Category: Verses

I watch the social dynamics of a group,
I work out who is inside and outside the loop,
Observe those who dominate and who
Sits outside the inner circle of the chosen few,
See the body language of those who try
To be approved of but who wonder why
All their wasted efforts are as nought,
Leaving them isolated and fraught,
Made to feel that they are outsiders, losers,
Neither the chosen ones or the choosers.

I watch the social dynamics of a group,
Sooooooo grateful that I am well outside the loop!

20.11.2014

Faux New York diner 1950’s style
We stop to eat and linger for a while,
And overhear the other diners who
Have stopped to eat and linger in there too.

False laughter used as social punctuation,
Shallow words that pass for conversation
Often said pronunciation sins
Because they all speak wearing inane grins.

False jollity and endless, mindless prattle
By those with the mentality of cattle,
Cooing, mooing every single word
To prove that they are members of the herd.

Bright people talk of issues so they say,
The less bright talk events of every day,
Dull People talk of people and guess what?
People are what preoccupy this lot.

Faux New York diner 1950’s style
Where we stopped to eat and linger for a while,
Where I earwigged on the other diners who
Prompted me to write a verse or two.

20.11.2014

Winters come and winters go
In different shades of dreary,
But winters that aren’t blessed with snow
Make my two dogs weary.

Snow can turn the winter gloom
Into a thing of joy
Lifting the chill and sense of doom
From my canine girl and boy.

No need to clean off muddy paws
When there’s lots of snow,
No cat pooh prised from clamped tight jaws
‘Cause they can’t smell where cats go.

No need for frisbees, toys or sticks
To concentrate their minds
For snow provides a wealth of tricks
And games of many kinds.

No matter that their human Mum
And Dad are freezing cold,
Obedience at the minimum
They won’t come in when they’re told.

Winters come and go again
In different shades of grey
But Winter’s really joyful when
It’s a bright, white, snowy day.

20.11.2014

Travel on the stopping train
To Leeds is not much fun
All the way from Manchester
We stop at lamp posts, every one!

The first stop is at Moston,
Bereft of pretty sights,
The second one is Mills Hill
Where nobody alights.

Number three is Castleton
A place that’s new to me.
A fourth stop was at Rochdale
Where cowboys all ride free.

Smithy Bridge the next halt
Then there’s Littleborough
Followed soon by Walsden
Another Pennine borough.

Todmorden’s another stop
On this line that’s soooo slow
Then Hebden Bridge the trendy town
Where new age hippies go.

Next we stop at Mytholmroyd
Then at Sowerby Bridge
Next we stop at Brighouse
Beneath the Pennine ridge.

Mirfield has some lovely ponds
Where pretty swans reside,
And Herons who sit patiently
By the water side.

Next stop, Dewsbury station
Plain and working class,
Entices passengers who live there
To get up off their ass.

The dubious charms of Batley
Make more passengers alight
While some others get on there
In transit or in flight?

At last we are at Morley
Quite close to Leeds I think,
But then we stop at Cottingley,
Which must be on the brink.

At last Leeds architecture
Appears within my sight,
Along with the relief that I
Might just get home tonight!

Lynne Joyce 21.10.2014

It’s casual Calpe and arty Altea,
So that’s how to dress to fit in when you’re there,
Cut offs in Calpe, cheescloth in Altea
With cartloads of chunky junk jewels to wear.

In Altea you you put on a large floppy hat
And gigantic Raybans so you look like a prat
Then you pose and you posture in every art shop,
And pretend you’ve the money to shop ‘til you drop.

And if you decide to be Benidorm bound
You’ll see lots of Union flag T shirts around,
You’ll hear the wearers before you see
Them lurching towards you, uproariously.

In Benidorm wear stuff that’s gaudy and loud
So that you fit in with the touristy crowd,
But if Alicante is where you should venture,
Dressing for there is quite an adventure.

Alicante has all styles from casual to smart
So dressing correctly is quite an art,
But I have worked out a way you can’t lose,
Smart casual stuff worn with elegant shoes!

Valencia demands you wear businesslike dress
For you just cannot look like a casual mess,
But when in the City of Science and Art
T shirt and jeans have you looking the part.

When in Albir it’s hard to work out
What their local fashion’s about,
Then you see all the expatriate Dutch
Wearing their Amsterdam fashion and such.

If you’re visiting Alcalali
The dress style is perfect Thames valley
In a style that we all used to know
Thirty or more years ago.

Guadalest is where all tourists visit
So it isn’t so hard to guess, is it,
That anything goes, smart or rash
As long as you have plenty cash.

So the right clothes for places you go
Is something you really should know.
But working it out is a toughie,
So I’ll dress Calpe style and be scruffy!

Lynne Joyce 03.11.2014

Hunched outside the restaurant
And dragging on a fag,
Her face is sour and wrinkled,
A hideous old bag.

Her costume’s reminiscent
Of long gone hippy days
With Donovan and free love
And protesters and Gays.

