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)