Oldie: Throw away
 

No bicycle winners for us. The best was a mention for me because I capitalised Boris's Bum. And who wouldn't, I'd like to know.

Here's one I know you'll like better.


COMPETITION NO 132
Thoughts are turning to spring cleaning, which means confronting all that stuff cluttering the house. Please write a poem entitled 'Throw Away'. Maximum 16 lines.

Entries to 'Competition No 132 by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London WT 3EG 7436 8804) or email email comps@theoldie.co.uk by 17 December.

Replying to myself - here's a little verse.


Throw Away

My Son, in all the tracts of life
So varied and circuitous,
Acquaintance with the facts of life
Will not be found gratuitous.

Debauch in railway carriages
Can never be commended,
For thus too many marriages
Are prematurely ended.

Likewise, in taxis, air balloons
And low, notorious houses,
Keep it inside your pantaloons
And button up your trousers!

True love and domesticity
Are infinitely better,
Affording true felicity.
Incinerate this letter.

Spring Cleaning

I've thrown away my rod and wrath,
the nights I'd wrapped in rage and blue.
I've thrown away my snarl and sneer.
and my one --legged, gravelly buccaneer
never as scary as a two-legged you.

I've chunked out boxes of bitter and bitch,
drawers of "my dear, I loathe you, too",
the Tie-dyes of hate I made out of fear,
bins of doilies with "Why are you here?"
and my "Don't you belong in a cage at the zoo?"

Yes, it's finally feeling more like spring.
"But you're so wasteful!" the poor nations rue.
It's not all compulsion; there's a prize in here.
Somewhere in all of this trash is a tear:
I'll hawk it on e-bay; it should bring a sou.

Thoughts are turning to spring cleaning...
Seriously? In December?
All my thoughts are winter-leaning.
Guest lists. Turkeys to dismember.

Leaves to rake, then snow to shovel.
Gifts to purchase and to wrap.
Thoughts of clearing out my hovel?
No, accumulating crap!

throw away
 

Abandon, cast off, clear, discard
Dump, jettison, get rid of, ditch
The cluttered rubbish in your yard,
The cellar's hoard of useless kitsch.

The novelties you impulse-bought
Euphorically, or simply drunk?
They're not the magic things you thought.
They're clutter, trash, scrap, débris, junk.

The Chinese cat no longer waves.
The solar light will never glow.
What kind of anal idiot saves
Such wastes of wonga, cash, dosh, dough?

A thorough springtime purge will pose
A perfect opportunity for you
To stock up with the otiose
Again, afresh, once more, anew.

I like it, Bazza, particularly the Larkin echo in the last line.

Spring Cleaning with Care

(John, sorry to be so verbose. I must be in a purgative mood.)


We don't need much to be snug as a bug.
Throw out the sofa, we'd sit on the rug.
Throw out the rug, we'd sit on the floor,
wondering what all that clutter was for.

But vernal purgations do run amok.
Somethings we should never shuck:
our wedding pix, our baby's first tricks,
that edition signed by Jim and Huck

So choissesez, but don't be a tool.
You never know, those pictures from school
may show a Mozart, a Rembrandt, a Gates,
but be sure to waste your first ex-, that fool.

Also:
I so look forward to checking your thread, daily. Keep it up!