Maybe she was part of
The flower power era,
Smoked dope and tripped on acid
So her consciousness was free-er.

Whatever, that was long ago,
And now she’s sad and old,
A mad nicotine junkie,
Her expression dead and cold.

Hunched outside the restaurant
And dragging on a fag,
What happened to the spirit of
This worn out, sad old hag?

Lynne Joyce 15.10.2014

Booooooooooored in a Bore Hole!

My low, low boredom threshold
Has dropped beneath the floor
Well below the level
It has ever been before.

We’re waiting for The Chunnel
But everything’s delayed
Because a train was cancelled.
How was that decision made?

The terminal is busy,
Lots of people want to go
And so a train was cancelled
Making everything go slow.

Why cancel when they’re busy?
Why reduce capacity
And add to the frustration
Of passengers like me?

My soooooo looooow boredom threshold
Has dropped beneath beneath floor
So now I’m wondering if I’ll
Use The Chunnel any more.

Lynne Joyce 19.09.2014

He glances around the restaurant
With a smug, self satisfied smile
His face is adorned with a bushy moustache
In obvious, military style.

He searches for someone with whom to engage
Ignoring his mouse of a wife,
Once found, the victims are loudly regaled
With tedious tales of his life.

For twelve years now he has lived here in Spain
In an elderly person’s resort,
A timely reminder to avoid such a place
Lest I meet people of the same sort.

He waits to be asked “Why did you choose Spain?”
Then pounces with practiced delight
On the chance to make stupid racist remarks
And blame Asians for his ex-pat flight.

The irony that he’s an immigrant too
Never crosses this xenophobe’s mind,
The fact that he’s English makes me ashamed
To be thought of as one of his kind.

He glances around the restaurant
With a smug, self satisfied smirk
That I’d like to wipe off the insufferable face
Of this horrible, arrogant jerk!

05.10.2014

Abandon hope all ye who enter here,
We don’t allow you in with camera gear,
So leave your trusty Canon by the door,
You won’t be taking photos any more,

Leave your Sony, and your Leica too,
And we’re afraid that Nikon can’t come through,
And though we know it’s very very sad,
You also have to leave your Hasselblad.

No bags and lenses are allowed in Hell
Light meters, filters, they are banned as well,
You can’t have any photographic kit,
Not even compacts, that’s an end of it.

So many camera club conditioned clones
Are down here too talking of monotones,
Bitterly regretting just how far
They slavishly obeyed The Mafia.

The Photo Mafia are, you see,
Employees of The Hades Agency,
Who bully all you non creative fools
And make you blindly follow all ‘The Rules.’

So leave behind all of your photo kit,
The Photo Mafia are collecting it,
And selling it on Gum Tree and ebay
To get more photo fools to come my way.

XXX Satan

Alpha Bravo Charlie Delta Echo Foxtrot Golf Hotel India Juliet Kilo Lima Mike November Oscar Papa Quebec Romeo Sierra Tango Uniform Victor Whisky X Ray Yankee Zulu

The NATO phonetic alphabet
Is permanent and fixed
Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo,
And the rest of that tedious mix.

But just using those words isn’t much fun
So I made one up for myself,
One that fits in with my own set of needs
And you can do one for yourself.

A for Asshole, I’ve known lots of them,
B for the Bastards who
Are all C for Cowards, the spoilers in life,
D for the Dastardly things that they do.

E for near Empty, the stock of good friends
Who are there for me when times are tough,
F is for family who ought to be there
But who simply do not care enough.

G for Grief when I’m lonely or sick,
When family and friends disappear,
Too lazy or busy to pick up the phone
Too selfish to bother to care.

H is for Happy I’ve made up my mind
To cut out those family and friends
Who insist on receiving but don’t give respect
Because this is where using me ends.

I for Important, I must look after me,
And sod all the folk who neglect.
J is for Justice when I see their pain
When I say they don’t merit respect.

K for Kleenex, much needed when
I’m down in the dumps and in tears,
L is Lessons not easily learned
When your mind is distorted by fears.

M is for Mother whose mothering skills
Were dubious even at best,
N is for No when she demands
Forgiveness before she’s at rest.

O for Obsessed like my mother-in-law
Obsessed with herself and her wants
P is for Piss Off and that’s what I’ll say
When she starts on her “Me, me, me” rants.

Q is for Queen, the male mother in law,
Who won’t even answer my mail,
“Too busy” he claims to send me a text,
Words for him totally fail.

R for the Rubbish who claimed to be friends
When they were in need of support,
But failed to come through when I was in need,
Well I’ll shoot them all down just for sport.

S is for Shitty and that’s how I felt
When I was let down by these shits,
People, in theory, close to me but
In reality simply the pits.

T for Triumphant because I’ve pulled through
A horrendously difficult time,
And the fact that I did it in spite of the fact
That some people impeded the climb.

