Still Got It



Still Got It

You attack my lack of a knack as cack,
Then you knock my stock as a crock of schlock.
You may try this lie to decry my high,
But you can’t supplant, nor your rant enchant.
So go on, be gone !  Now your con looks wan –
You’re a quack with jack, now my knack is back.



Retro Virus

cold virus
Human Rhinovirus by Wellcome Images


Retro Virus

My my, little virus, haven’t you been busy,
Clogging up my sinuses, roughing up my throat –
You naughty little virus, you’ve left me low and dizzy,
All watered in my eyeball and shivered in my coat.
Oh my word, what hell you are !
You’re truly undesirous –
But I am multicellular,
And you are such a little virus…

I may be fevered hazily,
And sorely dripping nasally,
But I will beat you back – by deuce –
With peppermints and orange juice !
I may be rasping breathily,
But you won’t be the death of me;
It’s hardly some acute bronchitis,
Just your rhinopharyngitis.

Now there are tons of nasty bugs
Resistant to our latest drugs:
Herpes, hepatitis, rabies,
Take our lovers, take our babies.
You are nothing like those thugs,
You’re even less a pest than scabies.
Best you manage is to tire us –
Call yourself a proper virus ?

But best of all, you’ve given me the cure:
You’re down and dead and done, and that’s your lot.
Your brothers may infect me further, sure,
But you will not.  This was your only shot.
Your end is nigh, so take your bow,
For look, here come my t-cells now.

And next time you come plumbing,
Then you won’t catch me succumbing,
Cos I’ll spy you with my clear, unstreaming iris;
I’ll smell your protein codes
And I’ll taste your lipid nodes
And I’ll eat you up, you puny little virus.

And should your children come my way
Mutated in disguise,
They maybe lay me low, but hey,
It won’t be me who dies.



The Poetry Competition of my Dreams

rhyme dic
Whitfield’s Rhyming Dictionary by Frank Griesshammer



The Poetry Competition of my Dreams

On any subject, of any length,
With first, second, third, then commendeds to tenth.
But note !  There’s a catch, there’s a strange paradigm:
We’re looking for rhapsodies raptured with rhyme !
We know it’s old-fashioned, we know it’s awry,
But surely you cannot be frightened to try ?
So make your rhymes nat’ral and make your rhymes sharp,
To make ’em a hammer or make ’em a harp,
Then relish your rhymes with a resonant rhythm –
But don’t try to force ’em, you just gotta live ’em !
Not plucked from the ether and cultured in jelly,
But grown like an ulcer alive in your belly.
They’ll come when they’re ready, they’ll come without warning,
They’ll come in a flood when your thoughts get to spawning;
Oh sure, they’re not perfect, they still need a polish,
But rub them too hard and you’ll only demolish.
They’re twisty things, rhymes are, a mongrel eclectic;
But get them to spark and your verse is electric.
So send us your poems that make ’em a strength;
On every subject, of every length.



Last Train to Nowhere

landscape view of railway station during sunrise
Photo by Stefan Gabriel Naghi on

Last Train to Nowhere

Another day passes me by on rails –
I somehow missed my station,
Or maybe it’s not even on this line.
I should be gathering traveller’s tales,
But ev’ry new location
Is just another wait on Platform 9.
From the milk trains to the midnight mails
Towards some destination,
But the fast express has left me behind
Somewhere between the gaps to mind.
The signal’s red, the soot is black;
My future lies on up the track.



Rocket Roll

Blues Machine by Eric Joyner


Rocket Roll

To ev’ry band who never hit the heights,
Who play the clubs but never play the halls;
Whose name will never burn in lights,
Nor posters hang from bedroom walls –
Who always watch their fellow dudes a-strut,
And always think “We’re just as good as that !”
Who feel the calling in their gut,
But never feast upon the fat –
You’ve got the amps, you’ve got the tunes,
You’ve got your share of dweebs and loons –
Yet still you only smoulder, never blast.
You missed your chance to quit this town,
It’s gravity that keeps you down.
You’re only growing older and surpassed.

But ev’ry band with unloved riff and chord
Can always hope that Later Times may find
That album ev’ryone ignored,
And bring you forth to futurekind:
To fill the galaxy with your guitars,
And play your ballads on a thousand earths,
And sing your melodies to stars
For centuries beyond your births.
You’ve got the chance, you’ve got the pluck,
You’ve got your share of random luck:
May yet your thrusters fire, rockets gun ?
A soundtrack to the pioneers,
The very music of the spheres,
Could see you flying higher than the sun.



First Eight Lines of a Sonnet

detail from the Chandos Portrait, possibly by John Taylor, possibly showing William Shakespeare


First Eight Lines of a Sonnet

I sometimes feel like life is just preamble,
All As and Bs and As and Bs forever –
There’s building-up of tension for the scramble,
But no antithesis can slip the tether.
Won’t someone blow the whistle on this shamble,
And get me underway in my endeavour ?
I long to find a volta, take a gamble,
But always must await a break in weather…