Author: C-N-U

An Activist’s Lament

Every year I seem to miss the Spring
In a rush of leafleting and canvassing.
I have no time to watch the blossoms bloom,
Election schedules don’t give any room
For life-enriching happenings like these,
For seeing cherry blossom dress the trees.
 
Each year when gardens sport bright Springtime flowers
I’m out, tramping the streets for hours and hours
Too busy marking canvass sheets to see
The joyous, livid, Springtime revelry,
Its gorgeous, sensual, sexual Spring dance
As Winter ends with wild exuberance.

Every year I seem to miss the Spring
With dreary leafleting and canvassing.
Election schedules don’t give any room
To share Spring’s joy and watch the blossom bloom,
So do I have to give up joyful stuff,
Or am I saying that I’ve had enough?

Lynne Joyce 12/04/06

Designer Blairites, not so cute,
Wear trendy glasses and a suit,
No more denim or patched knees,
They still have kids and PhD’s,
Live comfortably in spotless homes
Just like other sold-out drones,
Not questioning integrity,
They’re happy with prosperity,
And blame, for every party schism,
Those who cling to Socialism.
The working class can kiss their ass,
They’re members of the Middle class,
Who don’t care for the poor and weak,
For they don’t vote, instead they speak
For people in the centre ground,
Where smug and selfish folk abound,
But they still care about the old,
So give them money for the cold,
Whist clearly telling all the rest,
“Savings, not pensions serve you best.”
Tony’s cronies drive posh cars,
And meet in trendy sushi bars,
They think that its OK to be
Well-to-do materially,
But still claim that they represent
The powerless and less affluent.
To exercise their intellect
They dream up ideas like ‘Respect’
Forgetting that the cause of crime
Is alienation every time,
And knowing that you’ll never be
Respected in society.
Good Blairites cannot plan their day
Unless they have their P.D.A.
And Blairite campaign trouble shooters
Would be lost without computers.
Blairites of the best design
Still only ever drink fine wine
But wouldn’t dream of getting pissed,
Just in case a chance were missed,
To sell their colleague or their soul
To escalate the greasy pole.
The men still spout on equal rights
Whilst cornering, with boys’ club fights,
The power jobs with influence,
So they can enjoy deference.
The only women who survive,
Are those who help the boys’ clubs thrive,
Associate boys’ club members who
Trail in the wake of the chosen few,
Never challenging the way
They plot and scheme and throw away
Every leftist principle
So they remain invincible.
But Tony Blair has just stood down,
And been replaced by Gordon Brown,
So Tony’s cronies are bereft,
Scared in case Gordon Brown turns left,
With Harriet Harman in cahoots,
Returning Labour to its roots.
Will Tony’s cronies sink and drown?
No, they’ll defect to Gordon Brown!

© Lynne Joyce, June 2007.

Written in 1988 when the designer left were in their righteous heyday.

Designer lefties, Oh so cute,
Wear wire rimmed glasses, are hirsute,
Dress in designer working class,
With braces holding up their ass,
Are always found in rhyming couples,
Have trendy friends with trendy troubles,
Sport flashy trainers made by Puma
But very little sense of humour,
Have patches on their denim knees,
Designer babies, PhD’s,
Own great big houses, just redeemed
By very rarely being cleaned,
Their men expound on equal rights
Whilst charming down the women’s tights,
The women, very softly spoken,
Behave as if their hearts are broken,
And learn to cope with being moody
At thirty-five, by going broody,
Many can’t pronounce their r’s,
Still more drive round in pricey cars,
And none are able to relax
Unless they have their filofax.
All Socialist of best design
Will only ever drink fine wine
And just in case a chance is missed,
They never dream of getting pissed,
( Due to this absence of carousing
Their speechmaking is rarely rousing,
And while their right-on friends applaud,
The rest are terminally bored).
Many aspiring Parliamentarians
Are also wholefood vegetarians
And feature in each evening prayer
A plea to save the ozone layer,
Desire the world to be one nation
Pledged against de-aforestation,
Strive to prevent each acid shower
But won’t resort to nuclear power.
They don’t accept that might is right
And join in every freedom fight.
Those of the designer left
Have shopping bags which are bereft
Of anything that could be seen
As anti-black or anti-green,
Or anything that has ‘E’ numbers,
Or non-organic, forced cucumbers,
And shopping trips can seem so silly
When they ask, “Are we friends with Chile?”
(Trusting that each rejected apple
Helps a dictatorship to topple).
Designer lefties are, I fear,
Demoralisingly sincere,
And sadly for the rest of us,
Embarrassingly serious !!!