U is for Useless family and friends
Who aren’t worth a space in my life,
V is for Vacant and that is the space
They have left because they caused me strife.

W is for Wankers, X for X friends,
Colleagues and family too,
For now I’ve decided that I have no room
For people who make me feel blue.

Y is a letter and also a word,
So why did I give these folks time?
Z is for Zero tolerance now
That I’ve buried these bastards in rhyme!

Lynne Joyce 24.09.2014

Here we have the local branch
Of the hugs and gushes club
Gathering to squeak and squawk
Together at the local pub.

Faux delight is shouted loud,
Feigned affection acted out
By these grinning morons who
Don’t know what sincere’s about.

Infant members are brought in
To their noisy social scene,
Regardless that at home in bed
Is where these infants should have been.

Studied gatherings like this
Are actually performance art,
Plays themed on insincerity
Performed by show-off, boring farts.

They block the entrances and doors,
Behave like no-one else exists,
A selfish, thoughtless gathering
Of egocentric hedonists.

Why ever did this awful branch
Of the hugs and gushes club
Gather here to squeak and squawk
And spoil things at my local pub?

Lynne Joyce 15.09.2014

I’ve decided to be angry
Rather than depressed,
Angry at the people
Who got me in this mess.

The thoughtless and uncaring
Those who pay no heed
To me when I am suffering
Disabled and in need.

Those who are “too busy”
To text, to write, to call,
To send a card or flowers,
Well that goes for them all.

They say ‘Do unto others
As you’d have them do to you’
So I need to do nothing
For those to whom nothing is due.

No more am I obliged to
Give them time and care,
Instead I will remember
That they were never there.

I’m sure they’ll be bewildered
When they are in distress
For all of them are used to me
Helping sort their mess.

No longer an I willing
To put my needs aside
For those who when it came to me
Never even tried.

I never wanted payback,
I helped because I cared
But obviously that feeling
Wasn’t one they shared.

I’ll concentrate my time and care
On those who showed concern,
Sensitivity and thoughtfulness,
And I’ll give it in return.

So farewell former family,
Goodbye former friends,
You won’t get care or time from me,
Because this is where it ends.

Lynne Joyce 10.09.2014

I hate the herd mentality,
The be the same banality,
The struggling to fit
By those who have no wit.

They know free thought is banned
So fresh ideas are canned,
And they hold on every move
Until the herd approve.

I watch them all with pity,
Their life must be so ………. awful,
Their atrophy of mind
Imposed by sheep like kind.

I stay clear of the herd,
I’d rather be a nerd
Who stays outside the pack
And the ‘be like us’ attack.

Without the herd mentality,
I’ve got freedom to be me,
Something the herd don’t like,
But they can take a hike.

Those with the herd mentality,
The be like us banality,
Are scared of people who
Take a different view.

Lynne Joyce 08.09.2014

Why do people have to bellow,
Why do they have to yell
When they’re right next each other,
At some crazy decibel?

What is wrong with being quiet,
What’s so scary in hushed tones?
Do they fear that they will paint them
In dreary monotones?

Why is squawking so damned popular
Interspersed with loud woo hoos,
Doesn’t quiet conversation
Include ‘I’m happy’ clues?

Why is noise so damned competitive?
Why do people have to screech
Their dreary conversations
To people way beyond their reach.

In the UK we used to be
Famously reserved,
Oh please, why can’t this heritage
Be conscientiously conserved?

Lynne Joyce 06.09.2014

Some people have family to guide them
As the path of their life is unfurled,
Others have friends who can give them their time
To help them make sense of the World.

But what does one do in the absence of these?
How do your issues get heard?
In my case I write down all of that stuff
And learn through the power of the word.

People I see are amusing
Some silly, some funny, some weird,
I capture them in comic verses,
So their value has not disappeared.

I illustrate all of those verses
With pencil and paint and with ink,
Thus capture the characteristics
That caused me to laugh and to think.

I re-read my comical verses
In the midst of a dark, sleepless night,
And remember the things that inspired me,
Laugh and then once more I write.

When troubled with gloomy depression,
When a black cloud mars my mental health,
I write it all down and then later
Read it all back to myself.

It’s surprising how very cathartic
Writing your troubles can be,
Because nobody else wants to hear them,
So I’ve made my counsellor me.

Re-reading this stuff much later,
On a calmer and less troubled day,
It makes so much sense and I see there
How to solve things the positive way.

In the absence of family to guide you
As the path of your life is unfurled,
In the absence of friends who can give you their time
Let words help make sense of the World.

25.08.2014

Behold, The Silly Shorts Club
Is meeting here today,
Confident they’ll all get seats
Because others run away
Frightened off by awful sights
Of pasty legs and knees,
And dreadful, baggy shorts that clash
Completely with their T’s.

We hear The Silly Shorts Club,
Discuss their uniform
Deciding socks and trainers
Fit well within their norm,
As do bright blue checked shorts
Worn with a T that’s red,
But a guy with denim cut-offs wears
A turquoise T instead.

