WHEN IN ADVERSITY – how to avoid getting done over or in.
It's a matter of concern
if your armpits start to burn
or your eyelids droop a little in the rain.
Know the fact you hang together
in every kind of weather
is attributed to emails of the brain.
The highway in your body
brings messages from Noddy
and sends them racing forward to their goal.
So toes can be extended
or fractures quickly mended.
Its to keep you well protected as a whole.
Well designed communications
run from brain to stations
and tell us how to handle any issue.
All fingers and all eyes
will respond without surprise
when noses ask for treatment with a tissue.
It’s the way a person rumbles
through the daily plight of stumbles
that amazes me whenever I observe
catastrophes abounding
from the battering and pounding
that grown men playing football don’t deserve.
They run and chase and kick
in ways that make me pick
some other less abusive kind of sports.
There's many I could mention
that require more attention
to the gentle art of thinking healthy thoughts.
In pursuit of higher matters
the cerebellum chatters
to the bits of me that always do their stuff.
Then off I go all ready
to exercise in heady
kinds of ways that bring me pleasure right enough.
But problems do arise
that occasionally surprise
and often leave me guessing how to cope.
The information highway
that organises my way
leads to panic if I give it too much rope.
So instead I always find
a more placid piece of mind
that will help me better reason out a clue.
There to reach the best conclusion
my brain avoids confusion
and absolutely tells me what to do.
When others think I’m napping
I’m really just re-mapping
new tactics that will serve when I’m bemused.
And I’ll put them into action
when faced with a distraction,
creating new ways out I’ve never used.
Some call it self-protection
to invent a new direction
when unfamiliar problems lie ahead.
But I know, in fact I'm certain
that if shown the final curtain
I’ll more likely stay alive than fall down dead.
Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2005
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A MILKMAID'S DILEMMA - the real story behind Nancy’s guilt
One morning young Nancy
had taken a fancy
to dress really quickly, then found
in haste she forgot
to put pants on her bot,
but her ankle length dress reached the ground.
She set off for work
for her boss, “What a jerk!”,
he’d have nothing to do with fair going.
He had bargained his way
to reductions in pay
for all, and kept creditors owing.
The path to the shed
was all muddy ahead
and she carried a fairly big load.
So not wanting to mess
her gumboots and dress
she detoured out to the road.
“Where are you going to
my pretty maid?”
called a lad from his bright yellow car.
“I’m going a-milking
sir” she said
“But don’t worry its not very far.”
With a grin on his face
and his mattress in place
he asked her to come on inside.
She smiled as she said,
“I’m a good girl, well bred."
"Can I bring all my tools on the ride?”
“Of course” said the boy.
“It gives me more joy
than you know to help someone so cool.
Sit right over there
in the passenger chair
with your bucket and three legged stool.”
As he drove down the road
this slimy young toad
continued to plan in his mind.
He gunned his bright car
down the ribbon of tar
leaving rubbery skid marks behind.
His intentions were clear;
he’d drop down a gear
and turn down a side road instead.
Then invite the girl in
to his back seat of sin
that he’d carefully prepared as a bed.
She’d been told of the dangers
of talking to strangers
by her teacher at primary school.
Now reality hit
and she thought, “This is it!"
"My goodness I’ve been such a fool.”
But she was aware
that her bucket and chair
might save her from being molested.
The tools of her trade
could come to her aid
if her trust was about to be tested.
The car slowed right down
and that miserable clown
then plucked up the courage to ask.
Surprisingly though
he just didn’t know
that his tools were not up to the task.
At that moment Nance
decided her chance
to survive this ordeal had arisen.
Her only way out
was to give him a clout
and risk being taken to prison
As she lifted her bucket
she whispered “Go suck it”
then bashed the young lad in the head.
With her three-legged stool
she battered the fool
till he thought he’d be better off dead.
That evening the story
of young Nancy’s gory
excursion in saving her honour
became headline news
expressing strong views
that she was considered a goner.
The CNN tickers
said a girl with no nickers
had murdered an innocent youth.
But you and I know
as our poem doth show
that’s an inadequate simplistic truth.
Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2005
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IF I COULD BE AN ELEPHANT - a new way to save the world
If I could be an elephant living in a zoo,
I’d poo a bit and trumpet but have little else to do.
So I’d pretend my trunk could stretch and look like it had grown,
Then when I’d choose to trumpet I’d be playing my trombone.
I’d lift one foot up to my snout then slide it in and out,
And puff and blow almighty breaths performing tunes devout.
Delighted in my newfound skill I’d only hesitate,
On Sundays when cathedral bells declared “It’s just on Eight”.
For at that time I know good people go to church to pray,
For better than embarrassments that plague their lives each day.
Then after church I’d once again lift up my trunk and blow,
Transcending superficial woes in lives that ebb and flow.
I’d generate hot music right throughout the afternoon,
And cooler tunes to better mark the rising of the moon.
A lullaby I’d play at night to sooth each wrinkled brow,
So folk could sleep more soundly then than most of them do now.
The altruistic motives underpinning my new sounds,
Would spread an air of great relief where confidence abounds.