Written in the days when I was an elected member of Bradford District Council. Now, thank goodness, I can say and do what I please.

I have to be so sensible, so sage and so wise,
I must always be measured and achieve compromise,
I have to be considered in all I do and say,
But it’s oh so very tempting to blow it all away!

Shall I say to the reporter, “Here’s a story if you dare!
I’m off to find a Toy Boy for a scandalous affair.”
Shall I shout at my constituents, “Stop whingeing and get on!
Your demanding and your moaning have gone on far too long.”

Shall I say to the Leader, “Tell me why, then think again,
You give women all the rubbish jobs & the well-paid ones to men?”
Shall I berate my colleagues, “Take that knife out of my back!
Its the ones in other parties you’re supposed to attack.”

Shall I say to the officers, “Put your time to better uses.
The punters want good services not reams of excuses.”
Shall I say to the public who insult us as a sport,
“I’ve never seen the World changed by people of your sort.”

It is tempting, oh so tempting, I really wish I could,
But I’m genuinely committed to pursue the common-good,
So I’ll try not to do or say things reprehensible,
And carry on regardless being sage, wise and sensible!

© Lynne Joyce 02/11/01

Having spent 30 years in politics I have a lot of experience of politics, some deadly serious, some hilarious, some just plain boring. Here are some of the versified experiences.

When I hear her voice
A sense of dread rises
From the pit of my stomach.

Quickly, guilt follows
Because this is a friend, 
A troubled friend.

A friend in trouble, 
A friend who carries trouble with her
Wherever she goes.

She carries it, along with chaos,
In a purple portmanteau,
Her favourite accessory.

She likes to share its contents,
Talk about them,
Revel in the injustices therein.

She seeks advice on how to deal with them
Then packs them up, neatly,
And takes them with her.

At home home she nurtures and polishes them,
Until the next time she can present them,
Unaltered, un-dealt with, unchanged.

When I hear her voice
A sense of dread rises
From the pit of my stomach.

Lynne Joyce 21.05.2012

OK, so most of the verses on this site are lighthearted, but I actually do write some serious stuff too, and whilst I don’t pretend to be good at it, I do try. Here is a selection of some of them.

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Inside our small caravan
Somnambulant German Shepherds snore gently in the heat
Woken only by my cooling ministrations.

The quintych set around me
Gives a multiplicity of views
Of caravans and sunshine-bathed campers.

Figures, made operatic
By age and self indulgence,
Flaunt themselves unashamedly.

Discordant, Radio 2 
Provides a bland backing track
To the incessant drone of the ride-on lawn mower.

A cooling breeze
Rattles round and through caravan and awning
Providing impromptu percussion.

Birch leaf Maracas
Add another musical dimension
To the drone of the Kubota.

Caravan dogs,
Mostly Jack Russels and Westies,
Add soprano notes with echoes of Harrison Bertwistle.

Our German Shepherds, now awoken,
Enthusiastically join the canine chorus line
Adding bass and baritone.

Heroes and Divas
Play out their personal dramas
In their proscenium pergolas.

Inside our small caravan
I record the operatic drama
In poetic journalise.

© Lynne Joyce 22.05.2012

I really should not celebrate
Somebody’s demise,
But the fall of Ian Greenwood
Brought tears to my eyes.

They weren’t tears of sorrow
But the kind of tears you get
When you laugh so bloody hard
Your knickers end up wet!

The arch manipulator
Was out-manipulated
By someone with an ego
That is equally inflated.

I’ve got no time for gorgeous George,
Or his Party called Respect,
But he has rendered stupid
A self-appointed intellect.

No more smart arsed back room plotting
By Ian and his cronies,
No more Boys Club back slapping,
No more politics for phoneys.

Instead there’ll be blood letting
By those who stayed in place,
Jockeying for position,
Fighting for his place.

Oh sod it, I WILL celebrate
The fat patrician’s fall
And laugh at what he’s left behind,
A bloody free for all!

