Squelch

And now, a slightly dark and gooey poem for hypochondriacs…

Squelch

I heard the squelch of death again –
or was it just a neutron firing
deep within my boggy brain,

or possibly a cell expiring
down amongst a mucus mess?
It could have been my heart perspiring

(that may be a thing I guess)
or, deep down in the adipose,
the squealing of a fat-lump pressed

to serve as fuel, and I suppose
it might have been a small mutation –
“Pop!” (we get a lot of those),

a bronchiole’s sharp inhalation,
“Hiss!” a membrane’s gooey breath,
a bile-duct’s bitter salivation…

Probably, it wasn’t death.

 

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Photo by Pierre Acobas on Unsplash

I Am Your Pudding

Something for you if you’re about to have your Sunday dinner with a nice bit of pud.

Repeat after me:

Puddings are not evil.

I am worth it.

I Am Your Pudding

I am your pudding – dive in and demolish me!
I bring you ecstacy, yet you admonish me,
“BAD!” you say, “FAT!” you say, “GUILT!” you say, “CALORIES!”
Who wants a life though that’s rice-cake-and-salady?

Scream it! You want me, with all of my tawdriness,
Scoop me up! Bundle your lips round my naughtiness!
Life is a struggle – so just put your trust in me –
Throw off your hang-ups – it’s time to get custardy!

 

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Photo by Pablo Merchán Montes on Unsplash

We Girls

“Sugar and spice and all things nice” was not written about REAL girls. I know, because – spoiler alert – I WAS a girl. Here I am look – aaah. Yeah right.

This poem’s about all the little girls who come home scratched and grass-stained, sniping snd whining, with a crown of daisies and  one pigtail undone. I trust that today’s “pink culture” has not obliterated this fine breed entirely.

We Girls

Each daisy’s a piece of the moon,
Strewn on the welcoming grass,
Waiting for fidgeting fingers to pass
And weave it in bangles and bows,
Those are not alleys, they’re dens,
We seize them, we lose them, we take them again,
And dance as our dynasties grow,
Pavements and bollards and walls,
Are obstacle courses enthralling us all,
Hop-trip with our quickstepping feet,
Sweet is the call of the slopes,
As laughing we log-roll and slip-slide and hope
To emerge with our kneecaps complete,
Meetings in hedge-huddled homes,
Stones which are amulets,
Sticks which are witchety wands,
Bonds that we form as we talk,
Chalking graffiti and hopscotch wherever we walk,
Home with the set of the sun,
Running, at one with the fun of our world…
We girls skip to a time-honoured tune –
Each daisy’s a piece of the moon.

 

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On Being Offered Cheese As A Dessert

OK – I’m going to say it – I’m not the world’s greatest fan of cheese. (Some people literally can’t handle this information, but I’ll press on.) I quite like an emmental or a mild cheddar but beyond that? Not a fan. So the thought of passing up a treacle tart in favour of some manky old sheep’s curd… well it blows my mind.

On Being Offered Cheese As A Dessert

THAT is a curd that forms on an inert
tub of old rancid milk – it is NOT a dessert,
It is NOT a dessert, so don’t lie to me please,
It is cheese.

That bit is stinky and that bit is crusty,
You’re trying to be funny! You’re joking! You must be!
Cos that bit is mouldy and that bit is goaty,
If this is a dream, then please somebody poke me…

How can a fatberg with crackers exert
The appeal of a pie – it is NOT a dessert,
It is NOT a dessert, it’s an udder that sneezed,
It is cheese!

I‘m craving some custard all yummy and creamy,
A big chocolate brownie, deliciously dreamy,
The hot toffee pudding! So silky! So steamy!
Just bring on the sugary goodness and FEED ME!

Well, I say “cam-em-bare” and you say “cam-em-burt”,
Doesn’t alter the fact – it is NOT a dessert,
It is NOT a dessert – Just like pork! Just like peas!
IT IS CHEESE!

 

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Last Halloween

Just don’t fix a date for October 31st – that’s all I’m saying!

Last Halloween

As skies were turning dark last Halloween,
I sat in terror, waiting for my date.
Then in he walked, all beautiful and lean,
With eyes whose depths I could not contemplate.

I studied his anatomy at length,
As there he stood, not daring once to breathe,
His jutting jaw betrayed a deathly strength,
His cheekbones were as perfect as his teeth.

He rattled through the small talk, then we delved
much deeper, and he let me see within,
And when we kissed goodbye, at almost twelve,
I really felt I’d got beneath his skin.

Then midnight struck. My vision cleared. I saw…
A skeleton was walking out the door.

 

© Nina Parmenter 2018

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You Have To Be A Hexagon

Despite the name of the poem… please don’t be a hexagon, lovely people… I much prefer dodecagons and splodge-agons!

You Have To Be A Hexagon

A hexagon,
A hexagon,
You have to be a hexagon,
Cos everybody knows it’s great,
To fit right in and tessellate.

But I am a dodecagon!
I might just be the only one,
This side is long,
And this one’s short,
And this bit’s weirder than I thought.

No no!
No NO!
A hexagon!
You HAVE to be a hexagon!
Such gleeful uniformity –
It’s how the world is meant to be!

