Sonnet 68: 1st July 2025
Some plates are more tectonic than the others
They're much more prone to continental drift
They do not wish to stay close to their mothers
They want to move along at rapid shift
From Africa, South America sailed away
And now is heading straight for the Pacific
It will arrive in China any day
Within a billion years would be terrific
Of course, that means the Panama Canal
Would then be several thousands of miles wide
Thus losing its foundation rationale
To get the chickens to the other side
Pity the Mexicans; they have to stay
Firmly attached on to the USA.
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Sonnet 67: 30th June 2025
We live outside an internet of postings
And some are wrong and others are OK
You log on and you really want to know things
But rubbish-posters just get in the way
How do you know what's true and what's bananas?
They may seem wild: does that mean they're not true?
Ignore them if they mention Nostradamus
That still leaves plenty to bamboozle you
Once we had books, and those books had their sources
And you could check the writers' reputations
And bibliographies were your resources
Now all you have is strangers' assertations.
An education's not about exams
But helps you filter nut-jobs, twats and scams.
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Sonnet 66: 29th June 2025
What keeps couples together? Private jokes
The references only known to two
Incomprehensible to other folks
Important to them, meaningless to you
Comedians' relationships don't last
They have no private jokes; they can have none
If they say something funny, they act fast
Out comes the notebook; in the set it's gone.
Each private conversation's a rehearsal
Your partner's testing his/her own dexterity
They may be funny, may be controvertial
But they'll be surely lacking in sincerity
You want the sort of laughs that lovers share?
Do not love a comedian. Be aware.
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Sonnet 65: 28th June 2025
I don't like sitcoms. Usually they're cruel
An odd man does his best and people mock
If you had been the boy laughed at at school
You'd know the sinking feeling and the shock
Some people are just odd; it's not their fault
Don't know how to behave; unsocialised
To laugh at them for this feels like assault
They're fictional, but live behind my eyes
For I am them and have done what they did
The writers think it's fiction, but it's not
My life-mistakes that I keep mostly hid
Cringe when remembered via a sitcom plot.
Pain in the mind as hurtful as the groin
Comic and tragic: sides of the same coin
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Sonnet 64: 27th June 2025
Palestine action? I approve of it.
I can do so without breach of the law
Observe the way the first two words are writ
The a is lower case. Do not ignore
the vital difference. If I should approve
Of pally Action with capital A
That would now count as an illegal move
But with a small one it must be OK.
It can't refer to that lot who've been banned
Or else there'd be an A for proper names
But I approve of action. Hope some's planned
Like feeding starving folks with no more games.
Get all the aid in; that's the bottom line,
The action that they need in Palestine.
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Sonnet 63: 26th June 2025
I am a Londoner; I should be cool
Too cool to sit where drivers ought to be
I'm not a tourist and I'm not at school
That game's for them; it shouldn't be for me.
The DLR front seat? Oh really? Moi?
To watch the tracks be swallowed as the train
Swings round the curve from Westferry? Ha ha
As if I'd want to do that thing again
As if I'd be the driver in my mind
Command the rails unto the Mudchute shore
Over the dead docks…. oh, that's very kind
You're offering me the seat? Yes? Are you sure?
Whoopee. This is the very bestest day
I've had in ages. (Keep a cool face). Yay!
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Sonnet 62: 25th June 2025
In UK we say biscuits and not cookies
At least, we did when we were not a State
We also said beginners and not rookies
I’d like to change these back but I’m too late
The words are rounding third and stealing home
And our John Hancock’s on the dotted line
Out of left field and crossing the end zone
All metaphors from culture that's not mine
We have to check a box when we should tick it
Ask for the check, although we want the bill
And spell our cheques as checks; it isn't cricket
The Yanks don't understand and never will.
I'll put up with all this, if they remember
That 'holidays' means Summer, not December.
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Sonnet 61: 24th June 2025
A band on ship, the crew was heard to shout
And I thought "good. Live music and the sea
That will be quite relaxing, I've no doubt
What type of music is it going to be?"
And as the crowds rushed past me at great speed
I just assumed that they were not big fans
Well, that's quite disappointing, yes indeed
The sailors should have booked some better bands
Soon I was sat alone in my deck chair
Patiently waiting for the gig to start
When suddenly the ship's no longer there
Well, bits of it; the rest had come apart.
An insect stood serenly on the wreck.
Oh god, there was no band, just ant and deck.
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Sonnet 60: 23rd June 2025
My sonnets, aye, are nothing like the Bard’s
Currently don’t get read like his get read
If rhymes be pleasant, mine are much more hard
If hairs be wires, an aerial’s on my head.
He saw no roses in his mistress’ cheeks
And I see none in mine; I haven’t got one
You cannot just go buy them in boutiques
I looked upon the shelves, but couldn’t spot one.
His mistress, Shakespeare said, walked on the ground
Which is by far the safest place to walk
I do not think his circle would abound
With water-walkers; there’d be paper-talk
Though in his day, newspapers there were none
He should be glad there’s nothing like The Sun.