Lynne Joyce 04.05.2012

Is this the result of Peer Pressure,
This noisy, nonsensical shit?
If so, then I am sooooooo pleased
That I never fell for it.

Thrice married, I have never
Had a hen weekend.
Quite frankly I would rather
Meet an untimely end.

And as for men on stag do’s,
What an embarrassing farce,
Getting absolutely legless
And falling on their arse.

And hen do’s held in Benidorm
With slappers on the shriek
Spoil it for the tourists
Who book there for a week.

Hen parties and stag do’s
That prove you are part of the crowd,
Require you to be obnoxious,
Drunk and very loud.

But nobody remembers
What they did or said,
So why don’t they just stay home
And save the money instead?

27.04.2012 Flight LS271 to Alicante.

Oh deepest joy, I’m on the plane
And guess who’s next to me,
A drunken, stag-do moron
Yelling noisily.

He’s been, with his companions,
At the airport bar,
Shouting, drinking, downing
Jar after jar.

They only have one adjective
For every fucking noun,
The way they use it proves they’re not
The smartest guys in town.

They compensate with volume
For what they lack in brains,
And spend the entire journey
Being noisy pains.

To my delight we’re on our way,
Just two more hours of this,
Stag do boys who are on their way
To a weekend on the piss.

27.04.2012 Flight LS271 to Alicante
Woody’s Stag Do.

The Pillock who pontificates
To his acquaintances and mates
Is spouting off to victims here in Spain.

He’s a bore and he’s a know it all
Who loves to whinge about it all,
In fact he’s just a dreary, moaning pain.

He whinges about everything,
Even though he doesn’t know a thing,
But keeps his corner up on gruff and bluff.

His victims start to answer back
His verbose negative attack,
As clearly they have seen and heard enough.

But the Pillock who pontificates
Has a mouth with no such thing as brakes,
And so he whinges on and on and on.

His victims then feel forced to go
Because this persistent so and so
Won’t back off from his moaning marathon.

Lynne Joyce 02.05.2012.

Somebody told this lady
Striped clothes make you look slim,
But I don’t know which mirror
She was looking in.

For black and white striped trousers
On her more than ample butt
Only draw attention
To her size from waist to foot.

Whatever was she thinking
When she went and bought those pants?
Did she want to draw attention
To her legs like elephants?

Did she buy into the notion
That those stripes would make her thin?
If so, please somebody buy her
A rear view mirror to look in.

Leeds Bradford Airport 27.04.2012

Here we have the last-chance hippie
With his histrionic spouse
Sporting huge cloaks, beads and earrings
That could cover half a house.

He is old and grey and wrinkly
But he sports a plaited beard,
She is huge and round and shiny,
Theatrical and clearly weird.

See them strut and pose and posture,
Hoping that we all will look
At their theatrical performance,
But no one here can give a ****

How sad to see the last-chance hippies
Posing, looking for acclaim,
Sporting their outdated costumes,
Pantomimic clown and dame!

Mejias Tres 27.04.2012

We were in Mercadona
Buying foodstuffs of course
When a woman asked my husband,
“Where can I find mint sauce?”

My husbands reaction was
To answer with disdain,
“Don’t know! We never eat like that
When we’re in Spain!”

The woman was mortified
That he did not know
Where the English products were
And couldn’t tell her where to go.

I could not stop laughing
At this bizarre encounter,
And at what her question
Had told us about her.

Her expectation was
That because he was English
He’d be a Little Englander,
And not eat like the Spanish.

She could not have been more wrong,
When we travel we adjust
And adapt to local cultures,
We think that you must.

So we avoid the fish and chip
And roast beef restaurants,
Preferring Spanish culture,
We avoid the English haunts.

Each to his own we often say,
But by that we don’t mean
Sticking just to what you know,
That’s really not our scene.

I hope she found her mint sauce
But for us that wouldn’t do,
We can get that all in England
Why come to Spain and get it too?

Travelling abroad they say 
Broadens your mind,
But only for receptive
Members of mankind.

09.05.2012

Couple observed in Mejias Tres

Here we have the last-chance hippie
With his histrionic spouse
Sporting huge cloaks, beads and earrings
That could cover half a house.

He is old and grey and wrinkly
But he sports a braided beard,
She is huge and round and shiny,
Theatrical and clearly weird.