Behold, The Silly Shorts Club
Are giving us a laugh
With pasty legs and hairy knees
And colours that are naff,
No sense of style constrains them,
No colour sense prevails
But as a source of humour
Their dress code never fails.

10.08.2014

Behold, The Silly Shorts Club
Is meeting here today,
Confident they’ll all get seats
Because others run away
Frightened off by awful sights
Of pasty legs and knees,
And dreadful, baggy shorts that clash
Completely with their T’s.

We hear The Silly Shorts Club,
Discuss their uniform
Deciding socks and trainers
Fit well within their norm,
As do bright blue checked shorts
Worn with a T that’s red,
But a guy with denim cut-offs wears
A turquoise T instead.

Behold, The Silly Shorts Club
Are giving us a laugh
With pasty legs and hairy knees
And colours that are naff,
No sense of style constrains them,
No colour sense prevails
But as a source of humour
Their dress code never fails.

10.08.2014

Amisdt a group of female friends
Out celebrating pleasantly
One person stands out from the crowd
Behaving histrionically.

This vain woman has long hair
And tosses it to get attention
She flings her tresses everywhere
It’s a Hollywood convention.

It feeds her ego’s endless quest
For flattery and words of praise,
To be the one at centre stage,
The one for whom all glasses raise.

The Sun around whom each one spins
Orbiting her shining light,
Basking in reflected glory,
Dependent planet, acolyte.

But while this long-haired woman sees
Herself as centre of the world
To others she’s the one who’s hair
Is strangely coloured, badly curled!

02.08.2014

Sometimes I really wonder
When I look at things I see,
If I really see them
Or is it fantasy?

Tonight some people came in
To the latest, smartest pub,
To join in with the social scene,
The trendy social hub!

One fat girl in pink jersey
And a silly tweedy cap,
With anorexic soul mates
Wearing 70’s retro crap.

They joined much older people
Dressed in similar gear,
Happy that they’ve worn it
Ever since their heyday year.

I really have no problem
With such a posey crowd,
But please, why do they have to
Be so f*cking LOUD?

Their conversation’s dreary,
Their intellects are dull,
So why ever do they share them
In volume that is FULL?

Sometimes I really wish that
The things I hear and see,
Were just imagination
And not reality!

20.07.2014

A useful friend discarded,
Can never ever be
Picked up again just when you want
Services for free.

Once discarded we are rubbish,
Trashed, no longer needed,
So demands from those who dropped us
Don’t have to be heeded.

So take this message former friend,
Once dropped and cast aside
I choose to make it mutual,
It helps maintain my pride.

You only get in touch if
You want something from me,
But no more am I a willing
Free commodity.

So take your phoney, oily charm
And unreasonable demands,
And shove them, hard, right up your arse
With help from my fair hands!

!4.07.2014

Your hairdresser is awful,
S/he really should be shot,
S/he’s taken all your lovely hair
And turned it into grot.

I wonder, were your orders
To turn you into this
Pseudo mediaeval monk
Or did s/he take the piss?

Maybe a new fashion
Has landed on your head.
If so the designer
Should be strangled until dead.

Maybe your look is trendy,
If so, I missed that trend,
And hope that I will miss it
‘Til it’s untimely end.

Your hairdresser is awful,
S/he really ought to die
Your pudding basin haircut’s
Offensive to the eye!

Lynne Joyce 10.06.2014

Scrotes bounce in and out for butties
Families for take-aways
Seats are taken by old ladies
Talking of their golden days.

Some wear 1960’s hairdos
Reminders of their youthful charms,
Cardigans or thigh length jackets
And handbags swinging off their arms.

Weekend daddies bring their children
For treats that mummy won’t allow
Knowing that, when they return them,
There will be a fearful row.

Singles sit at two seat tables
To consume their lonely feast,
Surrounded by faux company,
It beats their microwave re-heats.

Couples bring their children in
And let them gorge on plates of chips
Plentifully bathed in ketchup,
The fun part of their shopping trips.

Counter staff enjoy the banter
With customers they clearly know,
Exchanging jokes and chat and gossip,
Updating news whilst on the go.

Fish and chips and sausage butties
Sit in meals and take-aways
Singles, families and couples
Share tasty, battered Saturdays.

28.06.2014

Yuk, I’m with the business bletherers,
Laptop to smartphone tetherers,
Loud business phone call mytherers,
Saying they are much more high than us,
In whatever business it might be
And blab about it endlessly,
Getting louder with each call,
Like small boys pissing up the wall.

If only I had known this coach
Would fill with business types who poach
Internet and audio space
In their futile rodent race
And make this journey so much more
Dreary than it was before
They alighted and sat down
On their way to London Town.

Next time I go to Doncater
I’ll tell the rail staff I prefer
A seat inside the quiet coach
Where no phone calls can encroach
Into my precious, private space,
So contestants in the rodent race
Can phone and blether endlessly
In the business rat pack coach, coach C.

