Month: September 2009

Save us, please, from Space invaders,
Those pests who get right up my nose,
Who take two seats up on the train,
Or use the seat to rest their toes.

Stop them putting towels on
The pool’s sun beds at 2a.m.
Stop them treading on my toes
When I am standing next to them.

Stop the able bodied parking
In disabled parking spaces,
Prevent them using mobile phones
In designated quiet places.

Make them turn their music down
When they’re driving in their car,
For hard rock in the countryside
Is taking things a step too far.

Tell them that our picnic place
Should not be where their kids run wild,
And that we are not amused
By the antics of their child.

Make them keep their dogs on leads
Where cars and kids and traffic meet,
Make them park their blasted cars
On their own side of the street.

Tell them they should tell their friends
That, while partying is fine,
That they should vomit down the loo,
And not on territory that’s mine.

Tell them not to stand too close
When on a bus or on a train,
And if they don’t obey these rules,
That they are causing others pain.

Please try to make them realise
That this world is for us all,
It isn’t just for them and theirs,
And we’re not at their beck and call.

Make these egocentrics stop
Invading other people’s space.
Make them aware that they are just
A small part of the human race.

September 2009

Verses examining both ends of the extreme body obsession spectrum

Let me introduce Ann O. Rexia,
But let me look round for her first.
Is she hiding between these pages,
Behind that broom handle, or worse,
Has she disappeared altogether,
Faded out n a puff of steam,
Has she spewed up what’s left down the toilet,
Or let out a final scream
“I am too fat to live any longer,
I can’t stand this life any more,”
And starved herself out of existence,
Torn apart in her own tug-of-war?

Now lets go and meet Vera Obese,
Finding her won’t be nearly so hard,
For she’s wide as she’s tall as she’s deep
And resembles a barrel of lard,
She’ll be munching a chocolate or sweet,
Saying “Truly, I eat like a bird.
It’s my glands. It is not what I eat,”
Not accepting how very absurd
Is her lame and half-hearted excuse
For her obvious, gross overweight.
Still she’ll eat more and more until she
Slowly drowns in a sea of self-hate!

© Lynne Joyce 1986

Two verses written while I was teacher at at Moorland House C.H.E. (former boys’ approved school). Both were published in the Community Homes Gazette July 1980 and this adverse publicity resulted in the beds being changed in the sleeping-in rooms. SUCCESS!

Sleep-In Sickness

Alone to bed at a quarter to twelve
Paranoiacally listening for noise,
But all I can hear is the sleep-leaden drone
Of thirty-two sleeping boys.
Will they wake up, I wonder, and cause me a fuss,
Or will they sleep dreamily on?
In the morning, will we still have all thirty two,
Or will some absconders have gone?
Have I checked all the lights, switches, windows and doors?
Have I checked all the rooms well enough?
Hell, its midnight! This duty is not sleeping in.
Its a damned sight more like sleeping rough!

© Lynne Joyce, midnight, 16-4-1980

Extra-Onerous Duties

This bed has lumps with bumps on top,
The springs have sprung their last,
Its sleep-inducing qualities
Are disappearing fast.
The sheets are made of emery cloth,
The blankets made of lead.
When morning comes I’m sure I’ll feel
I’ve risen from the dead.
With every move I make I hear
An eardrum-splitting squeak.
Instead of getting lots of rest
I’m quickly getting weak.
Oh let me have a decent bed,
This damned thing you can keep,
For I don’t need this suffering,
I need a good night’s sleep!

© Lynne Joyce, 03.05, 16-4-1980

A rant taken from my series ‘Animals, Friends and People’.

The whole World’s made of grovel & squirm
And self-effacing crap.
To get on you must be like a worm
That wriggles in a trap.
The trap is known as wage slavery,
The trapper is the boss.
Unless you sell your integrity,
His vacancy’s your loss.

‘© Lynne Joyce

A feminist rant.

I reserve the right to to remove hair
From under my arms, bikini line and legs
And still be a feminist.

I paint my face,
Perfume my silk-sheathed body
And battle for equality.

I am at liberty to wear
Devastating underwear
Without being undermined or undervalued.

Defiant in nylon stockings
I fight tooth and cutex-ed claw
For women’s rights.

I pout my lipsticked lips,
Flutter my eyelashes
And spit venom at the enemy.

I assert my freedom
To flirt and be seductive,
But say ‘˜No” when I want to.

I refuse to be put down,
Held down, or held responsible
For other people’s emotions.

I am be free to be whatever I want to be,
To determine my own life,
To control my own sexuality.