With worries in the world reduced I’d think I’d played my part,
In bringing comfort to those souls who blush each time they fart.
There’s not much else that matters when all is said and done,
Than hoping for some harmony and having lots of fun.
If trombone tunes bring happiness to you and all about,
Try lifting one foot to your snout then slide it in and out.
I’m more than ready to declare that if you practice daily,
The merry music that you play will have you dancing gaily.
You’ll exercise in many ways you’ve never contemplated,
And in the end the good it brings can never be debated.
If I could be an elephant living in a zoo,
I’d poo a bit and trombone lots for all the good I’d do,
Could make the world a better place where flatulence was free,
And everyone would find a way to fart as loud as me.
Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2005
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CAPTAIN COOK'S BEQUEST - rules for a better marriage
It said in a book
our brave Captain Cook
saw New Zealand then sailed to Australia.
With passion and will
he relied on his skill
and his nautical paraphernalia.
He stayed a few days
and visited bays
where dolphin would play like they oughta.
Discovering things
with four legs or wings
and slimy old dudes in the water.
What a good thing it was
that he came here, because
his wife chose to stay in the city.
For months at a time
her life was sublime
with no reason for her to get shitty.
Being whole worlds apart
Seemed ever so smart
For a tar and a girl with no money.
Such conjugal bliss
can not go amiss
when both parties think that it's funny.
The moral it seems
is to stick to your dreams.
go to sea or stay home with your dishes.
For whatever you choose
when you marry you lose
If your spouse takes control of your wishes.
Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2005
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AUNT MARY KNEW HOW - on the art of recording the news
Aunt Mary was nearly as deaf as a post
Yet she stayed a good listener, more carefully than most.
She held a red trumpet right up to her ear
To collect muffled sounds that few others could hear
Unfortunately though she was partially blind
From a poke in the eye when a burglar unkind,
Had guessed in his fear that she’d heard him break in
And panicked a bit then fractured her chin.
What she saw was as doubtful as what she had heard
With trumpet to eye and looking absurd
Aunt Mary recorded perceptions of sight
Which when headlined in tabloids attracted delight.
At times when the detail of factual matters
Escaped, she’d invent, so the truth lay in tatters.
New versions of what she had misoverheard.
Or seen through her trumpet, emerged as the word.
Her tales of policemen and milkmen and firies
Were written by hand in most colourful diaries.
Portraying all manner of action nocturnal
They’re best sellers now, titled “Aunt Mary’s Journal”.
One tale of “The Brat”, a delightful young fellow
Tells of plot and intrigue all sanguine and yellow.
In detailed accounts it re-lives each sad mile
Of a bicycle ride and a venture quite vile.
With trumpet to ear she spied on “The Brat”
Noting times that he left and returned to his flat.
Nothing escaped her attention one week,
As enriching her data she took a quick peek.
Spectating his movements and listening acute
She imagined she noticed him stowing a loot
In pannier bags either side of back wheel
Before riding off in the dark. What a heel!
The event she believed was a drug drop or worse
So she put "old red" down and reached into her purse
For a pencil and paper to rend her description
Expanding on parts lacking colour condition.
In reality “Brat”, a young sympathy giver,
Had elected to join meals on wheels and deliver
Hot toddy and broth to old men with the gout.
That’s why he'd often been home and then out.
Aunt Mary’s account of the tale was the version
The editors chose without undue coercion.
Not the closest to truth, or to readers most funny,
But the version that they trusted would earn the most money.
The publisher choosing to print Mary’s book
Applied the same judgment, not taking a look
At her qualifications for witnessing crime
And describing it truthfully time after time.
At the end of this saga it’s perfectly clear
You can’t put a trumpet to eyes and then hear
As well as you’ll see if you use the right tools
Then lie through your teeth to the publishing ghouls.
Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2005
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JOE'S DIGGER - a real life human story.
Every pub has a lonely old digger
Who needs that first ale just to trigger
His nerves for the day
To help face come what may
And to stop his small woes getting bigger.
The first oft looks short in the glass
But the digger lets that issue pass
He knows that his hand
Shakes continuously and
All attempts at control are a farce.
“Please roll me one Joe” was his plea.
“The breeze here is too strong for me.”
“I’ve tried three or four,
But they fall to the floor.
It’s cold in here don’t you agree?”
Joe had seen this before once or twice.
So he followed his mentor’s advice
Not to question the bloke
Having strife with his smoke
But to smile and to help in a trice.
No words were exchanged. It was dumb.
Just a nod and the wave of a thumb.
Joe returned to his bar
Digger emptied his jar
Then left happily. We heard him hum.
It’s a question of pride after all.
This helping a digger stand tall
Is a job Joe enjoys.
They’re his warrior boys.
Not flinching they answered their call.
Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2007
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CYBER-GRAFFITI - the scourge of rhythm and rhyme
The rhythm of verse
Only keeps getting worse
During times when I want to be sleeping.
It churns in my brain
Swirling round and again
Marking time I don’t need to be keeping.
I’m once more obsessed
With ideas well pressed
Through the mangle of rhyme. It’s a worry
How nothing I dream
Can avoid that extreme.