Lynne Joyce 10.06.2014

Aldo’s in-laws have a house
Way out in the countryside,
That’s where Aldo and his spouse,
When the city palls, go hide.

Bees are kept for country honey,
Horses amble round the place,
Here the motive isn’t money
But distance from the rodent race.

But every home must have its spirit
Beings to annoy their hosts,
So which ones do this homestead merit,
Fairies, Gremlins, Trolls or Ghosts?

Fairies don’t like California,
California’s much too hot,
As for Gremlins, I should to warn you,
Silicone Valley’s where they plot.

Trolls never move from Scandinavia,
It’s the language barrier,
So re this house’s weird behaviour,
A Ghost must be the carrier.

Apparently it ties shoelaces
Into complicated knots,
Turns lights on and off at random,
Then appears as bright light spots.

Nobody is really worried
By the Ghost who’s living there,
Shoelaces can be un-knotted,
Lights switched off without much care.

No one minds the house possession
By Aldo’s in-laws and the Ghost,
But this really begs the question,
Who is the guest and who the host?

© Lynne Joyce 07.05.2014

They wear the latest high priced shirt
From their team’s online store,
They blether on and on about,
Players, managers and more.

Get into altercations
Both passionate and loud,
With supporters of another team,
Part of a different crowd.

They organise their social lives
Around their division’s fixtures,
Making family and friendship links
Subject to its strictures.

They subsume their identity
To the team, the tribe, the pack,
And once they’ve made this lifestyle choice,
There is no going back.

All their interaction,
Their actions, thoughts and chatter,
Centres round their football team,
And not on things that matter.

All things become secondary,
Workplace, children, wife,
I want to tell these morons,
“For f*ck sake, get a life!”

Lynne Joyce 03.06.2014

Shipley has the very worst transvestite
That the Western world has ever seen
He wears a dress and coat and feathered bonnet
In shades of navy blue and luscious cream.

His bristled chin is smudged with bright pink lipstick,
He’d frighten any child he chanced to meet,
His hairy legs are clothed in nylon stockings,
With size twelve high heeled shoes upon his feet.

His gait is like a free style all in wrestler’s,
His handbag like a weapon in his grip
Ready to strike blows upon the person
Who giggles, laughs or otherwise let’s rip.

He struts around the town like its a challenge
To homophobes, the prejudiced and such,
But nobody in Shipley takes the mickey,
I don’t think that they’re interested that much.

For Shipley’s urban centre is a freak show,
With loads of freaky weirdos, large and small,
To whom the folk of Shipley are accustomed,
So transvestites just don’t bother them at all.

© Lynne Joyce 08.07.2013

Pray, what is the problem with silence,
Why on earth do most people get
Panicked by comfortable quiet
As if silence poses a threat
To discourse and communication,
To the unwritten social rules,
And so fill the silence with prattle
And thus end up sounding like fools?

Why can’t people simply say nothing
When they have nothing to say?
Instead blether on about nothing
And in doing so simply delay
The time when a comfortable silence
Can allow everyone to relax,
Drop out of the words competition,
And the struggle for interesting facts.

I’m perfectly happy with silence,
But in that I think I’m alone,
I see people struggling with it,
So they reach out to text or to phone,
To engage in a faux conversation,
For anything’s better, it seems,
Than moments of absolute silence
For thought and reflection and dreams.

Lynne Joyce 5.05.2014

We were chatting with our friends
And as life stories unfurled
A man entered the restaurant wearing
The worst wig in the world.

It really looked as if it
Had dropped down from above,
Landed on this man’s head
And then refused to move.

The man’s own hair was very grey
Very thin and straight
The wig hair, thick and orange, sat
Like an alien on his pate.

Our company was riveted
And kept on sneaking glances
Like others in the restaurant who
Were taking similar chances.

Why is it, I wonder,
That bald men such as he,
Make themselves look ridiculous,
For the sake of vanity?

Everyone was mesmerised
By his artificial hair,
So we were really glad he came,
Because he was the best laugh there!

Lynne Joyce11.05.2014

Two English sisters at the bar
Enjoying their food and a chat,
Both with phoney posh accents,
Busy talking of this and of that.

Their chit chat adds weight to the saying
Issues absorb clever people,
Less clever people talk of events,
Dull people talk about people.

They are pulling their friends and acquaintances down,
They talk about sisters and brothers,
There is rarely a good word about anyone,
Be they family friends or others.

But the funniest thing about these two
Is the effect of the wine going down,
One gets much slower and posher,
While one slips into rough Chapeltown.

One’s phoney posh accent gets stronger,
The other gets earthy and rough,
Proof positive were any needed
That being pretentious is tough!

Lynne Joyce 09.05.2014

He smiles a superficial smile
While harassing his timid wife
Telling her this and that is wrong
With her, her looks, her style, her life.