See them strut and pose and posture,
Hoping that we all will look
At their theatrical performance,
But no one here can give a ****!

How sad to see the last-chance hippies
Posing, looking for acclaim,
Sporting their outdated costumes,
Pantomimic clown and dame!

© Lynne Joyce Mejias Tres 27.04.2012

No image yet as I am in Spain and just on my iPad

Oh deepest joy, I’m on the plane
And guess who’s next to me,
A drunken, stag-do moron
Yelling noisily.

He’s been, with his companions,
At the airport bar,
Shouting, drinking, downing
Jar after jar.

They only have one adjective
For every fucking noun,
The way they use it proves they’re not
The smartest guys in town.

They compensate with volume
For what they lack in brains,
And spend the entire journey
Being noisy pains.

Oh deepest joy, we’re on our way,
Just two more hours of this,
Stag do boys who are on their way
To a weekend on the piss.

27.04.2012 Flight LS271 to Alicante
Woody’s Stag Do.

Oh how I love to hype the hype
And contradict the stereotype,
Sitting near a juvenile pain
I use my iPad on the train,
Then watch her wonder where she’s at
Seeing me, a wrinkly old bat,
Flashing new technology
That isn’t new to you and me,
For we’ve been at it from the start,
But kids don’t expect an ancient fart
To know what techno stuff’s about,
No airhead babe and loudmouth lout
Expect us to be dinosaurs,
Not iPad wielding techno bores.
So, in the presence of junior shits
I blow stereotype to bits!

Lynne Joyce 05.04.2012

Lynne Joyce
Sent from my iPad

He’s a picture of elegance, well dressed and neat,
With hand-crafted, expensive shoes on his feet,
His briefcase is hand made in finest calf skin,
And God knows the price of the suit that he’s in,
He’s wearing a bow tie and hand stitched silk shirt,
And a hat on his head at an angle that’s pert,
The coat on his arm was tailored to fit,
And there isn’t a mark or a blemish on it,
And while everyone else here is crumpled and tired,
This gentleman here looks freshly attired.

Lynne Joyce February 2012

Its Amsterdam airport and what have we here?
Is this lady clad in her holiday gear?

She’s portly but trendy in leopard print clothes,
Plus spiky red hair and a stud in her nose.

She’s seriously ancient so looks quite bizarre,
For by our mode of dress we say just who we are.

My companions and I have a long chat
About just who she is and just what she’s at.

And though our conclusion is rather unkind,
It has to be said that we’re all of one mind.

She’s a smuggler with bags full of ciggies and liquors,
And at least seven kilos of coke in her knickers!

Lynne Joyce February 2012

Boarding the plane, just look what we’ve got
Cocky and hard, a professional Scot,
See how he swaggers and struts down the aisle
Wearing his Tam and his tartan with style,
And his rugged red beard in fear that we might
Miss his Celtic credentials while we’re on the flight.

Primped, powdered & neat, his wife leads the attack
And marches them down to their seats at the back,
Making sure as she marches that everyone knows
That she’s a Scots Thistle and no English Rose,
And when we are off and the seat belts released,
She unpacks all her goods for their travelling feast.

They spread out the food without further ado,
Bannocks and smokies and, of course, Irn Bru,
Dundee cake and Shortbread and sweeties a plenty,
For they canna arrive with a stomach that’s empty,
Then they finish it off with a whisky or two,
For that’s what professional Scots people do!

Lynne Joyce February 2012

Written after a report of this encounter in a North London Waitrose by Philip Reilly

Lady Lah-Di-Dah
Has just come from the Spa
If her soggy hair is anything to go by.

She had no time to dress
So her clothes are in a mess
And her shoes are past the date they should be thrown by.

But Lady Lah-Di-Dah
Had to leave the Spa
To do her weekly shopping here at Waitrose .

Here Lady Lah-Di-Dah
Is creating a hoo-hah
For here she’s very rude and grandiose.

The staff all squirm and twitch
At this rude and haughty bitch
Who looks too rough to get in Tesco’s door.

And the customers nearby
All heave a weary sigh
Because Lady Lah-Di-Dah is such a BORE!

Lynne Joyce 31.03.2012

London is a freak show
Full of people who are weird
Be they wearing silly clothing
Or a long and straggly beard.

