Journey from WestminsterCalling at
St. James Park
Love in HackneyWhen I first met you I felt elation.
I had never known a thing about love
But you made me want to tell the nation
We were a perfect match, like hand and glove.
You didnt even notice my acne.
I thought your hair was simply so divine
And so we set up a house in Hackney,
And I pledged to forever make you mine.
You were such a fine female specimen
Past ideas of beauty you did transcend:
I felt that you were like my oxygen.
I thought our life together would not end
But now you have run off with my brother.
But its OK; youd become your mother.
The Old DaysWe were always up for a good time,
My friends and me
Back in the day, before university reared its head,
Wed wake from slumber in our beds
And wonder what the day would bring
Think of everyone and everything.
On sunny days, wed go to the park
And stay there until it got dark.
Then wed go to someones house,
Find some drink,
And begin to plan our evening.
They were always different but followed a format.
Some things happened every time.
I would start to sing and then get slapped.
Harriet would do something disgusting and wed laugh.
Sammy would smile endlessly. Ellie wouldnt say a thing.
And someone would get so drunk they couldnt stand up.
That was always Louise.
Then we moved on.
Three to London, two to the northwest,
Two to Hampshire, one down to Somerset
Scattered like dandelion seeds
All across the country.
Two stayed at home and
Continued their lives in their own way.
At Christmas we will be reunited
If only for a few weeks
What Does It All Mean?A catch, getting healthier, reach for a miracle.
A critical, climatic, electric éclair.
A hermit with malice, a heretic with a chalice.
A cheetah and chimera, an ethical chemical
This is what I know of myself, Michael Ritchie.
A shirty sinner, with tyres that shriek.
A hiker, a thinker, an intern, a yeti.
A skirt in ninths, a terse yikes.
A shiny insert, enshrine neither tinker.
This is what I know of my friend Kristy Henney.
A naked airhead with a hairnet.
A knave that hinders the harvest.
A sneakier servant, a vanished trainee.
A thread of tiara thieveries.
This is what I know of my friend Katherine Davies.
A humanoid in uniform, sent to inform.
A horrid hairdo and random rhino.
A nomad, a friar, a druid.
A diamond in armour.
This is what I know of my friend Rhian Mudford.
A smaller miser, arise easily.
A memorial for memoirs, to boost morale.
A sailor, a loyal oily royal.
A slayer immorally yells for realism.
This is what I know of my friend Lois May-Miller.
A lewd leader, an a
Writing PoetryTodays assignment was to write a poem using
As many of the techniques we were taught
Caught in a conundrum, creatively crushed
Trying in vain to type up a verse.
Maybe I should write a poem that I could sing
Would vocal exercises make me thin?
Now, thats a half rhyme, sometimes called slant
I think this poem is getting full
Of techniques so I can lull
You into thinking Im going to use real rhymes
Not just eye rhymes, like that one.
Should I make this whole poem rhyme?
I really dont know if Ive got the time.
Were told the content doesnt have to mean much
And I dont have the intent to make it mean much
That little rhyme, do you see, was internal
Heaven is cosy and hell is infernal
OK, so I cheated, that meant nothing at all
But do you honestly expect me to play by the rules
Again, its a half rhyme, now what about metre?
Iambs and trochees and dactyls! Hey, Peter,
This assignment is tricky; I dont know what to say
Twenty to five, nothing rhymes with crayon.
Hit me with something, play on
Can you see the day in
Quarter to five, nothing rhymes with crayon
Your love for me,
Ten to five, nothing rhymes with crayon
At least the eon
Ends and I grieve
Five o'clock, nothing rhymes with crayon