I glory in my womanhood,
Celebrate my femininity
And join the monstrous regiment in battle.

© Lynne Joyce 27-9-1993.

See http://members.optusnet.com.au/kazoom/poetry/clerihew.html

Let us think of Tony Blair
Quickly, soon he won’t be there
Occupying number ten.
Please somebody, tell me, when?

Now let’s look at Gordon Brown,
The smartest man in town,
Soon to be Prime Minister,
But just a little sinister.

I’m afraid Hazel Blears
Is heading for tears,
For as Deputy Leader
We simply don’t need her!

Poor Dawn Primarola,
Has nobody told her
That such a ridiculous name
Doesn’t help in the politics game?

Here is David Cameron,
A multi-hued chameleon,
All Tories must confess
He’s just an Eton Mess!

Dear old Menzies Campbell,
He simply cannot handle
The twenty-first century
Cause he’s atrohied temporally.

Now lets look at Lynne Joyce,
Strong of mind but soft of voice,
Sharp of tongue with lightning wits,
Favourite hobby, demolishing sh*ts!

Lynne Joyce, 06.04.2007.

Written during a meeting of Bradford District Council when I was a Councillor.

My will to live is fading fast
Just like an ebbing tide.
How long will this meeting last?
If its lengthy, can I hide?
Will all these speakers blether on
And on and on forever,
Or will we pass a mo-ti-on
To move to the vote – whatever!
I’m bored out of my tiny mind
With bleary, dreary verbage,
And wonder, does normal humankind
Care about this garbage?

© Lynne Joyce 2006

It is melon for starters
And salad for mains,
Fruit salad for pudding
And starvation on trains.

Hey-ho, melon for starters,
Then salad with fish
And no carbohydrates
With every dish

After melon for starters,
Grilled chicken for mains,
With no carbs and no sauces
No pudding remains.

Whoopee, melon for starters,
And steamed fish for mains
Oh joy, fresh fruit salad
To add to my pains.

Here comes Christmas dinner,
What fare’€™s fit for me?
Dry turkey’€™s a winner
Gluten and trimming free.

Or its ‘€˜’€™We are so sorry,
There’€™s nothing for you,
You are such a worry,
We don’€™t know what to do.’€™’€™

Then ‘€˜’€™Oh, never mind,
Some fruit will be fine,’€™’€™
While they stuff themselves full
Of fine food and fine wine!

Or ‘€˜’€™A little won’€™t matter,
You’€™re just making a fuss.’€
(Go on, make us feel better
And pretend you’€™re like us).

The hidden agenda,
Though not what they say
Is ‘€˜We’€™d feel much better
If you stayed away.’€™

‘€˜You’€™re a social pariah,
A nuisance, a pain,
So here’€™s melon for starters
And salad – AGAIN!’€™

Lynne Joyce 17-12-2004

Written after the blindfold exercise on an Arvon course.

Walking with a blindfolded companion,
I led him to a pile of cardboard boxes,
He touched them gently first, then recognised them
And turned away to look for other things,
Much less dreary things, not quite so dull,
More lofty things, more serious and more spiritual,
Things more clearly inspirational.

How very sad, he didn’t see the magic
Lurking in that pile of cardboard boxes,
The world-wide wonder of the things they’d carried,
The glory and the splendour of the trees
Sacrificed then processed to make card
To fabricate those cardboard citadels,
But he was blindfolded and I could see.

A child, the child in me, given those boxes
Would make them into castles, haunted mansions,
Ennuit igloos, cars for racing drivers,
Plains Indians tepees, carriages or trains,
Space ships flying me to other things,
More lofty things, more serious and more spiritual,
Things quite clearly inspirational.

© Lynne Joyce, 17-8-1993

A favourite rant against the enormous societal pressure on people to have kids.

On daytime T.V.
(Cracked mirror of society),
Each programme features
Items designed for other creatures,
For sisters, not brothers,
And only those who would be mothers,
On the programme list
It seems the child-free don’t exist.

The daily slot
Filled with teenager, babe or tot
Says we’re without
What womanhood is all about.
And obviously
Models of deficiency,
Much less than thrilled
At being labelled ‘unfulfilled.’

We don’t have babies
So might as well have AIDS or Rabies.
We don’t conform,
And so we’re set outside the norm,
Marginalised
Ignored or even ostracised,
By the tyranny
Of the parenting majority.

They think we ought
To rock the cradle, not the boat.
Should not be free
To challenge domesticity.
When we protest,
Our challenges are not addressed,
If we acquiesce,
Child-free by choice becomes child-less.