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Sonnet 59: 22nd June 2025
(In memory of a childhood hymn)
When knights of old had somehow lost their charger
They couldn’t ride to battle with their lances
Their chances of defeat were therefore larger
They could not thwart their enemies’ advances.
I’ve lost my charger now, but have no horse
The charge I need requires no horsey skill
Knights knew no electricity, of course
And now that they’re extinct they never will
I simply need to move the power from A
To B, and need a charger for that action
Without a charger, there’s no knightly way
To get the power to B's full satisfaction
No wrist pedometer: it makes no sense
To walk if one can't show the evidence
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Sonnet 58: 21st June 2025
It is the solstice. Day of shortest night
The day on which the day itself is longest
If light and dark are enemies in a fight
The dark is weakest now, the light's the strongest
But light, crow not, although the crow crows early
--- did I just say the crow and not the cock?
Midsummer madness makes my brain go squirly
The longest day, the biggest mental block
If the cock crows, then what do the crows do?
The crow should cock, but that does not sound right
You don't want crows on longest day, do you?
The corvids are much more for times of night
The winter solstice is approaching fast
And on that day the crow can cock at last
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Sonnet 57: 20th June 2025
I think I'm right about a lot of things
Such rightness isn't true of everyone
I bask within the glow that rightness brings
This does annoy some people, so it's fun.
Sometimes I'm asked to justify my views
Usually by people who can't see
Of all the various attitudes to choose
Mine's the right one, because it comes from me.
But I am neither King nor President
It wouldn't matter much if I were wrong
I couldn't cause a holocaust event
On basis of a whim, however strong.
They can. They seem about to. They should cease.
I know I'm right when I tell them: choose peace.
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Sonnet 56: 19th June 2025
Who designs the clothes that aren’t designer?
I don’t think that they simply have evolved
Some come from far-off places, e.g. China
But even there, designers are involved.
If you can wear it, someone has designed it
We know that trousers do not grow on trees
Each garment has some sort of brain behind it
Even the ones too baggy at the knees
That wasn’t always true. Consider togas
Did someone think of them and shout ‘eureka’?
To claim to have invented them is bogus
Although convenient for Roman streaker.
But nowadays those simple times are gone
So credit all designers, or else none
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Sonnet 55: 18th June 2025
To driver, YJ one-nine HVA
You utter, utter, utter, utter cunt
I hope I never live to see the day
I board a London bus with you in front
You closed the entrance door right in my face
And trapped my walking stick inside the door
Then you drove off, you human-shaped disgrace
Snapping the stick in two, to walk no more
I could be more disabled than I am
You would have done the same to anyone
You clearly couldn't give a flying damn
As long as you were out of there and gone
I now have no more stick to walk with, damn it
But there's some left, and I know where to ram it
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Sonnet 54: 18th June 2025
The aliens on the dark side of the moon
Can best observe us at the new-moon phase
If they stay in the dark they're quite immune
From telescopes and probes and optic rays
But when the moon is full they can't be seen
It's party time. The fireworks are amazing
Every four weeks it's time to let off steam
And then return to dutiful earth-gazing
Why are they doing it? We are quite boring
With leaders who deserve no appropbation
Are there no better worlds to be exploring
Now that they've mastered spacetime navigation?
Maybe the monthly party's why they stay
We wish it could be full moon every day
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Sonnet 53: 17th June 2025
So, murder on the Orient Express?
Does that mean crows are perched along the top?
I hope it does, so there'll be no distress
Unless they hit a bridge, and then they'll drop
But murder on the dance floor's not the same
Dancing round handbags, yes, but not round crows
They're easily squashed, and yet are they to blame?
It's partially their fault, one might suppose.
Murder most foul, if you tread on the murder
Don't crow about it if you squash a crow
To them, the dancers must seem like a herd-a-
elephants, when looked at from below.
Dancing on crows must count as misbehavin'
If you are going to rave, you need a raven.
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Sonnet 52: 16th June 2025
The Free Fringe puts on many shows a day
By 'many' I mean lots and lots and lots
You'll find them all at freefringe.org.uk
Which scans, if you do not pronounce the dots
The man who started this, who's still alive
Has started writing sonnets, cos he's strange
He's put them in his show for '25
And dropped some awful songs in part-exchange.
Honest, I wouldn't go if I were you
But actually I'm him, and also me
There's many better shows that you could view
And each of them is brought to you for free
But come to mine, if you receive this card
The sonnets are not good, but they're not Bard.
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Sonnet 51: 15th June 2025
Do I have time to write another sonnet
Before the outbreak of the third world war?
A button pressed with madman's fingers on it
Which madman? Any one of at least four.
How do I stop it? Writing verse won't do
I'd march in protest but they take no heed
They're spoiling for a fight and don't care who
They bomb or starve or otherwise make bleed.