There are seven million people
In this bustling, busy place,
And there’s every variation
Of the crazy human race.

Some are silly, some are funny,
Some are just bizarre and strange,
Some are terminally boring,
So they cover the whole range.

I guess if you live in London
To be noticed is quite tough
So dressing like a weirdo
Might just be enough.

But a grey felt Nazi helmet
With fake cherries on the side
With a fussy frock and trainers
Just invites one to deride.

But looking very closely
At the weirdos hereabout,
They all have one thing in common
And I’d like to point it out.

The cherry-hatted Nazi,
The pink-haired, airhead pain,
The bearded, last chance hippie,
They’re all terminally PLAIN.

Lynne Joyce 01.04.2012

Andy was a Rangers fan
And a legendary drinker,
And when he’s had a drink or two,
He was clearly not a thinker,
But Andy was a friendly chap
With not a hint of malice,
Who liked to chat to anyone
In his drinking palace,
And though we couldn’t understand
His accent and his slur,
We enjoyed his company,
But to him, we were a blur.

Size 22 in micro shorts
I just don’t want to see
But gigantic fashion victims
Keep inflicting this on me!

Huge porkers wearing leggings
Who wobble as they strut
Surely can’t believe they’re sexy
With their undulating butt.

What happened to discretion, 
Have they no sense of fair play
That might lead them to be decent
And hide their flab away?

But no, ginormous arses
Are all clad in Lycra now,
Just like circus elephants,
They show their flab and bow!

If I had my way I’d lock them
In a health farm until they
Shed their weight by only eating
Fifty calories a day.

And I’d make the manufacturers
Take responsibility
By only selling shorts and leggings
To sylphs under twenty three.

To anybody older
Such items would be banned,
And fashion victim porkers,
Well, I’d take them all in hand.

I’d surround them all in mirrors
And make them face the fact
That we shouldn’t be inflicted
With their obese circus act.

But if I could really do this,
Maybe life would get much worse,
For I’d run out of material
To inspire my comic verse!

Lynne Joyce 15.01.2012

Here we have the one square milers
Who live their lives within that space,
Those with limited horizons,
The drones within the human race.

They’re born, they grow and then they marry
All within just one square mile
Never moving far from mother
Emulating Father’s style.

Now and then they really break out
To go abroad on holiday
But take their one square mile off with them,
As friends and family share their stay.

The world and fashion trends escape them,
Their neighbourhood dictates their style
And so you find they dress the same
As those who live in that square mile.

Houses, cars, clothing, haircuts
Identify where they belong,
Just two miles away they’re different,
Singing a different square mile song.

Look at them, the one square milers,
It’s certain they won’t look at you,
For they are looking inwards, downwards,
For that’s what One Square Milers do!

Lynne Joyce 28.12.2011

Here comes Auntie Gert’s Round Robin,
What will Gertie have to say?
No doubt she’ll tell us all about
Her plans for Christmas day,
She’ll go on about her cruises
And Uncle George’s brand new car,
And emphasise by implication
Just how poor we are.

Ah, here’s Mary Smith’s Round Robin,
Far too many words I fear,
About all her acquisitions
Purchased through the year,
And undoubtedly she’ll show off
About Mary junior’s skills,
And then she’ll blether on about
Her sicknesses and ills.

Here’s you father’s cousin Ernest’s,
His Round Robins are a hoot,
Because he simply can’t resist
Putting in the boot
About members of the family,
His neighbours and his friends.
We really must read that one
As his bitching knows no ends.

Oh dear, this one’s from my cousin,
It will be an awful bore,
For she hasn’t the vocabulary
For this yearly Christmas chore,
And because of her depression,
There will be a gloomy tone,
I suppose we should feel sorry
As she’s living on her own.

I guess I really ought to
Write our Round Robin too,
Lets do it as a family,
Yes, here is what we’ll do –
Everyone write something down,
We can’t leave it much later,
Then I will run the ideas through
The Bullshit Generator!

Lynne Joyce 12.12.2011

Clad in layers in shades of purple
“I’m a crafter” she announced.
‘Look at me’ she seemed to say
As on the Kings Cross train she flounced.

A bouncy, noisy space invader,
Enormous bags were thrown around,
Stuffed with wool and crochet needles,
Accompanied by needless sound.