We’re forced to try
To rationalise and justify
Our child-free state,
To remonstrate and demonstrate
Another way
That women have a part to play
In daily life
Other than mother, daughter, wife.

This stereotype
Is patriarchal super-hype,
Pushed on TV
As absolute normality,
By stick thin chicks
With blown-up boobs and pumped-up lips,
Employed to be
Models we will never be.

So we remain
Outside normality’s domain,
Social pariahs,
Whose aspirations reach up higher
Than maternity,
And being a man’s property
His only means,
Of passing on his worn-out genes.

Childless by choice,
We should protest and raise our voice
Louder and louder,
Fiestier, more robust and prouder,
And joined by more,
Chorus a triumphant roar,
“We will be
Whatever we decide to be!”

© Lynne Joyce, 1991/2007.

This man could bore for Britain,
Lull the Universe to sleep,
Yet I have to sit and listen
To this bleary, dreary creep.

Others’ eyes are filled with wonder
As they hang on every word,
Whilst I look at them and ponder,
“Do we live in the same World?”

Is there cogent information
In his un-dynamic speech?
Is there hidden fascination
That is just beyond my reach?

Are the others just pretending?
Or are they just as bored as me?
Since his tome seems never-ending,
Are they longing to break free?

Oh how can I escape from
This interminable drone,
Disappear and end the boredom
Of his dreadful monotone.

Shall I organise a Great Escape
And dig beneath the floor,
Or sprint towards the finishing tape
That’s just outside the door?

While I’m sitting, vacillating
As his blathering gets worse
I find my getaway creating
My escape route in this verse!

© Lynne Joyce 09.07.03

A rant against those who think poetry has to be obscure and verse (which is what I write) is unworthy.

Shall I sit and think of synonyms and antonyms
Or simply say just what I want to say?
Shall I concentrate on metre, rhyme and assonance,
Or express myself in my particular way?

Shall I ponder Sonnet form or Terza Rima,
Or write words down just as ideas flow?
Shall I slavishly do amateur pentameter,
Or tum-te-tum a rhythmic rodeo?

Shall I allude to Ancient Greek and classic imagery,
Or tell it how it is from where I’m at?
Shall I rely on inference and subtlety,
Or make it clear just what I’m getting at?

Shall I try to write obscure, elusive poetry,
Or smack you twix the eyes with Bitcherell?
Oh sod it, here it comes, complete with tum-te-tums,
The World’s a better place for Bitcherell.

Lynne Joyce 02/11/01

How do I identify my betrayers?
Do their scarlet roses wilt in shame,
Do their knives shine from too-recent cleaning,
Do they flaunt their triumph when I show my pain?

Are they taller, smaller, fatter, thinner
Than the people who stayed true to me,
Do they speak a similar or different language
Enriched with vitriol or flattery?

Do their lies lie easily upon their conscience,
Does their vicious slander ever spoil their sleep,
Do they even trouble to remember
All their murky secrets that I know and keep?

Do I seek redress by exacting vengeance,
Do I rise above it all, calm and bold,
Always bearing in mind that retribution
Is a dish that is tastier when served cold?

Be-attitudes

Never trust a person with a beatific smile,
For the person who’s behind it is invariably vile.
Inside the Botticelli Venus with the curly copper hair
Is the spiteful bitch who’ll snipe and snitch whenever you’re not there.

Beware the Saintly person who is constantly serene,
Behind that well rehearsed façade there’s someone who is mean.
Look out when you see somebody who always looks benign,
In private they are hypocrites who slander, whinge and whine.

Be wary of the maiden aunt who’s talked about as ‘caring’
I’ll bet her private repartee is bitterness and swearing!
Be cautious of the person who is always self controlled,
Inside them is a temper that’s too heated or too cold.

Think twice about the person who’s renowned as generous,
Their yearning to be in control is truly onerous.
Don’t trust the goody two-shoes or the pillar of the law,
Behind their eyes, in disguise is a serious moral flaw.

No, place your trust, as place you must, in people who display
The full range of emotions in an open, honest way,
Those who can show their anger, those who can share their fears,
People who, when in distress, are not afraid of tears.

Trust those who, when they’re miserable, don’t feel the need to hide it,
And when you too are miserable, they won’t laugh or deride it.
Select your friends from people who can be sweet and vile,
But never trust a person with a beatific smile.

Lynne Joyce 08.05.2005

Oh how I love raucous vulgarity,
Farting, four-letter words and hilarity,
Full of lewd, rude and crude jocularity,
That shows good, working class solidarity
And enhances my pub popularity,
So its bugger polite regularity
And lets all drink a toast to vulgarity.