1914: it happened quite like this
With puffed-up leaders sticking to their guns
How many millions fell down that abyss?
And nowadays: how many megatons?
I watch and cringe; all I can do is write
As once again a world descends to night
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Sonnet 50: 14th June 2025
At a church fête, the cynic and romantic
met, then brought in the mystic and the drummer.
Their whole career was somewhat more than frantic;
It brought unto the world a ten-year summer
Thus earth, air, fire and water were combined
Each element was shared among the four
First in the silly love songs, then, the mind
Across the universe to fields of straw
But that was then, and what do we have now?
Imagine war is over, but it's not
The drummer spoke of peace and love; somehow
The world today ignored it or forgot.
The chords that stunned the world have been unstrung
The cynic and the mystic died too young.
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Sonnet 49: 13th June 2025
There's no more Poundland. How shall I spend pounds?
The news just in is pounding in my brain
Forsooth, gramercy, gadzooks and eke zounds
I'll never darken their cheap doors again.
On Michal Marks's stall, a single penny
Bought anything he had upon display
That immigrant knew English words, not many,
And therefore couldn't haggle anyway.
Despite this, helped by Spencer, business grew
And nowadays you go to M&S
Offer a penny and they look at you
Oblivious of the seed of their success.
But Mr Pound has peaked: I can guess why:
Price nineteen-and-elevenpence too high.
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Sonnet 48: 12th June 2025
Friday 13th is looming like a loom
Weaving the threads of bad luck unto all
Plaiting the ropes that hold up, I assume,
The grand piano which is due to fall
upon our heads, as in the Loony Tunes
Except it's us and not that Daffy Duck;
The black keys that will flatten our fortunes
The mirror breaking seven years bad luck.
As children we believed: if ticket num-
-bers add to 21 then we'd be blessed
A lifetime later I still do the sum
Would you call me compulsive or obsessed?
The final luck for all of us is death.
Let's stand upon life's stage and shout: MACBETH
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Sonnet 47: 11th June 2025
If Loch Ness creature is indeed a monster
Why is its neck not held on with a bolt?
It may well be a cuddly thing that wants ter
Be friends with us, so why do we revolt?
Calling it 'monster' is a hostile act
It is a fellow creature of the Earth; it's
no wonder that it fails to interact
And seldom pokes its head above the surface
It may be big; that don't mean it's not shy
It doesn't help when people scream and point
It cannot understand; it wonders why
It's called a nasty name in its own joint.
One human is more monster-like, and that's
The one within a white house with red hats.
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Sonnet 46: 10th June 2025
How hard it was to picture one's emotions
But thanks to Facebook it's much less hard now
You make your choice from Like and Love (no potions)
And Angry, Care and Laugh and Sad and Wow.
These are the feelings you're allowed to feel
No mixed emotions; that's too complicated
Sadness and anger never must congeal
Just make your choice, and stick by what you've stated.
And if you merely Like when Love's expected
That's usually an insult to the poster
Though they've been Liked, they may still feel rejected
And take a bath with their electric toaster.
The coroner will verdict in that case:
They died because emotion was misplaced.
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Sonnet 45: 9th June 2025
Nothing to fear, they say, but fear itself.
It's true. I have a morbid fear of fear
I have a fear repellant on the shelf
But the instructions aren't completely clear.
I fear my fear repellant might just fail
And thus the fear I fear won't be deterred
Is it the fear itself at which I quail?
Or do I not fear fear, but fear the word?
If you have fear of fear itself, they say
That fearophobia is the diagnosis
But if you fear the fearophobic, they
Cannot fix that, not even with hypnosis.
Fear of the fear of fear is bad, it's said
So run away or don't get out of bed.
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Sonnet 44: 8th June 2025
The feral creature known as Normalfoot
Lives undiscovered in the undergrowth
Undocumented in research output
By scientists or mad occultists both
By what means would he ever be discovered?
His footprints are just like all other feet
Unlike his cousin Bigfoot, he's not smothered
By film crews with a segment to complete.
However, though, his offspring's feet are small
Until they reach a fully adult size
Therefore he doesn't let them out at all
Except with a convincing foot-disguise.
That's worked so far, although he's getting fretty
One day he will be found, but just not yeti.
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Sonnet 43: 7th June 2025
As I grow older, I rely on pills
So many, I forget which one does what
One of them's to improve my memory skills
I used to know which one, but I forgot.
Mostly they are packed in plastic bubbles
With tinfoil on the other side, quite stout
This does not help you with blood pressure troubles
You have to push so hard to get them out
But when you push much harder, then the pill
Does salmon-leaps and lands upon the floor
Where it picks up some germs that make you ill
To cancel out the ones it's meant to cure.
To the young person who devised this shit
I wish a long old age of using it.
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Sonnet 42: 6th June 2025
The soup I make is fairly mediocre.