Penetrating eye contact
Delivered much like body blows
To bully and intimidate.
Why she’s with him heaven knows.

“When in England you were always
Centre of your family,
Now that we are here in Spain
You can’t cope with only me.”

“Your problem is,” “The trouble is,”
On and on and on he whines,
Never letting her reply,
With every word he undermines.

He is expensively dressed and coiffed,
And Gucci glasses grace his face,
While she he hasn’t seen a hairdresser,
And wears cheap tat from the market place.

I want to go and say to her,
“Respect yourself and dump this shit,
Rebuild your shattered confidence,
Move out, move on, get on with it.”

Instead I sit and write this verse
Then draw his mean and nasty face.
Maybe if I stick pins in it
A Witch will put him in his place!

Lynne Joyce, Calpé, 08.05.2014

Illustration to follow.

Sad, sad lady stumbles in
To her local restaurant,
Her alcoholic totter tells
That terrifying demons haunt
Her clean and sober waking life
And so she must anaesthetise
The demons and the gremlins who
Intimidate and terrorise.

Sad, sad lady eats her meal
While glimpsing at her mobile phone,
Searching for faux company
So that she doesn’t feel alone
But her aching loneliness
Radiates from every cell,
Excruciating loneliness
That traps her in a sad, sad hell.

Lynne Joyce, Calpé, 08.05.2014

Twice Besieged Because Of Incidents In The Neighbourhood

Oh how I love the boys in blue,
The bully boys in uniform
Who, when an incident occurs
Never bother to inform
The people who are near to it,
The people in the firing line,
Instead keep info well behind
The power crazy, thin blue line.

Why do they keep it to themselves?
Are they too arrogant to share
With members of the public who
Live immediately next to where
A human drama’s happening,
Whatever drama that might be,
But keep us under house arrest
Preventing our mobility?

I’m angry with the boys in blue,
Their treatment was despicable
We are just the neighbours here,
Not reprobate or criminal,
And yet we were made prisoners
Told very clearly, “Stay inside,”
But never told of how or when
The situation would subside.

How typical of boys in blue,
The bully boys in uniform,
Who, when the incidents occurred
Never bothered to inform
We who live right next to them,
The people in the firing line, (literally, there were armed police)
Instead they trapped us, uninformed
Behind the power-crazed blue line.

Lynne Joyce 28-04-2014

I’m having yet more surgery,
A year on from the last
Time they carved me up, the time
I thought would be my last.

They’ll stitch me up to heal again
On this my latest trip,
In case I need more surgery
I’d rather have a zip

A zipper would be so much fun
And save a lot of time,
In case they need to poke around
These insides of mine.

I’d like to have a stylish zip
In platinum or gold,
Its nice to have some jewellery
When, like me, you are old.

I suppose I’d need a locking zip
To keep my inside bits inside,
Have the key stay with the doctor,
‘Til his skills must be applied.

I’m having yet more surgery,
Just a year on from the last
I’ll make them fit a zipper
In case its not my last.

Lynne Joyce 16.04.2014

For the benefit of my international readers, in England a Drip is a person with a complete absence of personality, energy and interest.

Drip, Drip, Drip!

Two drips don’t make a trickle,
Two trickles don’t make a flood,
When two drips get together
Interaction isn’t good.

I saw a TV programme
In which a drippy pair
Were looking for a new home
‘Twas a wearisome affair.

This dreary couple really were
A boring sight to see,
Devoid of any interest
Or personality.

They blethered and they dithered,
Made half-hearted look like fun,
And had as much hope as a snail
On a marathon run.

They specialised in feeble,
Disinterested and bland,
And didn’t seem that interested
In the task that was at hand.

I think they needed plugging
Straight into the mains,
To stimulate their energy,
Intelligence and brains.

Two drips don’t make a trickle,
Two trickles don’t make a flood,
When two drips get together
TV programmes aren’t that good.

Lynne Joyce 15.04.2014

Train seats set in groups of three
Drive me to despair,
The centre seats stay empty
Like no one dares sit there,
Instead they stand in exits
And in the corridors,
They place their bikes and pushchairs
Right across the doors,
Uncaring that their actions are
Inhibiting egress,
Why can’t they park their arses
To make the exit less
Like a rugby scrummage,
An unholy rout,
Just fill the centre seats up
And let us all get out.

© Lynne Joyce 09.04.2014

I need a customised stun gun
That works on the power of speech,
So I can use it on morons
Who are inside my auditory reach.

I don’t always need it on silent,
Just volume control will do fine
To turn down the prattle of morons
Whose voices are drowning out mine.

I wish that I had that gun right now
At the station where I sit and wait
Being verbally battered by morons
Regaling their tedious fate.

I don’t mind them telling their stories
To friends who are standing quite close,
But why, when I don’t want to hear it,
Are they so loudly verbose?

If their stories were bursting with interest
And told in a magical tone
I would be happy to listen
But not to their wearisome drone.

