Sunday 11 August 2019

Slam Poem

For the poetry slam today I need a poem to perform in under two minutes. I had FOUR to pick from... These are below. DECISIONS DECISIONS


SLAM


Slam!
Bam!
Kipper ham!
Don’t ask me whence
 that reference came
I remember it
I know
Vaguely up from long ago
But I confess
I do digress
Don’t you find
it funny how-
things-linger-in-the mind?

Slam!
Dunk
What the…
Um…
Bunk!
I don’t play basketball
At all
Although I’m tall…
I’m prone to fall
No co-ordination see
Balls are mysteries to me
I hardly give a toss…
(Well, that’s the nation’s loss…)

Slam!
Shots!
Not?
You sure?
I thought I heard it somewhere
Between the lemon and the salted hand
Bad for the liver anyway
I’ll take chocolate any day!
Slam!

Slam!
Stamp the floor
Slam!
Bang
The door
No more please
Temper tantrums court disease
Slam!
Sorry
Yes I am
It was the wind in the door
For sure

Slam!
What?
It’s poetry?
I do believe…
You’re bamming me?
(D’you like my word? It’s out of Georgette Heyer)

Muse on fire!

Slam!
Worse?
You wanted verse?
That’s just perverse!
SLAM!
Slam
slam



FOLLOWING THE DRUM


Oh, once I slept in a feather bed
With woollen blankets warm
Now I’m glad to lay my head
On a cloak that’s old and torn
Oh, sing with me a merry catch
As summer days will come
My love he is a soldier boy
And so I’m following the drum

With a patter patter tat
And a rattle and a scrap
And the beat of the marching song
I’m ragged and worn
And my hose are torn-
Yet I am following along


Oh once I ate from a silver plate
With sauces rich and rare
Now I’m glad if I’m not too late

To find some bread to share
Oh sup with me on a scraggy fowl
And dream of sugar plums
My love he is a soldier boy
And so I’m following the drum

With a patter patter tat
And a rattle and a scrap
And the beat of the marching song
I’m ragged and worn
And my hose are torn-
Yet I am following along

Oh once I wore a silken shawl
And a bonnet of ribbon trim
Now I’m glad if I’m clad at all
‘Twixt my ankles and my chin
Oh sew with me in a sturdy stitch
And do not prick your thumb
My love he is a soldier boy
And so I’m following the drum

With a patter patter tat
And a rattle and a scrap
And the beat of the marching song
I’m lame and tired before my time
But still I follow him along
Oh, I'm lame and tired but I still smile-
And still I follow him along


MEMORIAL HALL 
I’ve always liked the memorial hall
Rosy bricks in that soft blending
Penned between pale mortared lines
In that peculiar zone of pink and brown
I walked around the memorial hall
Observing every side, till, bending
I spotted dark and white; the signs
Of the pride of a younger, bygone town

I often admire the colour scheme
And my mind walks back to a funny scene
When I and a friend stood upon the stage
As angels in a Christmas play
Looking back, it’s like a dream
For who remembers it but me?

We wore, I remember, long white gowns
Nighties? Maybe. They came down
Right to our slippers (silent soled)
Stand there quietly we’d been told
Teachers smiled in the bygone town
At good little girls in flowing gowns

Stiffened wings of wire and gauze
Affixed to our shoulders… well, because
Good little angels must have wings!
Just as they must herald things…
Wired-on wings but wait, there’s more!
Oh! I remember kind applause!

The piece de resistance I recall
As we stood on stage in the rosy hall
Were tinsel halos made of wire
Above our heads; awe inspired!
There we were, standing straight and tall
Be-winged, be-haloed in the hall
But then- disaster almost struck
Two little halos tangled up!
There we stood tilting head to head
Would real angels feel our dread?
Gowned and winged with halos stuck
We  stood quite still and trusted luck

The curtain fell on our Christmas play
A teacher came while it still swayed
Briskly she untangled us
And praised us! Girls! You made no fuss!
And we felt special in a gratified way
‘cos we’d been angels for a day

So oh, I love the memorial hall
So many memories enthral
And when you read the sign you’ll see
The memorial hall’s older than me…


 Sweet Charity


Miss Charity Curtin
The locals are certain’s
a vicarage mouse to a T
She’s shy and obscure
and extremely demure
as she offers you scones with your tea
She lowers her gaze
and looks gentle and grave
in her grey Sunday hat and pelisse
When you come to the house;
she’s as meek as a mouse
and a typical vicarage miss.

But

Sweet Charity isn’t at all as she seems
when we meet after Matins is done
She casts off her grey
in her sauciest way
soon after the hymns have been sung
With hair pinned in curls
She’s the merriest girl
And her smile turns my stomach to water
With her arms brown and bare
She has laughter to spare
Not your typical vicarage daughter

Her father the vicar
Has no fear of snickers
He trusts what his daughter’s about
Such a God-fearing girl
tho’ her hair is in curls
does her duty with never a pout
There isn’t a rift
between papa and miss
 as he knows she’s a treasure for certain
And what about me?
oh, be sure I agree
for I’ll marry Miss Charity Curtin

And when she’s my bride and we’re off on our own
and the wellwishers left far behind
Then she’ll let down her hair
and happily share
whatever the future we’ll find
She’ll dance like a willow
and sleep on my pillow
forever the love of my life
I’ll be thanking the Lord
Mrs Charity Ward’s
not your typical vicarage wife




Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness: come before his presence with singing.
(Psalm 98) 




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