I quickly marked my territory
And pushed her stuff into her space,
Did not engage or make eye contact,
Disappointment filled her face.

Bouncing, flouncing and announcing
She really did try very hard
To get somebody to take notice,
But everybody was on guard.

Books and Kindles, laptops, iPads,
All used like a barbed wire fence,
We used them to protect ourselves,
A kind of craft-proof self defence.

No-one wanted tales of crotchet,
Knitting needles, cotton quilts,
This was an evening train on Friday
Where everybody sits an wilts.

As we sped up North to Bradford,
Mrs. Crafty tried again,
Studiously we all ignored her
‘Look At Me Me Me’ campaign.

Chocolate cake was eaten loudly,
“I made it all myself” she said,
Not one single person answered,
But texted, typed or read instead.

At Doncaster she donned her coat,
Stood in the middle of the aisle,
‘At last she’s getting off’ I thought,
But no, we had to wait a while.

From Doncaster to Leeds she stood
Deliberately in the way,
But nobody engaged with her,
I guess that this was not her day.

When Mrs. Crafty left the train
We who stayed felt huge relief,
200 miles we’d thwarted her
And saved ourselves from crafty grief!

09.12.2011

I am oh so very weary
Of sitting on the fence
On a train then in a hotel
Then right through a conference.

I’m obliged to be respectful
And not to say just what I feel
But to be quite diplomatic
Which for me is quite unreal.

Now the conference is over,
It was good but it was tough,
Now I’m here at Kings Cross station
And I’ve really had enough.

In an hour and thirteen minutes
I will leave Kings Cross by train
In the meantime in the waiting room
I’m on the fence again.

This is putting things politely.
It’s a silly, two-faced farce.
I’m not sitting in the fence at all,
I’m sitting on my arse!!!

09.12.2011

We’ve been everywhere in Shipley
In search of three wise men
But if we ever had three
They’ve upped and gone again!

They’re always in such high demand
At this time of year
And so we guess some other place
Has paid them more than here.

We’ve stopped searching for a Virgin,
And made do with a plane,
We’ve got loads and loads of asses but
No shepherds still remain.

When doing the Nativity
We try to improvise
But simply cannot manage
Without three men who are wise.

We’re wondering where they have gone
And who has taken them?
But now we’re guessing that they’re off
Once more to Bethlehem!

Lynne Joyce 04.12.2011

I understand the everybody has a right to be
Whatever kind of person that they choose to be,
And they will find their own kind, wherever they might be,
But why do nut jobs and airheads have to sit so close to me?

It happens every time I board a train or aeroplane,
On buses too they home in, they’re so arrogant and vain,
In a hospital with my friend who really was in pain,
The airhead nut job found me and was blind to my disdain.

I’m not a noisy airhead and I’m certainly not dumb,
So why do they share their stories with me till my mind is numb?
And why do teenage airheads who should really suck their thumb
Turn the volume of their noisy nonsense to a screeching hum?

Does my presence give the nut job and the airhead a clear sign
That says that it’s OK with me to wittier and to whine,
That I will not object and their offloading will be fine,
If that’s the case, please tell me, how do I remove that sign?

Lynne Joyce 08.12.2011

My husband was brought up with science,
So each time I look at the sea
And say its a beautiful colour
He gives logical reasons to me.

Each time that I look at a rainbow
Prismatic refraction’s exlained,
And my husband has never quite worked out
Why the look on my face is so pained.

But I prefer magic to logic,
And romance to reason and fact,
So I tell him to keep all his science,
So I keep all my magic in tact.

© Lynne Joyce 26-11-2007

In a posh tea shop in Ludlow
This lady came for cake
But nobody had told her
Her coiffeuse was a mistake.

It looked like a burst sofa
Sitting on her head,
But I’m sure that she was thinking
It was glamorous instead.

We wondered why she wore it,
This towering creation,
That looked like she had practised
Back-combing for the Nation.

I think the day she married
In 1984
Her hairdresser created
A complex hairy tower.

And every morning since then
She’s tried to recreate
The magic of her nuptials
High upon her pate.

It’s an every day reminder of
‘For better and for worse’
And I’ve captured the phenomenon
In illustrated verse.

