my “bot.”
“I can offer ‘bothy’, ‘bottom’, ‘botch’ or ‘both.’”
The computer’s shut down with an oath.

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Keep trying with the predictive text, Vynor. It took me several years to learn how to switch it off on a Nokia.

I’m getting on OK with a smartphone and delighted that it has learned some of the words I use. I would not bother but some friends insist in having long conversations using textual messages.

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When I was thinking about this poem, and my own dislike of predictive text, I came across a computer phrase that had various “translations” depending on the computer it was typed on. The computers learned this phrase and refined their interpretation depending on who had been typing on the machine.The message read ” I will call you when I land.” Most of us would think that the sender was somewhere in an aeroplane. However we were given:
I will follow this up when I get home.
I will inform you of progress.
I will tell you when it has been completed.
I will check this out with Dan and get back to you.
I will put a copy in the mail tomorrow.
A little blue sky thinking perhaps?

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A topical one on rail travel from me:

There’s going to be a price hike
For those who take the train
But even when we’re paying more
Some things will never change.

You’ll still be waiting on the platform
For the 16.24
Drinking your body weight in coffee
While you wait an hour more.

Then when you finally board the train
You’ll be lucky to find a seat
And even with the windows open
You’ll be flagging in the heat.

There’ll be people standing up
And there’ll be others on the floor
So you’ll almost miss your stop
Because you can’t get out the door.

If you need to use the wifi
Then you’ll have to pay a fee
Unless you travel first class
Then you might just get it free.

But don’t worry if you’re hungry
Or in need of a drink or two
The profit making trolley
Will always make it through.

So if I want to make a journey
Then I’ll always take the car
Because although I’d rather not
It’s still the best by far.

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That’s great, LJ. We have another Convo about producing complaints in rhyme and that could do with some more content: https://conversation.which.co.uk/travel-leisure/southern-rail-musical/

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Thanks wavechange, glad you like it! Will add to other convo.

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Thanks LJ. I’m waiting for someone to send in a complaint and receive a reply thad solves the problem, preferably in rhyme. Poetic justice.

There are complaint poems but I’ve not seen any on consumer issues.

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Dove Distraction.

Seated at computer screen
I work upon a tune serene.
And so it happens now and then,
A sequence, perhaps nine chords or ten,
Needs working on – harmonic coats
A mental effort shifting notes.

A break, a pause to gather thought
And through the window eyes are brought.
They scan the sky of mottled cloud
The distant urban housing crowd
And to the nearer roof tops gaze
As resting doves in sunlight laze.

As I watch a dove flies out.
Others watch and twitch about.
Then all, as if at one behest
Launch into an aerial quest.
They wheel and whirl in circular sweep
Seemingly some course to keep.

Round they go in glide and loop
And roof return, one graceful swoop.
Settled now as if their flight
Had never been within my sight.
Two white birds atop the coping
Others now on tiles more sloping.

The two upon the rooftop spine
Come together and beaks entwine.
On this narrow coping spot,
The female in submissive squat,
For all to see, they mate and part,
Ten seconds over from the start.

A minute more of still repose
And these begin again to close.
Once more the ritual begun,
Once more forgotten what’s been done.
Once more a dove now launches flight
Once more the flock heads for the light.

As they circle twist and loop
I disconnect and cease to snoop.
The harmonies are still to mend
They wait the attention I suspend.
And so the doves land yet again
While harmonic structures fill my brain.

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On Hearing Tragic News Of The Crash On The M1 This Morning.

How many times in the day
Do we hear, on the broad motorway;
Those multi-laned highways
Connecting the by-ways,
The news of another bad smash?

How many times in the week
Is the traffic news tragic and bleak?
Those lorry collisions
The cars with incisions
Another life lost in the street.

How many times in the year
Do families mourn with a tear?
The sudden sad shock
Of the policeman’s sharp knock
As he tells of the fatal collision.

Some today in a minibus crowd
Will end up under a shroud.
The motorway’s closed while
Queues form and file
And order is gained from the carnage.

The metal that is bent and is battered
Is something that’s not really mattered,
But the lives cut so short
Should shout and exhort
That road chancing kills as it happens.

A bank holiday mayhem can be
A ten hour trip to the sea.
But better the queues on the tarmac
Than accident news that is black
When families never come back.

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Apropos nothing more than a glance out of the window.

My Oak.