If it all sounds the same then I’m sorry
I feel that I must
Use a process I trust
And endeavour to set up a treaty.
It’s the best way I’ve found
Off the merry-go-round
Of developing cyber-graffiti.
I'll promise my rhymes
Attention at times
Between sunrise and dusk but not after.
That way I can keep
My senses asleep
To wake to more verse full of laughter.
Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2005
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THE NECKTIE - to the 10am starters
In shades of blue all long and thin,
A masterpiece of style,
Compared to other lesser ties
It stood out by a mile.
His mother bought it right away
She had it wrapped and sent.
By air, the quickest way she thought,
To dress him like a gent.
She’d long admired his spirit
And ambition to control
The team of shabby workers
Their firm had on it’s role.
The package reached the pub “Le’Grand”
Midway through summer’s heat.
He brushed the dust off, broke the string,
The tie fell at his feet.
At just ten-thirty in the morn
The bar was still and quiet.
The night had caused a recess in
His liquid amber diet.
He took the tie and wrapped one end
Around his shaking wrist.
The other end, once round his neck,
Was held tight in his fist.
His tethered claw-like hand reached out
And gripped around a pot
Then dragged it closer, hoping that
He’d not upset the lot.
High on his stool with head bowed low
He focussed on his glass.
Half full? But he’d not had a drop
A question he’d let pass.
He knew his first poured every day,
Was pulled by knowing hand.
“Just clearing taps”, he heard them say
“This one is on The Grand”.
Unsteady in his gratitude,
A tear welled in his eye,
Notwithstanding nervous moments,
He pulled upon the tie.
Then gracefully as ever
His plan worked crisp as chips,
The half-full schooner lifted
Straight and steady to his lips.
That one sip put his heart in gear,
His brain snapped into action.
His shaking hand behaved itself,
His feet found normal traction.
His daily ritual acted out,
And with manna in his mouth,
In gratitude he wrote a note,
To mother in the south.
“I thank you for the tie you sent,
I wear it every day.
It helps me maintain firm control
Of those shaky hands we pay.”
Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2007
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ON THE PURCHASE OF ELEPHANTS - not all sales people are honest
All elephants have one leg in each corner I am told
So watch to see that all is right where elephants are sold.
For if you buy an animal with not enough support
Its three way limp will cause great holes in next door's tennis court
Neighbours will lose sight of their relationship with you
Your monolithic triped will bring shame on Grannie too.
Your family will desert you, you'll be lonely when you're old
So watch to see that all is right where elephants are sold.
Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2005
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COWS DON'T SNIFF STUFF
Cows get fat on grass each day
They chomp and gnaw and chew.
They never smoke it in the way
That dopey humans do.
The only crack a cow will know
Falls from the lash on muster.
Hallucinations seldom grow
For cows kept in a cluster.
If coke you crave you’re not a cow
‘Cos cows drink only water.
They don’t sniff stuff, they don’t know how
And they don’t think they oughta.
Perhaps it’s smack you fear to hate
Or contact lens or haze.
But cows just loll and ruminate
They don’t get off they graze.
No acid, chip or ecstasy
No fuel, green tea or hog,
So cows live long, they’re worry free.
They pee, they fart, they bog.
But cows get fat on grass each day
They’re happy when they do
Contented with their lot they stay
Quite healthy – how are you?
Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2005
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THE KEA
Cockatoos are funny things
That shriek and pick up seeds.
Their yellow crests and whiteish wings
Announce their evil deeds.
On pigeon toes and stumpy legs
They waddle squawking loudly.
They’ll eat your fence and chew those pegs
Your Hills Hoist wears so proudly.
No sooner than you warn them off
They’re back with angry faces,
And beady eyes that flirt and scoff
While eating shoes and laces.
Some folk teach cockatoos to speak.
I can’t decide what for,
Unless their lonely life’s so bleak
They look to birds for more.
Escaping cockatoos one goes
Across the sea I hear.
Take care though ‘cos New Zealand grows
The bloody hungry Kea.
Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2005
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A PERPETUAL CALENDAR
When I take my nighties off over my head
They all finish up outside in.
Then next day, disrobing when just out of bed,
I find them the right way again.
“It’s useful behaviour”, I’ve said frequently
“I find that I’m never in doubt
What the name of the day in the week it might be
With the seams sometimes in, sometimes out.”
On day one each week I start with seams in,
On the second they’re out flying wide.
On the third they are hiding as neat as a pin,
On the fourth day I flaunt them with pride.
It’s the same with each week, although seven days
Cause problems as soon you will see.
Odd numbered four days create no dismay,
But the even days number just three.
The seventh and first days each week strike a blow,
They both being odd, both the same,
Disrupt the smooth rythmn, interfere with the flow
Of my otherwise regular game.
Overcoming confusion, with reasoning clear,
The answer leves one feeling mighty.
Just keep the plan simple, no favour, no fear.
After seven days, wear a fresh nighty.
Start from one every time the old nighty goes in
To the washing tub then to the line.
Count one while the new has its seams on your skin,
And the next six will turn out just fine.
Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2007
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