I need a customised stun gun
That works on the power of speech,
To turn down the volume of morons
Who are inside my auditory reach.

Lynne Joyce 09.04.2014

The purpose of bureaucracy
Is very plain to see,
It’s job is to maintain the jobs
Of the bureau crass IT.

Nothing logical or sensible
Can ever intervene
To prevent the bureau crass IT
Stealing this particular scene.

InfoPath can create forms,
Excel can make spreadsheets,
Word can do word garbage,
And other wordy feats.

PowerPoint does flashy stuff
To bring customers around,
Visio does flow charts,
With Project, Gantt charts abound .

All the folk who study these
At university
Work very hard to mystify
The bureau crass IT.

The purpose of bureaucracy
Is very plain to see,
It’s job is to perpetuate
The bureau crass IT.

Lynne Joyce 26.03.2014

Friend In Need

A friend in need is a friend indeed,
How very true,
This is the friend you turn to
When troubled or blue,
This is the friend who counsels you,
Gives good advice,
The one you need when you’re in Hell,
Not paradise.

But what is it like to be that friend,
That friend in need,
The friend you only turn at times
When you hurt or bleed,
The one who only ever hears tales
Of misery,
The dependable dry shoulder friend
Who is judgement free?

Where is this friend in need when you
Are having fun?
Is s/he there when the cakes are handed round
And the kettle’s on?
Is s/he there when you’re at the theatre
Or cinema?
Is s/he carousing with your other friends
At the local bar?

Or is s/he at home alone because
You forgot to ring?
Is s/he the one who is never part
Of the social thing?
Is s/he the one you meant to call
And then forgot?
The one for whom the coffee never gets
Out of the pot?

A friend in need is a friend indeed,
How very true,
Kept in a cupboard until you feel
Troubled or blue,
So think on why, my needy friends,
As think you should,
S/he’s your friend when things are bad,
But not when they’re good.

Lynne Joyce 21.03.2014

On reading something that claimed to be a poem but was just rather dreary, pretentious prose broken into lines.

Pretending to be serious
And grandiose,
A poem that is nothing more
Than broken prose,
Take out the carriage returns
And all that’s left
Is narcissistic nonsense,
Warp without weft,
No sharp, compelling rhythm,
No charming rhyme,
No magical allusion
Captured in time,
No complicated metaphor,
No simile,
Not one dramatic, pregnant pause,
No hyperbole –

Just a load of pretentious bollocks really!

Lynne Joyce18.03.2014

Behold the Narcissistic woman,
The all-controlling Drama Queen,
Who keeps control of acolytes
Ensuring that she reigns supreme.

Her wicked mind games never end,
Her mouth smiles but her eyes are ice,
She weaves a web of wicked lies,
She’s evil but presents as nice.

She brilliantly manipulates
In a million, subtle ways,
And anyone who challenges
Is made to be the one who pays.

A specialist in cruelty,
She always gets to shift the blame,
Her ego’s only satisfied
When she’s the winner in this game.

Her endless mind games keep attention
Firmly fixed on only she,
Other people are appendages,
Worker bees to her Queen Bee.

Her appetite for approbation’s
Utterly insatiable,
And anyone who fails to fawn
Is damned as reprehensible.

She’s like the vortex in a storm,
She leaves destruction in her path,
Then blithely does the same again,
Not caring for the aftermath.

Beware this greedy, ego-child,
This toddler in a woman’s form,
Steer very, very clear of her,
For she can only do you harm.

© Lynne Joyce

A passion for fashion
Is all very well
But what if that fashion’s
The fashion from Hell?

It is 2014
And the fashion right now
Is clothing like condoms
More yucky than wow!

Sad fashion victims
Regardless of shape
Drag on their condoms
And leave us agape.

Every lump, every bump,
Every swell, every sag,
Is out there on show,
On each tarty old bag.

Don’t they have mirrors,
Can they not see
How their choice of apparel
Makes them sex appeal free?

Why can’t they be tailored
In clothing that fits
But doesn’t highlight
Their bellies and tits?

What is wrong with an elegant
Suit or a gown?
Why choose clothing so tight
We see foodstuffs go down?

A passion for fashion
Is all very well
But in 2014
It is fashion from Hell!

Lynne Joyce 21.02.2014 Written while sitting in the Hockney, Shipley, and viewing all the slappers in condoms.

My past has been demolished,
Every brick and every stone
Of houses I once lived in,
Broken, torn down, gone.

The hospital where I was born
No longer offers care
To Army wives and mothers,
Now lunatics live there.

My first home here in England,
Though not my home for long,
Was torn down so a motorway
Could let cars speed along.

My second home, a dreadful place
Where grandfather once stayed,
Is now completely flattened,
His injustices repaid.

My third home, though newly built
When I was just a child,
Was wrecked because the area
Was constantly defiled.

Three primary schools where I went
As all small children must
All victims of the bulldozer,
All crumbled brick and dust.