© Lynne Joyce

Why do vegans have to be ugly,
And produce such ugly kids,
And wear scruffy clothes
And headgear
Like they’re living on the skids?

Why do they all have pot bellies,
And pasty, blue-ish skin,
And awful bags
Beneath their eyes
You could keep your lunchbox in?

Why are vegans all androgynous,
Such a gender-bending lot,
So you never know
Unless they say
If they’re male, female or what?

And why do they wear sandals
Regardless of the rain,
Through ice and snow
And winter winds,
Do they like to suffer pain?

And why do vegans always
Sit cross-legged on the floor?
Are chairs a sin
Made of animal skin?
Is that what they’re sitting there for?

What about carnivorous animals?
What about their rights?
Will the soya bean
Make them change their ways
And give up predation and fights?

They think they’ll save the planet,
But who are they saving it for?
Will what they eat
Or what they don’t
Bring an end to horror and war?

I am ranting about vegans
Because one is in my space,
And I admit
That I would like
To wipe the smug smile off his face.

Lynne Joyce July 2009

I must watch some Grizzlies fishing,
Hire a carriage in New York,
Ride a mule down the Grand Canyon,
Hoist a sail and make it work.

I must ride a Penny Farthing,
And must plant some special trees,
Tell my loved ones that I love them,
Exact revenge on enemies.

I must nose dive from a small plane
And experience free fall,
I must fly a microlight and then
Wear denim to a ball.

I must ride high in a glider
And a single engined plane,
I must follow my desires
Until none of them remain.

I must paint some gorgeous paintings
And write stunning poetry,
I must get a novel published,
Have a thing named after me.

Of all these life ambitions,
Some I’ll do, some not, I fear,
But the ones I do successfully
Will prove that ‘Lynne woz ‘ere!’

Lynne Joyce, 24/04/2007

A typically English, almost poetic, gentle rant written in 1993 when Autumn arrived in mid August (like 2009 and 2014)

Days opened with lavender mists,
That moved as slowly as a theatre curtain,
Revealing gold-tipped sets.

Summer had left the stage
While we were still awaiting
Her sunshine soliloquy –
She gave a poor performance.

Autumn insinuated into play
In mid – August,
Like a villain in a melodrama.
We could hardly believe
His blatant upstaging.

Days shortened,
Dampness crept into clothes and bones.
Actors gradually assumed
Costumes in rustier hues
And bulkier construction.

The lights dimmed,
The music of trampled leaves
Built up the tension as the cast trembled,
Anticipating the fatal plunge
Of winter’s icy dagger.

© Lynne Joyce, 11-09-1993.

From Animals, Friends & People – a rant against a malevolent Narcissist that fits many Narcissists,

With eye of frog and breast of newt,
She’s ugly but presents as cute,
She’s stupid but convinced she’s smart,
Turns arrogance into an Art.

Born out of wedlock, she claims that
She’s really an Aristocrat
She’s haughty and imperious,
Sad, were it not serious.

She claims to be a genius
Not realised, because of ‘Us’
The ‘Us’ being anybody
Who won’t accept this comedy.

She lies then claims her lies are truth,
Re-writes the past until it suits,
Manipulates then twists and turns,
Then walks away as her Rome burns.

Wears Commedia del Arte masks,
Different ones for different tasks,
Malevolent, her smile is sweet,
She weaves a web of self-deceit.

Her egocentric fraudulence
Abuses then claims innocence
Those who challenge are condemned
As enemies, who once were friends.

She leaves behind, hurt in her wake,
Bruised evidence of each mistake,
Then blithely re-writes life again
So someone else can take the blame.

She buries her head in the sand
Thinking herself very grand
But does what all ostriches do,
Presents us with a horrid view!

From Animals, Freinds & People

Daily life is filled with chaos and confusion
Its a symptom of the supersonic age,
But we can shield ourselves by living an illusion
And being like a rabbit in a cage.

Now a rabbit in a cage might be quite happy
To live its life behind protective wire,
But when its caging makes a claustrophobic snappy,
That’s like throwing cans of petrol on a fire.

The rabbit gets neurotic about freedom,
The carer goes berserk about the cage,
One needs spaces whilst the other doesn’t need them,
A reflection of the conflicts of the age!

The secret of successful co-existence
Between creatures of all types and frames of mind
Is tolerance affection and persistence
And knowing that your kind may be unkind.