If it was ever served at gourmet banquet
They'd shout: "who is the souper? Sack the joker
We rue the day on which we ever drank it"
But take that very soup to lands of famine
They'd snatch it from my hands and shout for more
(completely veggie, so there is no lamb in)
and I could boast of getting an encore.
Three wishes? I'd wish thrice for food for all.
But if the world was fed, they'd realise
That my soup making skills are very small
And I would be diminished in their eyes.
So logically I'd vote for world starvation
To save my own soup-making reputation.
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Sonnet 41: 5th June 2025
If you get past-life readings, you'll be told
That past-life-you was someone really famous
What are the odds? You feel like you've struck gold
We all would feel like that, and who could blame us?
And does it matter if it's true or not?
To feel good is a rare and precious thing
Persuade yourself: you were them, but forgot
the details, due to life-transitioning.
It just takes faith: there's lots of that about
And this faith has no churches or collections
It reinforces self-esteem without
recourse to sacred hosts or resurrections.
Believe that you were once one of the greats
If this time round you're not, just blame the fates.
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Sonnet 40: 4th June 2025
Prepare for war with Russia, Starmer says.
I am prepared. My white flag's clean and pressed
Been practising my hand-raise for some days
And shouting Droog! Tovarisch! with some zest
Their government is flawed in Starmer's eyes?
In that case, well, let him and Putin fight
In pink bikinis using custard pies
I'd pay ten roubles to avoid that sight.
It's not my war. I say I have no beef
With normal Russians, most of whom are nice
The NHS could do with some relief
More money than this war, to be precise.
Perhaps he thinks it's 1854.
The Light Brigade, however, charge no more.
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Sonnet 39: 3rd June 2025
Your email says you've hacked in my account
And used my camera unbeknownst to me;
Unless I pay you quite a large amount
You'll make my browsings known for all to see.
Two thousand dollars I must send to you
I have no dollars, but my friends might lend 'em
So they will pay to not to have to view
The things they'll view for free after you send 'em.
Oh crumbs, oh crikey, I am all a-twitter
You're ruining my chance of being pope
You have your job to do, so I'm not bitter
But to your kind request I answer 'nope'.
Send and be damned, if you have stuff to send
If it shocks anyone, then they're no friend.
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Sonnet 38: 2nd June 2025
(If you are much younger than I, you may not
understand the premise of this one. Also,
the last line is not true and never was).
So, how much is that stairway in the window?
Yes, that one with the very waggly rail
I cannot see it in the bargain bin, so
I do hope that that stairway is for sale.
I'm looking, so I must get what I came for
It glitters, so I'm sure it must be gold
The rustle in the hedgerow's what I aim for
Just take the money; mark the stairway sold
It makes you wonder? Don't. I'm going to heaven
The wind has whispered that this would be apt
So use your 12-string to play chord D-7
And then ensure the stairway is gift-wrapped.
Don't dare to close the stores: I say you can't.
I'm Lita Roza, Mrs Robert Plant.
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Sonnet 37: 1st June 2025
They packed their troubles in their old kit bags
And, as instructed, smiled and smiled and smiled
Struck by grenades while lucifering their fags
Never again to see their wife and child
So, fatherless, the children grew and wed
And marched with kitbags for a second time
To keep the hungry cannons fully fed
And make the lower classes toe the line.
Then there was peace, but only partial peace
Small wars in places hard to find on maps
But soldiers still continued to decease.
No kitbags, but more body bags, perhaps;
Flown in to Wootton Bassett by the score
Packed with their troubles, troubling them no more.
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Sonnet 36: 31st May 2025
Before the rebuild, Wembley would do tours
And at the climax, you could walk right up
To royal box and hold within your paws
A cardboard copy of the F A Cup.
Well, I have never done that, but instead
I've stood upon the stage at Albert Hall
Performing only in my own mad head
To wild cheers no-one else could hear at all.
Very few men have held the actual cup
At close of such a vital world-watched game
But once they've done it, there's no more way up
And life goes on thereafter just the same.
The cardboard cup's more easily available
And private fantasies are unassailable.
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Sonnet 35: 30th May 2025
Spiro T Agnew's a forgotten gent
But he, if a reminder should be needed,
Served Richard Nixon as vice-president
And in event of death would have succeeded.
But Nixon didn't die; he broke the law
And so impeachment was upon the table
But those proceedings could not start before
They had a VP they considered stable.
So Agnew had to go ere Nixon did
And various charges therefore were up-trumped.
Fast-forward 50 years and now consid-
-er who steps in if orange man gets dumped?
On paper it's the VP, J D Vance
Would his hands be as safe as Agnew's hands?
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Sonnet 34: 29th May 2025
To transit spacetime a worm-hole is needed
Which must be big enough to fit your rocket
So you can trans-dimension unimpeded
And carry every sonic screw and sprocket.
A wormhole must have had, some time, a worm in
In this case one with very large diameter
How large? It needs equations to determine
I can't compute it; I'm an amateur
So, will this huge worm still be in the hole
Or caught by the proverbial early birdy?