My grammar school, it’s corridors,
Its classrooms, fields and halls
Now has Ragwort growing
Where once were office walls.

The buildings from my past have gone
Their function gone or changed,
But that does not make memories
Erased or rearranged.

Brickwork can be turned to dust,
Streets to vacant space,
But memories can linger on
Without a carapace.

Those homes live on inside my head,
The schools inside my mind,
Some in glowing colours,
Some deep, dark and unkind.

With some of them I wish that I
Had lit the dynamite
And watched exploding shards create,
A liberating light.

But now at last I realise
That painful memory
Can only be resolved by
One person, and that’s me.

Lynne Joyce 19.07.2013

Here we have a one trick pony,
A mega mouth with just one skill,
A power crazed manipulator
Who uses politics to still
His alcoholic trembling hand
And ego driven need to seem
The knowing and invincible,
Senior member of the team,
Even though he lost his place,
Defeated, beaten, lost his seat,
He can’t retire gracefully,
Make a dignified retreat,
For this man is a one trick pony
With no resources other than
A mega mouth and mega ego,
A brash shell round an empty man.

© Lynne Joyce 12.02.2014

The world’s a freebie freak show
For people who, like me,
Find human interaction
A source of jollity.

Among the best locations
For watching human freaks,
Are train stations and airports,
I could watch in there for weeks.

Rock concerts are a good one,
Where freaks come out to hear
Guitar wielding weirdos
And emulate their gear.

Large scale city centres
Have lots of freaks around,
London is spectacular
For that’s where freaks abound.

In continental cities
People are so smart,
But Londoners turn strange clothes
Into a fine art.

Coaches full of tourists
Don’t care how they look,
All they want is photographs
To fill their photo book.

Trains have antisocial freaks
Who will not interact,
They avoid eye contact
To keep their space intact.

But 2 a.m. in nightclubs
Is where you really see
The weirdest of the weirdos
Imbibing recklessly.

The world’s a freebie freak show
A human cabaret
That keeps a voyeur just like me
Entertained all day.

12.02.2014

A murky, dirty, gloomy journey
By train across the Pennines hills,
The sky is grey, the land is muddy,
The landscape dulled by winter’s chills.

River, full to overflowing,
Rushes, splashes, overflows,
Making lakes from fields and meadows,
Who knows where the wildlife goes?

Murky landscapes, long, dark tunnels,
Solid, stone-built Pennines towns,
Canals with lots of locks in sequence
Navigate the ups and downs.

Occupants of rail side buildings
Must learn to live with railway noise,
Newly built, canal side dwellings
House young and trendy girls and boys.

Houses, industries and farm land,
All colour washed in muddy grey,
By the cruel artist, Winter,
The one we want to go away.

Now on the return train journey
The scene is washed by Winter Sun,
Bright blue skies, and vibrant colours
Cheer everything and everyone.

The former murky, dirty journey
Is lifted now by bright sunlight,
Industries’ tall blocks and pipe work,
Then dreary grey, now sparkling white.

The hills, once dull and grey and cloudy
Now roundly sculpted works of art,
Tinted in soft greens and russets
High points at the county’s heart.

Long dark tunnels punctuate
The sparkling, sun kissed winter views,
Scudding clouds create dark shadows
Creating patches of dark hues.

Solid, stone-built Pennines buildings
Now take on a golden hue,
Rushing, muddy murky rivers
Are now reflecting shades of blue.

Once a dreary, dirty journey
Now transformed golden rays
Elevate my jaded sprits
With promises of bright Spring days.

© Lynne Joyce 12.02.2014

I’m a maverick, not a herd animal,
Group stuff is just not for me,
And while others find it convivial
I prefer to be soli-ta-ry.

Pack animals always amuse me
In order to fit with the crowd
They adapt their behaviours and values
Then proclaim the crowd values out loud.

Herd animals dress in herd costumes
Like livestock you find on a farm,
They’re always in groups, never single,
Like they fear the lone path leads to harm.

Herd animals really can’t venture
Outside of their own comfort zone,
When they travel they take the herd with them,
They simply can’t do it alone.

Herd animals have herd behaviours,
Herd clothing and food and routines,
They exist within safe local boundaries,
They define what parochial means.

Herd animals feel very threatened
By maverick people like me,
The fact that we’re fine on the outside
Seems to threaten their identity.

I’m a maverick, not a herd animal
I’m a loner who thrives on my own,
And while herd members need other people,
I’m perfectly happy alone.

Lynne Joyce 05.02.2014

I’m wearing voluminous bloomers,
I put all my thongs in a case,
A case that I had to name Justin,
Justin case I get back to the place
Where once I was slim and athletic,
And wore bras and thongs made of lace.

It’s hard to accept that I’m older,
That I no longer invoke desire,
That my wild lacy undies are wasted
And don’t set my partner on fire,
So I hide in voluminous bloomers,
And grieve for my long lost desire.

Lynne Joyce 04.02.2014