Tuesday, 28 May 2019

The purge


The Purge

If humankinds’ capacity for war  
Is stifled by terrible weaponry,
Then is the cause of world peace that dread store
That makes Armageddon a guarantee?
World leaders race to the end of the line,
And the winners are those whose store is best;
The highest spec; the cleverest design;
Deemed to be peerless and put to the test.
If history is anything to gauge,
Then war is a certainty, come-what-may;
Presently contained on a smaller stage;
It’s fought in the old conventional way;
The race carries on, and those in the lead
Pile on pressure, as the powerless bleed.


Friday, 24 May 2019

Lucky me


Lucky me

Somewhere in the world, birds no longer sing;
All that flies overhead is drones and jets;
Somewhere in the world, people have nothing;
Famine relief is as good as life gets.

Somewhere in the world, the land is so dry
That the whole population leaves for good;
Somewhere in the world, young children die
In contested warzones where schools once stood.

Somewhere in the world, a tyrant decides
To murder those whom he swore to protect;
Somewhere in the world, there are genocides
Sanctioned by leaders who people elect.

Somewhere in the world, each day brings new grief;
A tomb was a home mere seconds before;
Somewhere in the world, a childhood is brief;
Toddlers and babies are orphaned by war.

Somewhere in the world, a village aflame
Is a backdrop to acts of men depraved;
Somewhere in the world, a man, in God’s name,
Is slain and his wife is raped, then enslaved.

Somewhere in the world, there are webcams set
To film slaughter as a formality;
Somewhere in the world, people quite forget;
For many, terror is normality.

Somewhere in the world, in desperation,
People are selling all that they possess;
Somewhere in the world, a tweeting statesman
Makes it quite clear that he couldn’t care less.

Somewhere in the world, people watch TV
See things they can’t change (though may wish to try);
Somewhere in the world, I think, lucky me;
Alive and in comfort before I die.

Somewhere in the world, guided missiles fly
And there but for the grace of God go I.





Sunday, 12 May 2019

Filthy pig



Filthy pig

I can’t see the woods for bottles and tins
That should have been left in recycle bins
There’s a plastic bag for every twig
Pick up your rubbish you filthy pig

If you go down to the woods today
Don’t throw your empty cans away
And if a bin’s beyond your reach
Don’t leave food wrappers on the beach

It’s bad enough that birds and bees
Are wiped out by our industries
But rubbish dumped without a care
Is harming wildlife everywhere

Did you see that documentary
About pollution in the sea?
Can you think of anything more obscene
Than Turtles eating polythene?

Albatross’s choked and killed
Whales’ stomachs with plastic filled
And all because of thoughtless acts
In the face of scientific facts

I’m not an expert I can’t pretend
To be an environmental friend
And I’m not above humanity’s flaws
My carbon footprint’s the same as yours

But it’s not rocket science to me
If rubbish was dealt with properly
And put where it’s supposed to be
Then it might slow down this emergency

The world wasn’t clean before you came
Don’t leave it dirtier in your name
The oceans are almost beyond repair
Pick up your rubbish don’t drop it there

Litter on the beach and the countryside
Is a legacy that can’t be denied
And it’ll be yours if you don’t give a frig
Pick up your rubbish you filthy pig!

©Barry King 10/5/19



Saturday, 11 May 2019

Don't give up your day job



Don’t give up your day job

“Dear Sir, Thank you for the collection
Of poems you sent for my attention.
I’ve read through them and upon reflection,
To put it bluntly; they lack invention.
Your rhymes have led me to these conclusions:
What substance there is stifled by style;
Your stanzas are products of delusions,
(Admittedly, one or two made me smile).
Have you read William McGonagall?
Reputedly, the worst poet of all;
He wrote the most appalling doggerel;
“Tay Bridge Disaster” is one I recall.
But, in my view, your poems are far worse;
Don’t give up your day job; stop writing verse”

I read the letter with dawning despair;
It was to me like a punch in the eye.
I read it through again, pulled up a chair,
And then I wrote the following reply:

“Dear Sir, Thank you for your kind advice;
But unfortunately, I’m unemployed.
The day job I did have wasn’t that nice;
A career I never really enjoyed,
So losing it wasn’t such a big deal
(Although the money was handy, it’s true);
It’s given me plenty of time to kill;
Indeed the collection I sent to you
Would be nowhere the size that it is
If I was still on the factory floor.
I’m sorry you found my poems remiss,
Stifled by style, delusional and poor,
I…………………………………......"
……couldn’t be bothered to finish it;
I threw it in the bin, and felt like shit.


Anti establishment my arse




Anti-establishment my arse

Something I saw today troubled my mind;
An article in The Daily Express,
In which heroism seemed redefined;
A stand against civil-dissent, no less!
It was written as an angry statement,
But it’s hardly an original view;
It seems to me the old establishment,
Is masquerading now as something new.
Let’s just say that dissidents in the past
Were looked upon in a murderous light;
Imperialism vanishing fast
Was reason enough to shoot them in spite.
Remember; the old establishment lied
After unarmed civil-rights marchers died.

Tuesday, 7 May 2019

Not all there




Not all there

He’s one ride short of Alton Towers
A daffodil gone from a bunch of flowers
A Marvel film lacking superpowers
A banana pulled from a bunch
He’s an angel short of a biker gang
A Nosferatu missing a fang
A Spanish guitar without a twang
A snack gone from a packed lunch

He’s a custom short of border control
A non-event around a black hole
A decathlon without a vaulting pole
A foxhound short of a hunt
He’s a troll away from a Twitter ban
A bristle short of a Desperate Dan
A cornet gone from an ice cream van
He’s one bet short of a punt

He’s a Morris short of a dance in May
A soliloquy gone from a Shakespeare play
A town crier with nothing to say
A pupil missing in class
He’s a nurse and a doctor short of a ward
A fencing tourney without a sword
A top director gone from the board
He’s one joke short of a farce

He’s a grain short of a sandy beach
He’s James Henry Trotter without a peach
A Watergate short of a Trump impeach
He’s an orange without a peel
He’s an angry voice in a calm debate
A member short of an EU state
A cake stall missing from a village fete
He’s a compromise short of a deal

He’s one letter short of an alphabet
A Pankhurst film without a Suffragette
He’s Wessex missing Somerset
He’s a parish minus a priest
He’s a blade of grass cut from a field
In a specialist workforce he’s unskilled
He’s a wish on a death- bed unfulfilled
He’s a morsel short of a feast