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Just Saying …

You say that you’re ‘just saying.’
But why the need to add
‘Just saying’ to what you’ve just ‘just said’?
I thought that you just had
Just said what you had wanted to,
So why, I’m not quite sure
You’re telling me that you’re ‘just saying.’
Why ‘just say’ any more?
We’re all ‘just saying’ what we’ve just said.
To add ‘just saying’ means nowt.
So, can I ask you nicely
Just to try and cut it out?
If you don’t think your view
Will get across what you’re conveying
Perhaps you should refrain from saying.
So, don’t ‘just say.’
Just saying!

© Carol Ann Wood
June 2016


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Links:
My bespoke poetry service, Diverse Verse
About the author
Contact the author
Follow Carol Ann Wood on Twitter
Levelling the Playing-Field: Carol’s football-related blog
Only in Erinsborough Carol Ann’s fun look at the lives and loves of the characters from the Australian soapNeighbours


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Anyone Can Write A Poem.

(But Maybe Not Everyone Should)

This is written for every person who, when I tell them I’m a poet, spouts unoriginal verse at me, because they think all poetry is either ‘Roses Are Red’ or a limerick. And they think poetry is easy and set out to try and prove it.

And it’s written for all the people who send in ‘their’ amusing ditties to radio stations without revealing that they didn’t write it themselves.

I wax lyrical, you wax bits.
I write poems and you sculpt tits.
I build words and you build flats.
I write prose, you rescue cats.

Don’t quote limericks at me,
I won’t wax bits or mend your knee.
Your rôle ain’t simple, nor is mine.
There’s skill and craft in every line.

And, writing poems is not for all:
I can’t heal limbs nor kick a ball.
Don’t try and tell me what I do
Is easy shit, it isn’t true.

If your idea of penning verse
Is ‘There once was’ – or even worse,
Don’t patronise me when I speak,
To score a point or attention-seek.

Cos I wax lyrical, you wax wood.
I bake words and you bake food.
If poetry’s not your cup of tea
Just leave the wordsmith stuff to me.

By all means, if it sounds inviting,
Please do try your hand at writing.
Never, though, ‘because you can.’
(And don’t write rhyme that doesn’t scan.)

Don’t quote your red, red rose at me.
I like originality.
I won’t rhyme bird with turd or heard.
But I will have the final word.

© Carol Ann Wood
Sunday 10 December 2017


Links:
My bespoke poetry service, Diverse Verse
About the author
Contact the author, or follow this blog
Follow Carol Ann Wood on Twitter
Levelling the Playing-Field: Carol’s football-related blog
Only in Erinsborough Carol Ann’s fun look at the lives and loves of the characters from the Australian soapNeighbours


Index of Posts:


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Granny Gets the Sex Toy

(A precautionary tale of Christmas preparations)

I’ve done my Christmas shopping, I’m getting quite ahead!
My haul of gifts are waiting to be wrapped, beneath my bed.
And so, with Christmas carols playing, in spirit, I begin,
A plate of mince pies by my side
And a little nip of gin.

Outside the snow is falling as I Sellotape and wrap,
(Well actually it’s sleet but then I thought that sounded crap.)
I write my sticky labels and I eat another pie,
And I take another nip of gin
To help the task fly by.

I’m feeling rather jolly, and smug to know that others
Leave gift buying till the very last for aunts and mates and mothers.
It’s easy once you’re used to it, and so to celebrate
I have another nip of gin and the last pie on the plate.

The carols still are ringing out and now my job is done,
The gifts all wrapped quite prettily – it’s even been good fun.
But wait – where are the labels that I got from a value range?
I know I stuck them on each one, but they’ve fallen off! How strange!

Well sod this for a lark, cos I’m not going to start again,
I’m sick of frigging Christmas and the whole thing is a pain.
So Granny gets the sex toy, and Uncle gets the make-up.
It won’t do either any harm and will give their lives a shake up.

Yes Granny gets the sex toy, my mate the potted plants,
My brother gets the oven gloves and my boss the fur skinned pants.
My mother gets the chick-lit and my teenage niece a pen,
And Granny gets the sex toy cos I an not starting again!

Yes Granny gets the sex toy, and as for those pink knickers
They were meant for my cousin Kay, but they’re probably now the vicar’s.
I may have made a slight mistake in large or small amounts
But Granny gets the sex toy – and it’s the frigging thought that counts!

