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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School Sport

This a “concrete” poem – a poem shaped like the thing it’s describing. If it doesn’t look like the picture above, turn your phone on its side or get a larger device (wink wink). Now – gym knickers on, and let’s proceed.

School Sport

.                       School sport,                                           Tick tock,
.              simply a torture form                                 Tick tock,
.           a notch or five above the                           Oh watch
.        norm, the most horrendous                      the clock,
.        cruelty designed specifically                  When will
.          for me, who has no puff &                    this finish,
.            cannot aim – picked last                     this quest
.               in every single game:                      to pillage
.                       School sport.                             pride and
.                                                                              joy and all
.                                                                            respect??
.                                                                          In half my
.                                                                        lifetime, I
.                                                                      expect, as
.                                                                    this is just
.                                                                  a wheeze
.                                                                to squash
.                                                              my will, to
.               bring me                     to my knees;
.                  for sticks and balls may hurt
.                      us all, but double games
.                                will break me.

 

© Nina Parmenter 2018

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The Workplace Wee

Thanks to my Dad for this one (yes really), who sent me a picture of these lovely urinals (at Dobbies Garden Centre, Shepton Mallet – urinal tourists take note) and asked me to write a poem about them.

Well, I couldn’t find a poem within me about flowery urinals – but urinals in general – oh yes. To me, and I think to most women, the whole concept of urinals is just absolutely bizarre.

If it wasn’t bad enough for men that they have to unleash their todgers in front of complete strangers… surely it must be even worse having to do it next to colleagues?! Well.  My female brain can’t even begin to imagine.

But maybe there’s an upside…

The Workplace Wee

If someone at work saw my Mary,
I’d resign just as quick as can be,
But men have to face this fear squarely,
When they go for a quick workplace wee.

They stand petrified in the toilet,
All three eyes staring blankly ahead,
One flicker, one movement could spoil it,
They might get the eyeful they dread.

But there’s power there, at the urinal –
Take young Billy, the purchasing clerk,
There he stood, between Jimmy and Lionel,
When out came a magnificent arc.

What a rainbow of clear, shining yellow!
His colleagues all gasped through the steam,
Jim gave in, glanced at Billy’s wee fellow,
And cried “Billy! You MUST join my team!”

Behind them, from inside the cubicle,
Where Frank, the big boss, was “in motion”,
A fanfare burst forth, loud and musical,
To celebrate Billy’s promotion.

So ladies, if you get the feeling,
A hunch your career’s not on track,
It could be the porcelain ceiling,
That’s holding us womenfolk back.

 

© Nina Parmenter 2018

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Last Tussle in Brussels

Unfortunately, I thought it was time for a Brexit poem. But as the whole thing is a complete farce, I thought I’d make my poem a bit of a farce too (I mean, it could happen, but…)

Last Tussle in Brussels

Somewhere in Brussels, March 2019,
Poor Theresa’d not slept since about Halloween,
But at last it was ready! The dream Brexit treaty,
Which pleased every spluttering zealot so sweetly!

So ready to sign it, she tried not to squeal…
Until Boris burst in and cried “NO BLOODY DEAL!”
Theresa yelled “shut it, you haystack-haired chancer!”
But Europe said “sorry, we’ll take your first answer!”

Then Macron and Barnier, Merkel and Juncker,
Cried “See ya, Theresa, we’re off to the bunker!”
Theresa gave chase; Boris stuck out a toe,
The Jimmy Choos buckled, and down she did go!

The bunker shut! Pawing the intercom button
And licking the speaker, she heard them all tutting,
Then Merkel said “Vile vee regret ze estrangement,
Zey cannot exist vizout formal arrangement!”

Theresa was screaming “JUST LET ME IN NOW!”
But she could have sworn Barnier cried out “KA-POW!”
Then she felt a great shake like the boom of a bomb –
And her satellite glasses showed… Britain was gone!

Well, after some hours of wailing and gnashing,
They found little Britain complaining and splashing
and shivering up by the cold Arctic Circle…
“Best wrap up vorm!” tittered Angela Merkel.

———————————————-

We last saw Theresa all sun-kissed and blustery,
Hiking the warm Euro hillsides of Tuscany,
Boris was found (well was dug up in parts),
With a hot Belgian waffle stuck right up his arse…

As for Britain – it’s time in the cold had begun,
The crops slowly died in the thin arctic sun,
Til a hobbit named Corbyn cried “Right! Who needs feeding?!”
And was hailed as a God with his frost-hardy seedlings.

And somewhere in Dudley, a “leaver” called Norris,
Polished his gold-plated statue of Boris,
And petting his bulldog (with hands somewhat frozen),
He gave a wry smile, and said, “that bloody showed ‘em.”

 

© Nina Parmenter 2018

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Photo by Chris Lawton on Unsplash

I’m Alright Going Forwards, But I’m Awful In Reverse

The image above shows a genuine example of my parking.

In this case, I stepped out of the car, took in the results of my work, pointed and laughed at myself, and then took a photo.

But that’s not the end of my… er…. talents when it comes to motoring…

I’m Alright Driving Forwards, But I’m Awful In Reverse

I’m alright driving forwards, but I’m awful in reverse,
My turning skills are terrible, my parking skills are worse.
Whenever I move backwards, people hurry to disperse,
While someone calls a breakdown truck, a vicar – and a nurse.

I seem to lack the circuitry to know which way to steer,
And things are always closer than they actually appear,
Those parked beside me hover, as they sweat in mortal fear…
I fart about, the mean ones shout, the nice ones say… “oh dear.”

I’m terrified of places where the roads are single-track,
Cos a car might come the other way and force me to go back,
Careering blind from side to side, the hedges take a whack…
So please don’t swear, I WILL get there – I just don’t have the knack!

I’ve got a snazzy camera now, which shows me what’s behind,
It’s really great when going straight, but when I turn I find,
That I’m going left, the camera right, it makes my brain cells wind,
And a prang is much more likely with a whirling, swirling mind!

So I hit them in the car parks, and they hit me in the purse,
And I feel I’ll be afflicted with this mortifying curse,
Til the day they tell the driver as he parks my golden hearse…
That I’m alright driving forwards – but I’m awful in reverse.

 

© Nina Parmenter 2018

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The Teaspoon’s Lament

So I looked at my teaspoon. And my teaspoon looked at me. And I said, “How’s things?” And really. I wish I hadn’t asked.

The Teaspoon’s Lament

I sit here, used, and caked in grime,
And watch, as all the forks and knives
Dive in the sink for wash-up time –
How pampered are their shiny lives!
I hear the kettle boil with dread –
Could it be coffee? Is it tea?
It’s coffee. Yes, in goes my head…
I’m whirled round nauseatingly.

I gulp for air, but no! There’s more!
A teabag’s heading for a cup!
Here comes the dunking I abhor…
In out, in out, down up, down up!
You British! Once, reserved and hushed,
You made your tea with reverence!
And now, these teabags! Crushed and flushed
With bullying malevolence.

A rinse! What glory now awaits?
Oh curses. It’s a boiled egg.
Bang bang, crack crack – this bit I hate-
Oh, don’t mind me! it’s just my head!
But things get worse – as, come desert,
I’m grabbed again. Oh no, please not..
A small boy’s hand, all caked with dirt.
I shovel yoghurt through the snot.

My grandma was a christening spoon!
Respected! Hanging in a frame!
But I’m a puppet! Slave! Buffoon!
I shudder for the family name.
So use me! Hurt me! Boil my brain!
Don’t cry for me! I’m dead inside!
Through all this strife, I shall remain…
Steely, cold and dignified.

 

© Nina Parmenter 2018

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