In either case, your fate's out of control
Planet-sized birds will prove your ship's not sturdy.
At all times, which includes your cosmic rides,
Don't trust a hole until you've seen both sides.
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Sonnet 33: 28th May 2025
I'm sick of hearing "see it, say it, sorted"
On every train from Dover to Dundee
The "say it" should come first (the pedant snorted)
It's not sorted if the 'a' comes after 'e'
The phrase in question's not good English grammar
If they mean 'fixed' they should say 'sorted out'
I'd like to hit the Tannoy with a hammer
And learn 'em what right English be about.
But above all: what nine-year-old devised it?
Not one of Boris Johnson's kids again?
And what insane committee authorised it
To be intoned on every bus and train?
Why can't they say: "if you see it, report it
And 'out' is the direction we shall sort it"?
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Sonnet 32: 27th May 2025
Within their tents on Tottenham Court Road
Lie people; who they are I've no idea
I'm guessing it's not their preferred abode
Amenities are scarce, if you live here
I might turn round and drop a pound or more
But that won't help remove them from their tents
Only the sort of funds that fund a war
Could help them to afford the London rents
Perhaps they'll spend on drink; well, so would I
The pavement's hard; the night is cold as fuck
They're sometimes pissed on by a passer by
Don't tell me everyone makes their own luck.
There was a man whose number one priority
Was to end this. 3k short of a majority.
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Sonnet 31: 26th May 2025
I get a lot of spam; that's not surprising
That's what you get if you own a PC
But there's one frequent one; it's advertising
That Manhood Gummies are the thing for me.
Now 'gummies' are OK within their context
A child might find them nice and sweet and dishy
But for this Manhood, it is quite the wrong text.
A gummy stands for being soft and squishy.
They should have called them rockets, Eiffel Towers
Or Blackpool Towers (the smaller British version);
Names that imply that they'll stay up for hours
Not that they'll soon dissolve upon immersion.
Not my concern; I'm merely a spectator
And not the dogging sort (well, maybe later).
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Sonnet 30: 25th May 2025
It's sonnet 30 on Day 29
And only a mere 125 to go
To beat Will Shakespeare's record will feel fine
But will they be as good? Of course not, no.
Now, quantity not quality's the point
We live in times when things are only measured
As Shakespeare said: the time is out of joint.
I'm out of joints myself: I am displeasured.
Still, once I've reached the magic 155
Which should be end October at this rate
I'll write some tragedies, if still alive,
But no more comedies, no really, not me, mate.
Let's all join in this game of Beat The Bard
The output will be measured by the yard.
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Sonnet 29: 24th May 2025
Shall I compare thee to a Starmer's day?
I wouldn't be so cruel or such a meanie
Nothing about that concept is OK
A sack of air blown round by a McSweeny.
If I compare thee to a day like that
You're 24 whole hours of wasted space
Very few people could be such a twat
And thus, in lawyers' terms, I rest my case.
But if you had no brains or moral sense
Then Starmer's day might somehow be for you
Electability is no defence
Especially since it's not remotely true
A Starmer's day means much more Gazan dead:
Enough said.
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Sonnet 28: 24th May 2025
Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
Why should I not? I know that Shakespeare did
And he was famous and received big pay
In modern money several million quid.
He started humbly somewhere close to Catford
Learned to compare, and his career grew wings;
He bought the biggest baddest house in Stratford
From proceeds of comparing things to things
So give me money and I shall compare thee
To any type of day you nominate
But for one disappointment I'll prepare thee:
It will have 14 lines, but won't be great.
You can't compare me to the sonnet-master
But he's dead, so at least I'll write it faster.
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Sonnet 27: 23rd May 2025
The blackness of the Blackwall Tunnel's wall
Is not as black as that name might suggest
Some parts of it appear not black at all
Perhaps that's where the painter took a rest
But that's not good enough: we want 'em black
Black's what they advertise, so we demand it
It's not our problem if the painter's slack
He/she should be severely reprimanded
Once it was free; we could not then complain
But now we have to pay a bloody toll
To slowly crawl along the inside lane
And watch the walls: it's hardly rock'n'roll
I want the colour scheme for which I've paid.
I drove to Silvertown; I'm twice betrayed.
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Sonnet 26: 23rd May 2025
Does hating flies give me the right to kill 'em?
I don't want the little fuckers in my face
Or crawling into dishes if I spill 'em
Or breeding in my bin at rapid pace.
But death is permanent unless you're Jesus
Do I have rights to kill the things I hate, or
am I a god who can do what he pleases?
Lord of the flies, a life-or-death dictator?
Wipe out the flies, there's nothing to feed spiders
Wipe out the insects and bang go the birds
And so on up the chain to paragliders
So, euthenasia? Genocide? Just words.
We used to kill a man for stealing sheep
Now we do not, but insect life's still cheap.