I have an oak tree in my hedge
That is promised, with a pledge,
A chop, a crop, a cut back soon,
A tidy shape and shapely prune.

When first this tree was young and growing,
Now many years away from knowing,
It hid its tiny sapling stance
Among the hedgerow’s leafy plants.

How it got to twenty feet,
That’s six point one as metric treat,
Is something that I can’t explain,
Though grow it did and that’s quite plain.

But though I choose to saw and hack,
It has a way of getting back.
Current boughs are smothered all
By acorns waiting time to fall.

If all of these the ground receives,
A thousand oaks will shoot with leaves.
Another forest there in waiting
Nature’s power for re-creating.

My local squirrels won’t be shy,
When caching acorns low and high.
So spreading oaks will dot the land
Nurtured by their helping hand.

One false move and nature’s there
To over-take the land we care.
We might tame while we survive,
But when we’re gone the saplings thrive.

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Watching and Worrying.

Names are called across the playground,
Tempers flare.
Voices in discord there abound
Prejudices bare.

Teachers on their daily duty stand,
Watching all.
Intervening with a sharp command,
A warning call.

Peace restored within this time and space,
Enemies rest.
Children classward file, their lessons face,
A learning quest.

Within the teacher interviews the pair.
Why the rage?
He tells of how it’s good to care,
Ideas sage.

Names are called across the globe.
Tempers flare.
Threats are made as sharp as laser strobe,
Dare on dare.

No teacher stands to mediate the foes.
No playground this.
No higher God to take the arrows from the bows
As insults hiss.

Behind each snarl a weapon armed and ready.
Defiant actions.
Rockets here and bombers flying steady.
Warring factions.

Egos high and fear of loss of face,
Justifying all.
Maniac or hothead, which is ace?
Hard to call!

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And now for something a little lighter.

Insults, Faux Pas and Misinterpretations.

It was once the case that when chocolates sent,
A card was written with great sentiment.
Within was writ’ a quote so clever, so neat,
Shakespeare no less -“Sweets for the sweet”.

Then Hamlet did her memory restore
And this showed the insult, that’s for sure.
For these were words upon Ophelia’s grave
And nothing for the chocolates that she gave.

It was once the case that when he layered paper
A craft which layers sizes as they taper,
He called it décolletage, him a simple-minded bloke,
Though people smiled and wondered at the joke.

At last the secret was confessed,
He was appraised and kept a-breast.
Decoupage he should be making,
No nipple, round, observable and shaking.

An oxymoron was not for fools,
Tautology didn’t stretch the rules.
Lambent was no crooked sheep,
And tangent no man with colour deep.

How easy are mistakes to make.
“Sad to hear of your tummy ache.
Just a flash in the pan” I smile and say,
Before I realise and dash away.

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It’s the virtual bit that gets me.
So much to see
So much to hear,
It’s worlds apart, that’s quite clear.

It’s the virtual bit don’t you think?
I pour a drink
Bring it to lip
But none can I savour or sip.

It’s the virtual bit that’s the heel.
You’re unable to feel
The world that’s in there
No water, no wind in the hair.

It’s the virtual bit in the ocean.
Your sight has the notion
Of diving the deep
Yet you’re dry, just dreaming asleep.

It’s the virtual bit, missed sensation.
The sizzling bacon
And bar-b-cue ribs
Yet the nose thinks you’re telling it fibs.

It’s the virtual bit crowds two senses.
But no recompenses
For taste, touch and smell,
It seems you’re the ghost in a shell.

It’s the virtual bit in the head-set.
That’s where you get
The world that is not.
It’s programmed and they’ve fixed the plot.

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A Little Psychology For A Rainy Day.

You may look bright, appealing,
But emotion that you’re feeling
None can quite decide
Except the ‘me’ inside.

You might say all is fine
And sell yourself the line.
No one knows you’ve lied
Except the ‘me’ inside.

You drive for positive action
Insisting ‘gainst all faction.
All secret fears you hide
Except from the ‘me’ inside.

The World sees what you show.
They judge from what they know.
All inner thoughts denied
Except from the ‘me’ inside.

So true contentment see
When out and inner agree.
When peace and love preside
Between you and the ‘me’ inside.

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Wonderful inspirational stuff Vynor 🙂 Your poem clearly portrays the crucial balance between the objective (conditioned mind centered) and subjective (the essence of your being centered) that exists in us all, the latter no doubt responsible for the depth of meaning in your verse.

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Lovely, Vynor.