But me, I am a splodge-agon,
A sort of blob with wobbles on,
A curvy individual,
A fun and floopy visual!

A hexagon!
A HEXAGON!
WHY CAN’T YOU BE A HEXAGON?
If you can’t look
Like others do,
I’m going to have to pick on you!

Don’t want to be a hexagon.

I’m sorry?!

A bland, six-cornered dullathon.

I’M SORRY?!

I just don’t want to tessellate,
With you and your identi-mates,
Who mock the eccentricity,
Of those who do it differently,
And I don’t NEED to fit your norm,
Each corner crafted to conform,
No no, I’ll floop, and stretch, and be…
A strange and perfect fit… for me.

 

© Nina Parmenter 2018

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Cauliflower Makes Me Poo

Cauliflower Makes Me Poo

Cauliflower makes me poo,
It does! It does! I’m telling you!
These cute florets, they all beget
Poogeddon in an hour or two.

I thought “oh great! I’ll lose some weight!”
I piled it high upon my plate,
The poo deluge was REALLY huge,
I weighed myself – still ten stone eight!

So listen, if you’d like to try
Some weight loss via brassicae,
May I advise some exercise…
With cabbages strapped to your thigh.

 

© Nina Parmenter 2018

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Growing Boy

In “George’s Marvellous Medicine”, eight year old George’s gruesome Grandma declares that growing is  “a nasty childish habit”.

Now as the one who has to fund the growth of an almost eight year old boy… well… let’s say she had a point.

Growing Boy

He is not even eight,
But he eats like a bear,
Pile it up on his plate –
In a blink, it’s not there!
So I hide all the snacks,
(He’d consume the whole pack),
But I cannot, I cannot keep up!

As his belly peeps out
Of his nearly-new tops,
And yet MORE ankle sprouts
From his trousers, I shop
Like a ninja on speed
For the clothes that he needs…
Yet I cannot, I cannot keep up!

And those telescope toes
Punching holes in each sock,
Mean I’ll pay through the nose
For more shoes… Should I lock
Up the fridge, nice and tight?
Feed him shrink-pills at night??
For I CANNOT, I cannot keep up!

© Nina Parmenter 2018

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Photo by Enrico Mantegazza on Unsplash

Unsheath Your Sword!

I’ll let this one speak for itself!

Unsheath Your Sword!

I share my house with two small boys,
Who’ve wearied of construction toys
and bicycles and felt-tip pens,
And simply want to FIGHT LIKE MEN!
And so, all though the living room,
With shouts of “Fie! Await your doom!”
“On guard, my lord!” and “Tally-ho!”
The battle rages to and fro.

“Unsheath your sword!” cries number one,
“Disarm, foul wretch!” yells number two,
“Stand down, or I will finish you!”
And thrust and parry, through and through.

The dress-up clothes fly left and right,
Until a Power-Ninja-Knight
emerges, snarling, poised to fight,
“Behold!” he yells, “and fear my might!”
Then snicker-snack! His vorpal blade
streaks round the lovely home I’ve made,
I scream, “Just leave your brother be!”
But guard the telly bodily.

“Unsheath your sword!” cries number one,
“Disarm, foul wretch!” yells number two,
“Stand down, or I will finish you!”
And thrust and parry, through and through.

Too much! It’s getting on my nerves,
I hide the swords – but fresh reserves
are roused – the bits of pipe, the sticks,
The pistols made of lego bricks;
The Dark Lord, who is nearly eight,
exclaims “Accept your fate!” But wait…
A mortal wound! A hurty thumb…
The Dark Lord’s crying for his mum.

“Unsheath your sword!” cries number one,
“Disarm, foul wretch!” yells number two,
“Stand down, or I will finish you!”
And thrust and parry, through and through.

And so, the Ninja claims his prize,
“Bow down!” come his triumphant cries,
The Dark Lord staggers, bruised and spent,
And kneels, tear-stained and penitent,
Meanwhile, I count at least a score
of weapons strewn upon the floor,
My house is not a home, it’s more
the aftermath of Agincourt.

“Unsheath your sword!” cries number one,
“Disarm, foul wretch!” yells number two,
“Stand down, or I will finish you!”
And thrust and parry, through and through.

 

© Nina Parmenter 2018

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Six Word Fairy Tales

Something cute for a tired Sunday night… six word fairy tales. These tiny poems also made “Poem of the Day” on PoetrySoup.com  today!

SIX WORD FAIRY TALES

Cinderella
Pumpkin turns carriage
Prince offers marriage

The Elves and the Shoemaker
Business lacks clout
Shorties help out

Rapunzel
Scaling her tresses
Young prince impresses

The Three Little Pigs
Wolfie wants bacon
Brickwork frustrates him

Puss in Boots
Smooth talking feline
Princess makes beeline

Sleeping Beauty
Hundred year nap
Ended by chap

Beauty and the Beast
Loving what’s ugly
Renders it lovely

Hansel and Gretel
Candy trap foiled
Witchy gets boiled

 

© Nina Parmenter 2018

Photo by Sandra Ahn Mode on Unsplash

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