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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.


A Visit From The Building Inspector.

Yesterday, Scroggins called.
Hidden by the bedroom -walled,
I watched the cowboys on their site
Daily labour, blocks and concrete tight.

From the start no safety stuff at all,
Angle grinder -dust and sparks all fall
Yet not a mask or goggle in the kit
And hours grinding concrete bit by bit.

The toilet set at jaunty angle there,
Was blown still further from its square.
Then it was gone and nothing in its place,
Secret peeing by the fence – a new disgrace.

JCB’s arrived and shifted rubble.
Demolished building causing trouble.
Then, by night the tyres and the scrap
Mysteriously arrived -more added crap.

Much of this was buried in the ground
For others, later, to be found.
Some in lorries went their way
Where to? Now that I couldn’t say.

So the base was laid, foundations filled with core,
Walls appeared to human height, no more.
Safety hats and high vis vests, oh no!
Parka jackets with their hoods on show.

No scaffolding as yet upon the scene,
But yesterday, Scroggins there had been.
The chief cowboy with van was also there.
Both engaged, gesticulating with gloomy stare.

Scroggins with his plum Mondeo Ford
High vis coat and papered orange board.
Shuffled papers as he walked around.
Shook his head, waved his hands, pointed to the ground.

The chief cowboy followed making calls,
Waved an arm and pointed to the walls.
Scroggins wasn’t happy- plans were shown,
Both looking at how the building’d grown.

Finally, Scroggins made his closing quest,
And to Mondeo, stripping high vis vest,
Drove away, keeping council’s civic pride.
Regs is regs and plans are there to guide!

Cowboy chief stayed long upon his phone.
Paced the floor and made a lengthy drone.
Quickly chatting to his double crew,
He too drove off to somewhere that he knew.

Today, is quiet on the building site,
No one there, silently deserted, quite.
What was said is not for me to guess,
Fortunately, that’s for others’ stress.

My Pintless Milk.

In the two stores I frequent,
Buying milk in pints, to a large extent,
Is in denial.

A litre, yes, two pints also,
But a single pint is now de-trop
On the aisle.

I got to wonder at this flaw,
At milk deliveries, now no more.
In the street.

As a child the day began
With the steady hum of the old milk van.
On its beat.

The clank of bottles at the door,
His knock on Thursdays for the score.
With book and bag.

The blue milk machine with coin slot,
Half a pint in its waxed cardboard pot,
With handy tag.

Milk churns left at roadside stages,
Milk trains early in those ages.
Lorry to the depot.

Milk with cream above to see,
Gold and silver foiled by degree.
There to show.

Before the fridge, milk came twice a day.
Poured into jugs from carts along the way,
So they say.

Now in cartons from the cooling aisle.
Cream-less blue, green and red tops there beguile.
No pints today.

Keeping Watch.

A Watch is a watch, is a miniature clock,
To wear on a wrist or a nurse’s blue frock.
We buy it to tell us the date and the time.
When I was a lad, a lad in my prime,
Oh arr, oh arr, – a lad in my prime,
Looking for trees I might possibly climb,
The watches were Timex and Smiths by the score,
With a winder and luminous hands at the core.
The posh automatic that stopped when just static,
Was for parents and grownups; that was emphatic!

Then later, the first of the watches – dirt cheap.
The Casio’s in resin with displays and a bleep.
They kept good time until one sudden day
The display just vanished and went clean away.
Oh yes, oh yes, it went clean away.
After, the clock face with two proper hands
With quartz for a movement and silicone bands,
And chronograph features with miniature dials
And two pushy buttons to use in those trials.

Later again the sports watch appeared,
With functions for running and sleeping all geared.
The heart rate and step count and even one’s blood,
Were tracked as you floundered around in the mud.
Yes, splattered, yes splattered, all spattered in mud.
Now it would seem that this smart watch is part
Of a collection of timepieces that we should now start,
And the piece-de resistance of all that are here
Is the Swiss automatic that ticks by your ear!

Experience The National Trust,
The Pleasure Of A Day Out.