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Sonnet 25: 22nd May 2025
My olive oil no longer is a virgin
Her screw top has been well and truly twisted
So now her olive hormones are all surgin'
To plateaux she could not believe existed.
Or that, at least, is how we men perceive it
We really cannot know; we're only guessing
But just because we want to, we believe it
We have no knowledge of her first cold pressing.
We'll never know how high she sets the ceiling
Not if we were as wise as Aristotle
But how can we respect her oily feelings
When feelings are all trapped inside a bottle?
To make a salad dressing that won't spoil
One needs the vinegar as well as oil.
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Sonnet 24: 21st May 2025
I wish that I'd seen What The Butler Saw
But since I didn't, now I'll never know.
No butlers I could ask; that's Murphy's Law
My cup of ignorance doth overflow
But yesterday, within an antique shop
I found a What The Butler Saw machine.
I fumbled for a penny I could drop
Into the slot, to see what he had seen.
Alas, the pennies of today don't fit
I could have bought machine, but it was heavy.
To learn what butlers saw would cost a bit
Which proves that on all knowledge there's a levy
If what the butler saw was so damn subtle
Perhaps I should myself learn how to buttle
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Sonnet 23: 21st May 2025
If I had body odour, would you tell me?
Well, everybody smells to some extent
Subliminally I smell you, you smell me;
Beyond the normal level's what I meant.
Hmmm. If your skirt was caught up in your waistband
Would you want all the world to see the show?
As you walked round unwittingly shamefaced and
Undignified? I think the answer's no.
It's same thing, but more nasal, less erotic.
If something isn't right, someone should say
Human-to-human relations: symbiotic
Not judging, but with help along the way.
We all have things of which we're unaware
So don't assume I know but do not care.
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Sonnet 22: 19th May 2025
They're looking down from heav'n, my dead relations
I really wish they wouldn't: it's a pain
I'm sick of bowing to their observations
Whether from Earth or some celestial plane
So now they can see all but cannot nag
In life they only nagged at what they saw
Plus what they guessed at, which is quite a drag
And some they made up, and a few things more
Of course I mind continuous surveillance
You never are alone with guilt and tedium
But protesting to them would need a séance
And that would mean the message is the medium.
I know I don't believe in all this stuff
But they did and I don't dare call their bluff
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Sonnet 21: 17th May 2025
The lack of boogie woogie bugle boys
Means USA's won no wars since World 2
Korean war was known for MASH and noise
But bugle boys were relatively few
When the last chopper fled from old Saigon
No boogie woogie stirred defeated ranks
Bugles lay scattered when the Yanks had gone
And graciously old Ho Chi Minh said thanks.
If greatness does consist of winning wars
(and I don't think it does) then USA
should send their armies on a music course
and boogie woogie bugle all the day
To that they could well add some Andrews Sisters
Although they're now too dead to be enlisters
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Sonnet 20: 16th May 2025
The ancient aliens built the pyramids
Moving the stones by cosmic levitation
They lined them up with Sirius, so they did
Thus leaving clues to their origination
Likewise they moved the Stonehenge stones from Wales
For which the druids later stole the credit
But ancient aliens drank the ancient ales
Which then, as now, is not good for the head. It
is probably why they said "we'd better go",
nursing their hangovers within their shipses.
But stellar travel needs computers, so
Why use huge stones to calculate eclipses?
I think you'll have to ask the druids why.
At least the pyramids keep mummies dry
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Sonnet 19: 15th May 2025
To tidy up my flat would take a year
Indeed, I may well die in the attempt
So: no new fridge, because I live in fear
Of fridge deliverers and their contempt.
The bit that should be freezing over-freezes
The ice cream's solider than a brick wall
But in the fridge part, milks turn into cheeses
It seems it's hardly cooling down at all
(The greatest sonneteers, Shakespeare and Shelley
Wrote naught of a malfunctioning appliance
Perhaps the didn't care if things went smelly
In their day there was less domestic science)
Is there, online, some kindly fridge mechanic
Who knows about this, or should I just panic?
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Sonnet 18: 14th May 2025
If I'd have known then, as a lonely child
That one day I'd have 1900 friends
I wouldn't have believed it: much too wild
I'd have been glad for one, and thrilled with ten
But nearly 2k friends, plus a machine
Which almost every day delivers more
(Although they're often folks I've never seen):
I wish I'd had them 60 years before
So now, as lonely week succeeds to week
I sit here drinking solitary tea
Perhaps we're in a game of hide and seek?
I'm not well hidden; please come and find me.
At least the friends have let me join the game.
It's bedtime soon; I'm grateful all the same
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Sonnet 17: 13th May 2025
Internet porn: could Shakespeare have resisted
If it had been around in Shakespeare's day?
He'd write all night until his quill got twisted
With Mrs Shakespeare many miles away
Of course he would have looked, as who would not?
And with connection charges half a groat
He'd log on during struggles with the plot
Of some great tragedy he'd half-way wrote.