Lynne Joyce

Trust me and I’€™ll guard your secrets.
Trust me and I’€™ll counsel you.
Do not trust another person,
Trust me and I’€™ll be to you ……

A Tormentor, epicentre
Of the earthquakes in your life.
By my lying and denying,
I’€™ll wreak havoc and cause strife,

I’€™ll gossip and create suspicion
With colleagues, friends & family.
Then I’€™ll deny accusations
That the culprit could be me.

Then I’€™ll point my evil finger
At some innocent and say,
‘€œSee, she wants to wreck our friendship,’€
So you’€™ll look the other way.

See the cat and mouse game I play
With your personality.
See how clever and how wicked
And demanding I can be.

Call me friend and call me fellow,
Give me loyalty. Deny
All your justified suspicions.
Let me suck your life blood dry!

From ‘Animals Friends and People’

Worms squirm and worms squiggle,
Worms eat dirt and this and that,
Worms slither, worms wriggle,
Worms when trodden on go splat,
Worms crawl and worms grovel,
Lowly worms know where they’re at,
Worms live in worm hovels,
Worms are the proletariat!

Lynne Joyce

From ‘Animals Friends and People’

Snakes are lively, snakes are bright
Snakes can slide and slither,
Snakes are warm and snakes are light,
Snakes are hardly ever
Cold and slimy,
Slithery, slimy,
Nasty and vile,
Horrid reptiles,
Snakes are a sight
Sure to delight,
But in a fight,
Snakes can bite!

Lynne Joyce

From ‘Animals, Friends & People’

Let us look at the snorting, prancing horse
That stamps its hoof merrily,
It flounces and flurries and fusses and worse,
Does it unnecessarily,
It swishes its tail and tosses its head
So you’d think that somebody had made it see red,
But there’s nothing like that in its petulant head,
It just lives histrionically!

Lynne Joyce

Consider the shape of the poor Hippopotamus,
His short, stumpy legs and his big, bulging bottomus,
He can’€™t easily walk and he surely can’€™t trottamus,
But in water he’€™s a King,
For its floating that’€™s the thing.

On land he’€™s a lumbering, bumbling creature,
Who is heavy and clumsy in every feature,
When it comes to aquatics, he is the teacher,
For in water he’€™s a King,
For its floating that’€™s the thing.

In rivers he glides and he glistens and wallows,
And eats water weeds which he chews up and swallows,
With a figure like his then it obviously follows
That in water he’€™s a King,
For its floating that’€™s the thing.

Peacocks are pretty and pompous and proud,
They fan out their feathers and play to the crowd,
They air their opinions incredibly loud,
And BORE people.

Peacocks like having each pretty tail feather
Impeccably turned out, whatever the weather,
They love to strut round and to prattle and blether
And BORE people.

I’€™ll vow you know Peacocks among your own friends,
Whose self – aggrandisement knows no bounds or ends,
Whose arrogant droning invariably tends
To BORE people.

From ‘Animals Friends and People’

A sloth is a creature all doleful and slow,
Who acts as if he can’t decide where to go,
Whatever you ask him, he answers “Don’t know.”
A sloth is a slovenly thing.

He w–a–l–k–s slowly,
He t–a–l–k–s slowly,
He t–h–i–n–k–s slowly
And f–e–e–l–s lowly.

You meet him on every factory floor
In very staff rest room, behind every door,
He seems to think living’s a tedious chore,
A sloth is a slovenly thing.

Lynne Joyce

From ‘Animals Friends and People’

Rats are small and brown
And have twitchy noses,
Rats have skinny legs
And scratchy toeses.
Rats are omnivorous and ignominious
Creatures of habits vile and polygamous,
Rats are small and brown
And have twitchy noses.

Lynne Joyce

From my series ‘Animals, Friends and People’.

Leeches are slimy things that cling to you
And suck your blood,
Leeches don’t flatter you or sing to you
Or do you good,
Leeches are creatures
With humanoid features
They act like your friends do,
Demanding and untrue,
Leeches are slimy things that cling to you
And suck your blood!

Lynne Joyce

.
When I become an artist
I’ll wear peculiar clothes,
I’ll have my hair dyed purple
And wear a steel ring in my nose.

I’ll be very rude to people
Who don’t see my genius,
I’ll be wildly temperamental
And make an awful fuss.

I’ll look very strange in cheesecloth
And gold Doc Martin boots,
And when I upset people,
I’ll blame it on my roots.

I don’t need to be able
To sculpt or paint or draw,
Or be competent in music
Or to write like Evelyn Waugh.

I will simply make the statement
That mine is concept art,
For there’s no better way to be
A well-paid boring fart!

Lynne Joyce 07-04-2007.