Happy National Poetry Day!

Happy National Poetry Day!

Celebrate that poetry, now!


So it’s not only blog day Thursday, but also National Poetry Day.

I wanted to do something poetic but also light-hearted and fun and a little experimental. So, in the run-up to today, I asked friends and sundry random folk on Facebook to send me some requests for poems. Bespoke poetry to order!

Specifically, I asked for a theme/topic and a mood, such as ‘biscuits’ and ‘mournful’. The responses were frankly unexpected, which in fairness is great. They’ve resulted in some quite random little poems that I’d certainly have never written otherwise, mostly leaning in the comedic direction. I haven’t painstakingly edited these or refined syllable counts etc; they’re pop-up poems to give people a little titter, which I think is (almost, or in another way) as valuable as the soul-wrenching poetry of the freedom fighters and tragedy survivors of the world.

Here are six of the poems which I’m happiest with, plus I threw in one of the poems featured in my collection of short stories, Strange Matters (‘Northsong’). And if you’d like a bespoke poem of your own, just drop me a line. Should I charge for this service?!



For Neil Macdonald who requested #chameleon and #amorous.


With a muse so bright and glamorous,

It’s no wonder I’m so amorous.

Her colours change each day,

Fabulous in every way.

She has poise, she has grace,

Her eyes dominate her face.

Her body so slim and long,

Beware her deadly tongue.

Her eyes see all, they never fail,

And let me tell you, what a tail.

But alas, our love can never be,

She’s a chameleon, I’m just a tree.




For Jackie Clewlow who requested ‘the wish to be arty’ and the mood ‘melancholic’.


Oh, to be one of the arty types, the archetypes of romantic nights.

How grand to be creative, not mired in the merely contemplative.

I solely wish speak my mind, but the precious words I cannot find.

My inspiration will not visit, barred by shadows most insipid.

Left voiceless, I die in my cage, unable to speak, nor sing, nor rage.

Just one poem I dared create, this note you’re reading, oh so late.



‘The Bakewell Sisters’

For Adrian Rutter, who requested ‘the Bakewell sisters’ (something of an in-joke) and the mood ‘discombobulated’.


Did you ever meet the Bakewell sisters? What a pair of tarts.

Prim and sweet and quite petite, but always breaking hearts.

The younger sister was a cherry, saccharine and fey.

I took a bite one summer night, but then she got away.

The older girl was dry and classy, not your common flan.

I warmed her up for half an hour and tried her frangipane.



‘Quilty as Charged’

For Dawn Clarke who merely requested one enigmatic word; ‘quilting…’.


Your honour, I confess my guilt; I made them all into a quilt.

It’s quite simple you see; all you need are layers three.

First we need a woven back; for that I used a handsome Jack.

All talk he was and full of pride; until I hollowed his insides.

Secondly a padding layer; a calling Mormon answered my prayer.

I turned him into cosy batting; luckily he’d been busy fatting.

Last of all a pretty top; seemed only right to stitch that trollop.

That smarmy lass from down the way; I sewed her in ‘appliqué’.

So lock me up and throw the key; I did it, sir, I killed all three.

Perhaps I’m not right in the head; but I’ve ever such a cosy bed.




For Dave Spoonicus Jessiman who requested ‘unicorn poaching’ and ‘jolly’.


Come on lads, time to go, those horns won’t pluck themselves you know.

Mount the truck and load the gun, a poacher’s life is full of fun.

Boots on boys and saw blades keen, a unicorn has just been seen.

A big one this, nineteen hands, a horn worth more than eighty grand!

Chase him down and watch your six, that magic prick will make us rich.

Just one downside, yes it stings, only virgins can catch the things.




For Matthew Parker-Bowen who requested (another in-joke from heady school days): ‘Dead dog dives down waterfall’ and ‘gleefully’.


Dead Dog Dives Down Waterfall, more on the News at Ten,

How did it die, why oh why? Perhaps you’ll find out then.

Did it dive before it died, or was it given a push?

Forensic cops are on the scene, rooting through the mush.

It twirled through the air with style, it’s little legs akimbo,

Tongue out and spread-eagled, like a lifeless canine bimbo.

The alliteration vexes us, the mystery astounds,

We ask the public to stay alert for deceased, plummeting hounds.




From Strange Matters.


Glory beckons, oaths we swore,

Farmers no more, farmers no more.

Lonely longship, far from shore,

Heave on the oar, heave on the oar.

Into battle, tooth and claw,

Chosen of Thor, chosen of Thor.

Odin takes us, by the score,

Brothers at war, brothers at war.



Thanks for reading, enjoy National Poetry Day!

by Bret

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