But once you start it's got you in its hooks
This content can be most addictive stuff
And Shakespeare would quite likely say: "gadzooks
Oh sod this play; I have composed enough.
I'll watch these vids and go and have some dinner."
Therefore his complete works would be much thinner.
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Sonnet 16: 12th May 2025
A man who has a column in the Sun
Was always somewhat starm, but now he's starm-er
And will be starm-est ere his time is done
Until he's clobbered by the weight of karma
But that will not serve to reverse the damage
The NHS might be U.S. by then
And immigration policy's a heap of Farridge
And old folks won't see winter fuel again.
Just eat the chlorine chicken he lets in
Ignoring health care specialists' opinions
He'll send the Ukraine weapons with a grin
Ignore the sound of starving Palestinians
Since all of the above is now the norm
There'll be no difference if you vote Reform.
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Sonnet 15: 11th May 2025
Oh, once I found an unknown flying object
But now it lives here it can't be unknown
Sharing with it has not been a good prospect
It must be several years since it has flown
It sits there in its pot and makes objections
And tries to view the world objectively
It objects to my many imperfections
The bottom line is: it objects to me.
I wish that it would fly away to Pluto
But they might not identify it there
They might mistake it for a large-ish newt-o
And blast-ray Earth, revenging for the scare.
Never be friendly to a U.F.O.
Let them move in and they will never go.
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Sonnet 14: 10th May 2025
The final station on this line is Death
Arrival time is currently unknown
When you get there you'll find you're short of breath
No return tickets valid from this zone
But view the fleeting trees with admiration:
At any time the Tannoy may declare
Your imminent arrival at your station
When darkness falls, the trees and fields aren't there
They've vanished from unheeding window glass
Not knowing they were ever in the frame
And whether you're in first or standard class
The exit door for you will be the same.
It's best to view each passing field and tree
As if they were the last you ever see
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Sonnet 13: 9th May 2025
You cannot talk to strangers on the bus
At least, you can't in London; it's not done
It makes you much more hated than Liz Truss
(That sort of hate is measured by the ton).
Talking to strangers on the tube is worse
The carriage rings with sharp intakes of breath
You try to make your time machine reverse
While a whole city wishes for your death
You may ask: where is stranger-talk acceptable?
Have patience: we acknowledge your weird needs
Just go to Kings Cross and look imperceptible
Then take the first and fastest train to Leeds.
They do odd things like that up in t'North
And that's where you should go and live henceforth
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Sonnet 12: 8th May 2025
The land that makes the bombs that drop on Gaza
Has given us the man who prays for peace
And walks in white and gets called holy father
With monstrances upon his mantelpiece
A yankee pope? Well, that was unexpected
The mighty trump sounds in mysterious ways
Mysteriously pope Leo got elected
But will he act, or smugly soak up praise?
Pius XII, Pacelli, was one man
Who might have stopped mass slaughter by a word
But did not speak: perhaps this new guy can
Sometimes above the bomb-blasts popes get heard
He calls himself a lion; let him roar
First for an end to genocide, then war.
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Sonnet 11: 7th May 2025
I don't think I'm expecting to be pope
Although this conclave may be my last chance
It's not a gig on which I pin much hope
So I've not bought the cassock in advance.
I must explain: if you have been baptised
As Catholic, and confirmed around age eight
Then you'd be eligible, although surprised,
So for a while I'd best stay home and wait.
The messenger may come hot-foot from Rome
With the white skull cap packed in his valise
And offer unto me the papal throne
I will accept, as long as they say 'please'.
Though the religious stuff may make me cringe
I'll get a decent audience at the Fringe.
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Sonnet 10: 6th May 2025
I don't think I know anyone who's normal
But if you're normal, please give me a shout
I need some lessons; they need not be formal
I need to learn what normal's all about.
I want to be a norm whose name is Norman
Whose last name could quite possibly be Briggs
I'd give up all the postures and performin'
(Not just because right now I've got no gigs)
I dream of neatly parked suburban people
With mortgages and children 2.4
Who pay a tithe for upkeep of the steeple
And keep the gimp masks in the secret drawer.
But hang on: does normality exist?
Or are we all in some way round the twist?
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Sonnet 9: 5th May 2025
I'd like to tour the world from North to South
The Alps, the Andes and the boundless sea
But rugged peaks are only in my mouth
For all my money goes on dentistry
People see crown jewels and the Bridge of Sighs
My bridges and my crowns detain me still
The Southern Cross is absent from my skies
I spend my cash and time under the drill
For everything I've paid for root canals
I could have seen the Grand Canal in Venice
I dine on soup, not sumptious provencales
To save the dental pain as well as pennies.
The thought that only adds to these frustrations?
My dentist can afford these destinations
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Sonnet 8: 4th May 2025
I am a sonnet
I may look like a haiku
But I identify.
