The Sixty Second Rule

I am not the moral majority
neither right nor left;
I am a father of two who
writes nonsense poems
about cats, chickens,
manic depression and death;

Do not censor your work
it is cathartic for your soul;
censor received comments
their gilded nature and their
sycophantic silver-tongued tone.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011 

Please read my warning page and “He owns a Thesaurus and a knife” Thank you.

Shortbread instead

Your mum was expecting lemon buns
but you made shortbread instead;
worse still you bunked off with two slices
and crumb filled your bed;

So, always bake buns not shortbread
when by your mum you’re asked
they’re tastier, easier and finally
they’re a favourite of your dads’.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011 

Eat your Greens

Martin picks his nose
with a pencil or his thumb
he stores the bogeys
inside his books
in case he’s peckish after lunch;

He rolls them into tiny balls
and keeps them under his tongue,
if you see him smiling at the back of the class
it must be a really big one;

He also discovered if he banged his head
that tiny bits would fall out,
and he’d scoop them up like a hamster
and store them in his mouth;

Bu the bogeys got bigger
and more chewy in texture
the more he picked
the less he could remember;
then one day he forgot his name
and he realised the bogeys
were really his brain.

Then when his wrist
went up his nostril quite easy
he suddenly felt quite pale and queasy;
so he stopped this vile habit
on the advice of his mum
and now smells his fingers
after scratching his bum.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Thirteen Words

On Ministry paper
his name neatly spaced,
apologies, condolences,
thirteen words aptly phrased;
she read over and over
consumed, numb to pain,
hand to mouth she realised
her lover would never write again.

How different his words
not just a week passed
when he wrote of returning
and tending the grass,
his plans for their future
their children, their life
all perfectly ended
by what had been typed.

Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Keats would not weep

What’s wrong with being commercial?
Commercial pays the bills.
Commercial fills my basket with venison;
long gone surviving
on just bread and milk.

Keats will not weep
in his poetic grave;
commercial poetry pays my child maintenance
and puts an Ice cream smile
on their face.

© D. Archer October 2011

Larkin about

My teacher Miss Larkin
was terrible at car parking
this way and that way swerving and weaving
scratch upon scratch everyday more appearing.

Bushes and Kerb stones her car would dent,
she lost all her hubcaps in a war with a fence.
Her headlights held on by black masking tape
her left indicator she’d somehow misplaced.

The glass in the back was an old plastic bag,
it didn’t quite fit but it was all that she had
Her aerial missing since her drive through car was
and both her front fog lights
she seemed to have lost.

The wing mirror buckled by parking the closest
to a lampost that everyone else seemed to notice
when bought it was shiny
then ten minutes later
it looked liked she’d driven through
a huge cheese grater
yet somehow she managed to arrive every day
having clipped the school gates
in her oblivious way.

And not even people walking their dog
were safe from Miss Larkin as she drove along
up one way streets
(the wrong way of course)
down farmers fields
scattering cattle and horse.

Then one Monday morning she gave me a fright
and I asked if she’d ever considered a bike.
“Oh Douglas, my child. How clever you are,
I’ll buy a Harley Davidson and trade in my car.
I’ll kit myself out in helmet and leathers
and buy a wet suit for the cold winter weather.”

So she scurried off home in her tatty old car,
hit the wall on the way out
and drove into the park,
spinning it around in one last instance
she ran over four ducks
and disappeared in the distance.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011