© Carol Ann Wood
November 2009


Links:
My bespoke poetry service, Diverse Verse
About the author
Contact the author, or follow this blog
Follow Carol Ann Wood on Twitter
Levelling the Playing-Field: Carol’s football-related blog
Only in Erinsborough Carol Ann’s fun look at the lives and loves of the characters from the Australian soapNeighbours


Index of Posts:


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Things That Were Never Okay

Recently BBC Radio Cambridgeshire reported increased domestic abuse statistics for Peterborough. A local woman was interviewed about her experience.

A man messaged the programme to say that the statistical rise in domestic abuse was just couples not being able to work out ‘tit-for-tat’ arguments between themselves; that, nowadays, anyone risked arrest if they ‘so much as raised their voices’ to their partners; that people are coming forward to report things which he considers trivial.

This is my response.

It was never okay to raise a fist
Or to tell her she was rubbish
Every single day.
It was never okay to force yourself upon her
While she was sleeping. No. Not okay.
It was never okay to try and keep her down at heel.
To tell her what to wear, how to think, or what to feel.
It was never okay to tell her
Whom she could see, and when.
Or, to watch her struggle home with heavy load
As you drove by in your car. Again.
It was never okay to say
That her writing was a joke,
Then pretend in public
To be the ideal, decent, honest bloke.
It was never okay to threaten her,
To laugh in her face, or to put your hands
Around her neck.
It was never okay to make her feel
Day in, day out, a pathetic, trembling wreck.
It was never okay to hide your secrets
And to tell her this was now her life.
To say she’d made her bed
And so must be a loyal, subservient wife.
All these things you said and did were not okay.
And are not okay now
To be endured by those still entrapped
By some mistaken vow.
It is not tit-for-tat, a silly tiff, exaggeration.
It is not okay, and so I WILL speak for those
Still in a world of daily desperation.
I will speak to tell them they can leave,
To help them know there is a way.
I will speak to let them know
Abuse is not their fault.
They do not have to live that life of pain.
Abuse is not okay.

© Carol Ann Wood
Tuesday 28 November 2017


Links:
My bespoke poetry service, Diverse Verse
About the author
Contact the author, or follow this blog
Follow Carol Ann Wood on Twitter
Levelling the Playing-Field: Carol’s football-related blog
Only in Erinsborough Carol Ann’s fun look at the lives and loves of the characters from the Australian soapNeighbours


Index of Posts:


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For Dominic

Dear Dom, my friend, we heard the news,
You’ve had a bad ordeal.
Struck down in Leeds, with tubes and wires
To help your body heal.

But you are strong, your spirit tough
And now you’re home once more.
Recovery will take a while.
(I’m sure you know the score!)

Your family and all your friends
Are glad you’re getting better.
So now you must do as you’re told
To the very bloody letter!

Don’t try and overdo it,
Just relax and take it slow.
We’ll all be there to spur you on,
As back to health you go.

Put on your brother’s music
And you’ll soon be on the mend,
And writing poetry again.
We know you will, my friend!

© Carol Ann Wood
Sunday, 12 November 2017


Links:
My bespoke poetry service, Diverse Verse
About the author
Contact the author, or follow this blog
Follow Carol Ann Wood on Twitter
Levelling the Playing-Field: Carol’s football-related blog
Only in Erinsborough Carol Ann’s fun look at the lives and loves of the characters from the Australian soapNeighbours


Index of Posts:


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Your Aunty’s Pussy

I’m not saying that I never share anything silly or useless. But sometimes I’m incredulous at what people will and will not share!

Share a chain message, send a heart or flower.
Then, you’ll never have bad luck.
Share a status to help catch a thief
Who stole a bike in Bridlington
Even though you live in Delhi.
(Well, thieves can move fast.)
But don’t share my poem.

Mark yourself as safe in an earthquake
In Japan, when you’re in Market Deeping.
Share a funny video of a twerking Granny
And a photo of your aunty’s pussy.
Share an unfunny joke from The Lad Bible.
Share a cake shaped like a penis.
Share your breakfast, the first snow of winter,
A hamster eating nuts.
But don’t share my poem.

Don’t share my poem because it could contain a virus
And in any case, you might not understand it
Because it’s a poem and poems are for other people.
Poems are for people who think they’re a bit cleverer than you.
And poems are for people who don’t want to do real jobs.
That’s what someone said on Jeremy Kyle and in The Daily Mail
So it must be true.
So share the bad parking, the football fans behaving badly,
Copy, paste, share.
Just do not share my poem, no matter how much I implore you to.