I am a sonnet and I always was
Since the first day the sonnet writer wrote me
I send a welcome to the one above, because
He/she is a real sonnet; you can quote me
It matters not how many lines you have
Upon the outside; that is a mere screen
If on your head there is a sonnet bonnet
The lines deep in your heart count to fourteen
We're prisoners of the labels people put
Upon us and we put upon each other
Labels invite the viewer's mind to shut
But we are rarely one thing or another
No, sonnets aren't so rigidly defined
See them as merely 14-times guide-lined
Thanks for your support
I'm now neither sonnet nor haiku
And the extra syllables in the line above
Have made me realise I'm just me.
Or a clerihew; I'm not sure.
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Sonnet 7: 3rd May 2025
Starmer, thou shouldst be living at this hour
A living leader might know what to do
With guile and dirty tricks thou soughtest power
But ever since you haven't had a clue
The Labour Party used to stand for stuff
Before the idiot Blair killed off Clause IV
You let folks down and now they've had enough
It won't go back to how it was before
A cul-de-sac's the road we see ahead
If there's no left turn people will turn right
Don't blame them; blame yourself and what you led
You hurt the poor; you should have known they'd fight
You did not listen; you do not know how
For you and for your clones it's too late now.
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Sonnet 6: 2nd May 2025
The young man who I once was has not died
He hasn't really even got mature
I carry every age I've been, inside
So what age am I really? I'm not sure.
But inside all these me's who live inside me
Are memories of all mistakes they made
Those memories still mock me and deride me
As age creeps on, the anguish does not fade
The wisdom of old age has passed me by
The foolishness of youth has never gone
Yet people offer me their bus-seats; why?
Can they not see my mind is twenty-one?
Until I've had a happy childhood, I
Really don't think it's fair that I should die.
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Sonnet 5: 1st May 2025
I wonder why I write in sonnet form
And never limerick or else haiku
How did these 14 lines become the norm
Instead of 17, or 22?
In terms of line count, sonnets can be measured
As standard limericks times two point eight
Haikus, that tricky oriental treasure
Are four point six recurring; that's not great.
Two limericks and one and one-third haikus
Together make a sonnet's 14 lines
But would the-gods-of-strict-verse-format like you
If you avoid the scansion and the rhymes?
Well, all that I can do is have a try
My ick is limmer and my ku is high.
There once was an old sonnet writer
Constrained by the rules even tighter
He conformed to the format
Couldn't break from the norm; that
Will prove he's no lover or fighter
Because when you're a staid sonnetteer
You approach other formats with fear
You're set in your ways
Avoiding the gaze
Of any disciple of Lear
Have you forgotten?
Limericks should be funny
The ones above aren't.
Ah, sod it. It's spring.
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Sonnet 4: 30th April 2025
I try to write a sonnet every day
Wrestling each day with seven pairs of rhyme
I should inject some meaning in some way
But for such luxuries there isn't time
I'm writing sonnets like there's no tomorrow
And at my age, one day there will not be
I'm aiming, more in anger than in sorrow
To have a posthumous anthology.
I'll leave the learned scholars to discuss
Whatever meaning here they may suppose
If poets made their meanings obvious
English departments would all have to close
So onward writes the meaningless machine
The medium is the message: what's that mean?
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Sonnet 3: 29th April 2025
You cannae shove your granny off the bus
It's most unwise to shove her off the train
In either case, the polis make a fuss
And say severely "don't do that again"
And nowadays these vehicles have a door
That make the shoving process quite frustrating
The open platforms that they had before
Were easier and didn't keep you waiting
But Scottish engineering is your pal
(and granny-shovers will find this ideal)
Just take your granny down to the canal
And shove her off the top of Falkirk wheel
If she can swim, she'll still have to decide
To head towards the Firth of Forth, or Clyde.
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Sonnet 2: 28th April 2025
If Donald Trump would choose to write a sonnet
It would be big and beautiful and big
And have the bestest sonnet words upon it
Yes, even more convincing than his wig
And by the way he writes it, by the way
He'd buy the way the way he's buying Greenland
He'll name-change any sonnet, gulf or bay
Proclaim himeself the monarch of Fourteenland
He'll tariff-slap if sonnets are imported
A large percentage at the customs gate
With sonneteers as terrorists reported
They only serve, so let them stand and wait
But Trump writes sonnets betterly than the Bard
For someone of his big beautiful Rushmore-deserving
genius, it's not hard
How many lines is that? Fourteen, roughly
That's probably enoughly.
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Sonnet 1: 27th April 2025
Help. I'm a prisoner in a sonnet factory
I can't escape before the fourteenth line
I'll get declaimed in voices loud and actory
And many of those voices will be mine
Though Shakespeare wrote 150 with no sweat
I'm sweating just to finish off this one
This is line seven, and I'm struggling yet
Line eight: the muse has now completely gone
I think what I might need is a dark lady
Or any lady really ought to do
Upon my life's potato she'll be gravy
Unto my cork she will provide the screw
I've stooped to doubl-entendres, that's not clean
But how else would I get to line 14?
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