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Simon Piesse Jan 2021
To Rico

11th hour
11th day
11th month
All units from Tango Charlie 2
Urgent assistance required:
1x IC2 male: white surplus tie
Scholars’ best
Suspected faint
Tomb of the unknown solider
Heron gowns swipe  
1x nurse in attendance
Rose hair Bisto heart  
Male unresponsive nurse giving kiss of life
Cindy Crawford dorm
Tango Charlie 3 be advised
Epaulettes flurry Jerusalem Chamber
West Door now open
Dignitaries' B minor fugue
Poppy air bite
inspired by my friend who fainted and was rescued by a nurse at 11am during the minutes' silence to remember the war dead in Westminster Abbey by the tomb of the unknown solider.
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
The kind of day that urges you to observe.
Learn what time-kissed Victorian bricks exist,
drink and reminisce above the high street.

Soar for a while, before hooked back to ground.
Our Member of Parliament is storming down
that beloved stretch of patterned cement.

Stand fully charged, a magnet waiting for contact.
Lenses in my sockets analyse wicked entourage,
while my options flick through a rolodex of responses.

An influx of questions, injustice and inquiries. Like
all those stories stuck in permanent sun dawn,
meaning there's always hope but never warmth.

Polished black shoes now by the ironic news-
agents. I contemplate resorting to expletives
but fear the irrelevance of a rampaging elephant.

Among the fantasy fireworks, my sparkler drowns.
A rebellious town resident repelled without glance.
Reduced to the blue rosette on that expensive lapel.
Poem #17 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'.
Steve Page Jul 2019
The Statesman and the Showman
were nervous, but unbowed.
The Statesman spoke of pride
while the Showman played the crowd.

The Statesman and the Showman:
'a can-do revolution,'
but the Statesman was a feint,
the Showman a distraction.

The Statesman and the Showman
both soon ran out of steam.
The Statesman was a fraud,
the Showman a bad dream.
23 July 2019.  And then there was Boris.
Steve Page May 2019
I've been
right in the thick of it
wanting to stick with it
just for the hell of it
up front and close to it.

But now
I've had my fill of it
done my fair share of it
time to slow down a bit
and exit before Brexit.
Enough of the politics already.
Boris likes to stroke his Mogg
Merkel loves a hot Macron
David Davis hates to Barnier
Keir Starmer gels with Garnier

May adores her slimy Gove
While Corbyn woos the Abbott
Liz Truss? Such angry sourpuss
Herself to champion loudly fuss

And Greening's not for leaning
Against the Brexit so opposed
Sajid wants a blimp of Trump
Which has given Donald the ****

Whilst in the gilt historic chair
We’ve a bent partisanal ******
Cash grabbing John the squeaker
Bercow! How in hell are you still Speaker?

Now when speaking of selfish greed
Travel. Duck houses. Second homes, and such
Let’s remember; as not to would be unfair
That glib arrogant war-monger; Blair

I’ve had enough of all of them
The Blunts. The Hunts. The useless…
Pieces of flotsam and jetsom
Don’t even start me on Leadsom!

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
On the subject of politics and Westminster in 2018 - Brexit etc, and the inadequacy of our politicians on all sides of the divide.
Balkus Feb 2018
He died in a sleep, yesterday morning,
unnoticed, without a warning,
quiet, like people die.

Now he doesn't need their spare change,
he doesn't need their promises
to sort this problem out
before 2025

He doesn't need you now, London,
like you never needed him,
he won't bother you anymore,
you won't hear him again saying Please.

He doesn't need you, Westminster,
death solved his problems, not you.

He passed away in his sleep,
he now lies in a warm bed, smiling,
and angels bring him hot food.

But, he wasn't the first and the last,
there's many more out there in the cold

and every death of a homeless
is a little death of our Free World.

The poem was written after learning about the death of a homeless man in the tunnel near Westminster tube station in London.
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
Ole Hunchback
Got a right Royal burial;
That smiling villain's bones
Bleached black-blonde
In underground parking.
Exhumed and parlayed
For over two years;
Confirmed to be he
Who caused a Queen
To cry vats of tears
For the Tower boys.
Poor Anne dropped her hankie.
His horse-drawn caisson
Is a subterfuge,
A distraction to veil
Civil dissatisfaction.
He finally got his horse,
And we get the droppings.
And I see Cromwell
Standing beside Churhill
And Charles ouside
Perhaps Manson
Will be busted
In Poet's Corner.
Richard III was re-buried last week.

— The End —