Share a photo of a missing teenager
Because you are responsible and caring.
(And I am being serious here because it might help them get found faster.)
But don’t look at the date before you share the photo.
Don’t notice that said teenager went missing for two hours in 2014
And was then fortunately found safe but intoxicated at the bus stop.
Share frequently, carelessly, whether the news is fake or not.
Especially share your aunty’s pussy pix.
But please, don’t ever do anything so stupid
As to share my poem.

© Carol Ann Wood
October 2017


Links:
My bespoke poetry service, Diverse Verse
About the author
Contact the author, or follow this blog
Follow Carol Ann Wood on Twitter
Levelling the Playing-Field: Carol’s football-related blog
Only in Erinsborough Carol Ann’s fun look at the lives and loves of the characters from the Australian soapNeighbours


Index of Posts:


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The Late, Late Train

It’s been a long day and you’re weary and worn,
You won’t reach your home till some hour in the morn.
There’s a man with a can and he sits next to you
And he’s slurring his words, as the pissed often do.
There’s The Suits with their braying, their bragging and boasting,
A PA with Moët for the party she’s hosting.
A gaggle of hens and some young lads with bum fluff
Who jostle and nudge and who try hard to look tough.
The over-loud tourists, the twat with no brain.
All walks of life on the late, late train.

The football day trippers, so happy or sad.
The backpacking friends and the poor knackered dad,
The beggars, the chancers and the ones with no ticket.
You daren’t leave your seat in case someone should nick it.
The man whose coat smells like stale piss and old rain.
All walks of life on the late, late train.

The couple who fondle, who grope, snog and slobber,
The girl with the outrageous fancy dress clobber.
The stench of the burger, the noodles, the sauce.
The whiff of the Lynx (and the lager, of course).
The phone conversations, the break-ups of pain
All seen and heard on the late, late train.

The lies of the partner who swears they worked late,
And who then phones their lover to arrange the next date.
The girls in a bitch fight all shouting and screaming,
The indignant woman who’s roused from her dreaming.
The tweeters, the readers, the careworn and dazed,
The old-time commuters nonplussed and non-fazed.
Wake up tomorrow and do it again.
Your Ground Hog Day journey
On the late, late train.

© Carol Ann Wood
October 2017


Index of Posts:


Links:
My bespoke poetry service, Diverse Verse
About the author
Contact the author
Follow Carol Ann Wood on Twitter
Levelling the Playing-Field: Carol’s football-related blog
Only in Erinsborough Carol Ann’s fun look at the lives and loves of the characters from the Australian soapNeighbours


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Winter Bollocks

I thought it was time to circulate this one again, since the #DailyFail is currently lying about ‘Poppy Day’ (aka Remembrance Sunday) being cancelled.

Round here we celebrate Xmas!
Round here we celebrate Eid!
Round here we embrace Diwali!
Round here we embrace each creed!

So don’t go spreading your Daily Mail crap
About things being PC.
It’s a load of winter bollocks
And it doesn’t ring true to me!

It’s a myth put out this time each year,
Just like the April lies,
When you spread the word St George is banned,
With your outraged, bitter cries.

Yes it’s just your winter bollocks:
Like, Nativities being banned.
You’re the perfect type for the EDL –
Too thick to understand.

And you’re spreading your hate on Facebook
All under the guise of your race.
And telling us all these winter tales
From your Fear-Of-Other place!

It was Fifa who said no to poppies
And not our own rulers, you prat.
And certainly not any Muslims I know
Would ever agree to that.

And no one has banned ‘Merry Xmas’
Yes, it’s still an acceptable phrase!
And they haven’t banned Xmas cake, cards or mince pies
And they haven’t banned Songs Of Praise!

And they haven’t banned Rudolph or Santa or Elves
And the pound shops will still sell their tat.
But what would you say if curry was banned,
Yes, what would you think to that??

Yes it’s just your winter bollocks
That you copy and paste without thought.
So go paste it all on a snowman’s ball
Your bollocks is not being bought!

© Carol Ann Wood
November 2011


Index of Posts:


Links:
My bespoke poetry service, Diverse Verse
About the author
Contact the author
Follow Carol Ann Wood on Twitter
Levelling the Playing-Field: Carol’s football-related blog
Only in Erinsborough Carol Ann’s fun look at the lives and loves of the characters from the Australian soapNeighbours


Please note that any advertisements which appear below these posts are placed there by a WordPress algorithm. They are not indicative of any endorsement by the author.