Bruce McGuffin: Stopping For Pie On A Snowy Evening
I stopped here to escape the snow,
It's falling very fast and so
I ordered coffee and some pie.
I wish I could get up and go.
This place is new, but I drove by
And thought it might be worth a try.
The weathers bad and I could do
With shelter while the storm is nigh.
So here I sit and wonder who
Would fill a pie with fruit-free goo.
Commercial filling from a jar?
The crust is tough and tasteless too.
My favorite coffee shop’s a haul
And I'm not driving in this squall.
Bad pie beats having none at all.
Bad pie beats having none at all.
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Julia Griffin: Spectre On Special
( "Honeysuckle Rose", brushed with
memories of "Le Spectre de la Rose". )
After Fats Waller
Après Pierre-Jules-Théophile Gautier
Every wheel of brie
Fills with greasy glee
When it sees you skip Aisle 3;
Trading slows down;
Vainly glows
Supermarket Rose.
When you walk on by
Flours fake a sigh;
This old plant-mix stings like lye;
Floor’s been hosed down:
None will hose
Supermarket Rose.
Don’t buy asters:
Labelled “scented” but they’re not;
Phlox? Disasters;
I come in my own neat pot!
While you’re buying chips
Or pimento dips
I am fading, in eclipse:
Store’s now closed down:
Soulève ta paupière close:
No one chose
Supermarket Rose.
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Martin Parker: Joan Hunter-Dunn's Bequest to John Betjeman
I was a fact, but your poem was fiction,
a totally false though beguiling depiction
of a love you admitted was just wishful thought
by an amorous poet with no flair for sport.
It was fantasy then although mildly erotic
and it's fantasy still now we're old and sclerotic.
Though your skill as a poet meant each of us finds
that what never took place still lives on in our minds.
So these are the items I hereby bequeath
to my fantasist poet with stained tombstone teeth --
two down-at-heel plimsolls ,a frayed tennis dress.
my Slazenger racquet with old wooden press
and its shiny worn handle which smells even yet
of warm leather, mown grass, Palmolive and sweat.
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Alan Millichip: Right Question – Wrong Answer?
(With apologies to CR)
In the depths of winter
Frost is all around,
Heat pumps cannot function
No wind stirs the ground.
All the solar panels
Covered up with snow,
Following the science
Do they really know?
Hydrogen and EV’s
All may come to pass,
While it is uncertain
We should stick with gas.
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Jerome Betts: The Wandering Whistling Duck
(With apologies to SS)
I pity the fate of the wandering whistling duck
I think of him flying about the world
Not knowing why he is wandering
And why he is whistling.
It is not for a wind.
I think he’s whistling in the dark
And flying round because he is too thin-skinned
He should settle down with the others
But he has to wander
And whistle whistle to his brothers.
O pity the fate of the wandering whistling duck
The wandering whistling duck
Who must whistle for it.
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Marshall Begel: Druncle
(With apologies to ED)
Before the ice is in the glass,
Before the scotch is poured,
When snacks are getting compliments,
And trifles are ignored -
Before he brings up politics,
Before "It's them, or me!",
I glimpse the image of the man
Who bounced me on his knee.
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Tracy Davidson: Henry V Prepares for the Great British Bake Off
Once more into the bowl, dear chefs, once more,
Stiffen the mixture, stirring up the dough
As ruthlessly as it you were at war.
Lift the wood ladle, let it prove and grow.
Now set, we knead and stretch the pastry wide,
Hold hard the rolling pin and roll away
To its full length. On, on, neaten every side,
Discard the offcuts for another day.
Then line the tin and pat your pastry down
(Please see next page for optional filling),
And spoon in meat and veg, let gravy drown.
Overhang the lid to confound spilling.
Follow this recipe, and heat on high,
Cry 'God, I've just made the most awesome pie!'
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Felicia Nimue Ackerman: Election Day 2020: A Fond Memory
(With apologies to ED)
He braved the sharp and pinching wind
And went to cast his vote.
He knew full well the likely hell
Of keeping Trump afloat.
He waited through that fateful night,
And still his spirit sings
With greatest glee. What liberty
A Trump removal brings!
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Max Gutmann: Stopping On Your Roof On A Snowy Evening
Whose sleigh this is I think you know.
He rides on air and not on snow.
He's powered by peculiar deer
And belts a famous "Ho, Ho, Ho!"
His reindeer think him rather queer
To wear that silly suit all year.
They wish he'd lose a pound or two
And maybe even learn to steer.
He'll soon slide down your chimney flue,
And so its time to wish for you
A Christmas merry, through and through.
A Christmas merry, through and through.