Lynne Joyce 08.11.2011

Whatever is she thinking
Wearing clothes like these,
An arse the size of Derbyshire
In leggings if you please?

And then to add an insult
To viewing passers by
She’s added festoon curtains
Just above the thigh.

Does her house not have mirrors,
Is she not able to see
How much this loony outfit
Shows off obesity?

At some point before leaving
She must have thought she looked OK.
Was there no-one there at her house
To suggest another way?

There’s no law against such outfits
For super-size delights,
But I really think there should be
To save spectators from such sights!

November 2011.

You see the strangest people at an airport,
Some are foreigners and some are simply weird,
They sit there looking bored and drinking coffee
Then their flight is called and soon they’ve disappeared.

They drink drinks charged at crazy airport prices,
If they’re desperate they even eat the food,
Though it is expensive and it’s awful,
And the serving staff are truculent and rude.

Sometimes  you  engage in conversation
With someone else who’s just as bored as you,
Where they’re going, where they’ve been, what it’s like there,
Where to go and who to see and what to do.

Otherwise you disengage your brain there,
For brains are not much use when you are bored,
Unless you are like me who finds people
So fascinating they can’t be ignored.

So you’ll see me at the airport with my sketch pad
Sketching all the people that I find
Weird and wonderful and fascinating,
For I’m amused by all of humankind.

23.09.2011 Leeds Bradford Airport

Are barristers born with big egos
Or do they, at law school, acquire them?
Do they come in the form of a lecture
Or at costume shops where you can buy them?

We know that they’re expert in pompous,
Are their egos in different sizes
Large, extra large and enormous,
Do they store them all at the Assizes?

Do they carry their egos in chalk stripes
That embellish their flamboyant suits?
Do they stay on their wig in it’s wig case
Or rest in their expensive boots?

In my recent experience of lawyers
Be they at work or at rest,
Their ego’s on show while they’re conscious,
And their mouth parts are where they works best.

21.09.2011

Cross Gobshite with Airhead and what do you get,
A young girl on my train who simply won’t let
The rest of the passengers travel in peace,
We’re all trapped on the train, but we pray for release
From her high volume, meaningless, fatuous prattle
That entertains less than the loose window’s rattle.

Her volume, is dreadfully, piercingly loud,
Leaving no chance to speak for the rest of the crowd.
With every new station we hope she’ll get off,
As with only one stage we have all had enough,
But she stays on board and the prattle goes on,
A meaningless, tedious word marathon.

Written on the train back from Preston, June 7th 2011

Rail guard on the train to York,
Patrolling up and down,
Like a nineteenth century schoolmaster
With a disapproving frown.

At Preston I get on his train,
My ticket is legit,
But judging by his stony face,
He’s not accepting it.

He punches it reluctantly,
Then hands the ticket back,
I think he’d rather it were false
So that he could give me flack.

He’s glowering at everyone,
It doesn’t do much good
In quieting the rowdy ones.
I didn’t think it would.

He clearly likes his railway job,
Thinks ticket punching’s fine,
But best of all he likes to keep
The passengers in line.

Rail guard on the train to York
With his disapproving glower
Makes everyone he comes across
Want to rob him of his power.

© Lynne Joyce 07.06.2011

A serious one for a change, one inspired by nauseating, but real events.

The sky darkens then vultures settle
Waiting to pick the bones
Of the not-yet-dead
Potential benefactor.

Some arrive with calling cards,
Self-written invitations
Justified by claims of family fealty
Not evidenced by history.

Some respond to invitations
To forgive the sins
Of the soon-to-be corpse
In exchange for a legacy.

See them flapping their wings
Fawning, drooling and salivating
In greedy anticipation
Of the feast ahead.

Watch how they jostle for position
Peck and squawk and push
Fighting for a prime location
At the much awaited feast.

Look how they set dignity aside,
Take leave of integrity
In favour of hypocrisy
And blatant greed.

Hear them talk and squabble
Over who should have what.
In a blood lust of excitement
They fight for entitlement.

But there are some who will not come,
Instead, they rise above it
On the thermals created
By the heated disputes below.

On the ground the vultures,
Competitive, angry vultures,
Become increasingly frustrated
Because their food source will not die.

High, high above them,
Those who eschew carrion – eating
Try to resist the urge
To defecate!

Lynne Joyce 13.04.2010