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Lost for words May 2014
The goo-goo gaggle gobble grammar
New eggs standing in a roe
Alphabetting the Blurb is Cuckoo
School kid robots on the go
Fopdoodles questing for an ology
Dilly-dally on Patagonian trek
Mead-merry escalators of industry,
Or dudes who lakh in debt?
A billion ****** bridegrooms
In taffeta take-away
Cherry-picking for the species
From the matrix DNA
Muggles meet at midlife
For a Royal English tea
Swapping apps for homemade yogurt
Just a wee bit too PC
And so the dames riddle their speechcraft
On the doublespeak roundabout
Before Alzheimer's wicked edit
Skirts the bone-house bounders **out
This poem was written as an entry to a Telegraph newspaper competition: a poem of no more than 100 words which includes at least 25  from a list of 100 chronicling the history of the English language. The selected words are in bold. It didn't win :)
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2012
Bounders drawing lines,
Last days lowered like a boom—
  .  .  .  Chalk of rising moon.
Seán Mac Falls Jul 2013
Bounders drawing lines,
Last days lowered like a boom—
Chalk of rising moon.
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2014
Bounders drawing lines,
Last days lowered like a boom—
Chalk of rising moon.
Tom Salter Aug 2020
The bounders are saying that noon is coming early today,
And that we should retire before the sun is at her highest.
They tell us to lock our doors tight, and to throw away
Any desire to open them again, at least until
The bounders’ wives come knocking early the next day.
Strangely, they warn against closing our windows
Instead they state that they ought to be kept feebly ajar.

But I can’t sleep with an open window anymore.
The village doctor, who dresses in suit and tie
But likes to lie and speak rather astue, says it’s due
To some scar I acquired fighting the morally confused.

Every Wednesday, when I go to meet the ‘doc’, he
Assures me that he has some kind of qualification and
Always says not to worry about the specifics (or
His motives) as they would probably go over my head.
He starts our hour asking about the terror in the air
And the echoes of shriek-filled nights, and whether
They still remind me of that summer on the front line,
Without fail, and without remorse I always reply;

“Lovers sleep because we (the
Buoyant folk) gave our souls,
Our limbs and our speech, and
Now we live with these deep
Aches and fake laughs. These
Are what we gladly deserve”.

The words leave my mouth at a crawl, and
Take a miserable five minutes to complete.
The rest of my time at the quackery (this is what
The wife use to call it) is spent ironing
Over my other, less obvious, flaws. The doc
Says they are from much more recent wars,
And that I ought to use his miracle stock
To see if that succeeds in finding the cure.

The wife use to chuckle when I told her of my time
With the quacking man;

“More like barking mad!” she would exclaim,
Always through a snide but warm grin.

Those words always come quickly to mind
When I visit the doc, I shan’t tell him or he’d
Probably prescribe some strange empty remedy.
You see, the wife died a few years ago, not long
After my hate for open windows began. The doc
Thinks i’m over my wife’s permanent leave and
He even believes that i’ve started courting again.
I even told him once of a woman named ‘Claire’
Who would regularly visit my home to cut my hair,
And that on such an occasion we had started an affair.
The doc readily consumed this lie (reminding me
Of why the wife called him a fraud), and I sniggered
Into my elbow crease so he wouldn’t catch on.

The wife sits on the mantelpiece now, watching
Me from above the evening embers that light up
The eerie and solemn nights. I often converse
With myself, pretending the wife still listens but
I know her role was revoked from the world.
Alas, I am forced to play her part but I am afraid
There are few words left now, only mocking
Phrases for the quacking man and the barking mad.
She greeted me as a brother , our talks seemed a bother. She just looked at me as her usual stranger. Nothing new just the cold ambers.
The as we were leaving, I heard she was to pass by his place, to leave him some case. Just the mention of his name, her eyes lit, she had a tremor and in her eyes I saw it.
Just like a propane filled house explodes, she welled.
Uneasiness came over her, and like a teenager, she was just longing for his touch.
It might not be a wonder that she had him in her, it might just be that her heart was fully for him. And know am just the shell, she lit her old fires and they long and burn for him.
Each dreams she has is about what ifs, how life would have been different with me out of the picture and him in.
Its complex now, there kids to deal with, and the society look.

Thou in another place another country her hearts passes the bounders and enjoys his embrace, though on phone, or social media.

Its hand to pretend, when an old flame has been lit
Lorraine Colon Apr 2019
I observe the world with tear-filled eyes
As deceitful bounders don their disguise,
Pretending to care for the down-trodden,
Their pledge of compassion, soon forgotten

Why am I compelled to answer the cry
Of the hopeless whose lives have gone awry,
Marooned on Life's sea, left with but one oar,
Why am I compelled to pull them ashore?

It pains me to hurt any living thing --
Rather than **** a bee, I'd let it sting;
In my heart I know this is who I am ---
The martyr, the sacrificial lamb

Can this be choice? the instinct is so strong!
I'm too keenly aware of right and wrong;
I can't help but choose to do the right thing,
And this behavior has me wondering ......

Kids who tear wings off of butterflies ----
Is this a behavior they can revise?
Is this really free will, or do you suppose
Just inherent traits that we can't oppose?

I can't help but think choice is preordained,
At birth, some dark souls with evil are stained,
While others carry their cross up the hill;
Do we choose ..... do we really have free will?

— The End —