Now wander down the garden path,
A joy for any home or hearth.
Festoons of flowers on each side,
Jostling colours, size and form
To out-do others in their pride.
Here the bulb and here the corm,
Here the bush in topiary shape,
Skill that makes one stare and gape.

No gardener seems to lift a head
From grubbing weeds around a bed.
Yet weeds are few and those in place;
Deliberately left from bended knees,
Flower wildly in their space,
Encouraging insects, birds and bees.
“Wilding” now the trendy name,
For letting nature play its game.

The Wooded area, pathed in gravel,
Mysterious avenues down which to travel.
And then, inevitable to the ear,
The flowing water, trickling feeds,
Brooklets running fast and clear,
All leading to the lake of reeds.
A swan perhaps and smaller fowl,
A solitary heron’s hungry jowl.

Climbing back, much longer seeming,
Than descending, downward dreaming.
Puffing up the last steep rise,
A box hedge hides the open green.
There pond and fountain which surprise.
Carp and creatures lurk unseen.
At last the terrace and the view –
-Gift shop, car and pastures new.

Jaques Got It Right.

Will Shakespeare wrote his life of man
Delineating how that life began,
Staging out its growth and span,
Following Nature’s natural plan.

Here today, there’s little change
In the way these things arrange.
Shakespeare’s concept of life’s range
Doesn’t seem that quaint and strange.

Look around you as you walk:
Prams and buggies; baby talk.
School run cars and playground tricks,
Teens on bikes with headphone sticks.

Older teens now pairs and groups,
Phones alert in media loops.
Adult prospects loom ahead:
College, ‘prentice, wed or bed?

Look around the bus you share,
Prams and buggies, mothers there.
Oldies too who never drive
Using bus pass to survive.

Cars that pass and vans with ladders,
Tradesmen, reps and roofing cladders.
Offices with men in suits,
Back from Spain or in cahoots.

Pubs and clubs and sporting venues
Families on beaches, take-away menus.
New retired in motor homes
Garden centres, ‘cutsie’ gnomes.

Quiet and slow as bustling staff
Help the aged with a bath.
Knowledge here of mile stones past,
Daily tasks now simply cast.

And so the curtains travel round.
The hymns are sung – a mournful sound.
A token in the earth to shew
The ashes from a life we knew.

Tech and travel, rockets in space.
Internet, phones connecting face.
Instant, smart and ever prying.
Our world is complex – slowly dying.

We might hasten its demise,
We might drain it of supplies.
We might finally hear its cries
And act to stop those warming skies.

We could bomb it from existence
Or could calm its heat resistance.
We could consume until the end
Or could act and climates mend.

Like mankind who lives and ages,
Our planet has its life in stages.
From virgin rock it slowly came
And will to virgin rock de-flame.

Just like those who smoke and drink,
Planet life can extend or shrink.
We have solutions to stay strong
Why not help our globe along ?

Who Dreams Up These Slogans?

Gazing over my morning toast,
I saw the biscuits I like most.
Left out from a previous raid
A substitute for those home made.

Be a “Golden Buzzer” the pack exclaimed,
A state that was left unexplained.
Glancing further, a pack of sin
Invited me to a “Big Night In.”

The tea I sipped, though brown in hue,
Was a “Golden And Well Rounded” brew.
Puzzling this since this tea is black
And floats about the straining rack.

Pink footed geese seem to like the fields
That beet for my processed sugar yields.
My flour is plain and unadorned
A Giant makes my Maize that’s corned.

I’ve eaten cheese – a brand well named,
With “Seriously Unbeatable Flavour” claimed.
Then chocolate, brown and in a bar,
A “Golden Experience”? Ha, ha, ha!

“No Artificial Colours” – what are they?
“Original”, “Natural”, 100% Pure”, they say.
On one pack: “Tell Us What You Think.” is sought.
Do they really need to know my thought?

“Better”, “Natural”, “Naturally Sweet”,
“Adds A Delicate Flavour” when we eat.
Our shopping shelves just shout and yell,
Yet what it all mean is hard to tell.