Positively Pessimistic

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Restriction to your home is not
The worst kind of jail
You can still pretend to work
If you can access your email

But it’s easy to find reasons
To not be very cheerful
When it seems that you’re increasingly
Encouraged to be fearful

It’s appears that times are dark
And possibly quite bleak
It’s hard to know what month it is
Let alone what day or week

And when you venture out
It’s worse outside than in
Attempts to buy toilet paper
Always end in your chagrin

You try to stay upbeat
But optimism’s hard to sell
When the contents of the half-full glass
Have a funny smell

An Inauspicious Return To Writing Poetry After 20 Months Of Not Writing Poetry

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I haven’t penned a poem
Sine the year ended in eight
So, it would be quite unfair
To expect this to be great

Quality is not my goal
That would be a step too far
If anything, my aim is
To really lower the bar

To write poetry this bad
Is nothing short of a feat
You can’t replicate this dross
Don’t even try to compete

Don’t kid yourself that you could
Produce such appalling verse
You might think your poem’s bad
This is definitely worse

There is perhaps merit in
Consistent rhymes and rhythms
Which were at least on display
Until the final line of what, it turns out, is a really rubbish poem

Forlornly Fatigued

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Sometimes when I feel tired
I’m not really that nice
And it’s better to avoid me
Or make interactions more concise

I don’t mean to be so grumpy
Like a bear with a sore head
But I’m not very good at coping
When I spend too little time in bed

I’ll be much better tomorrow
When I’ve had a chance to rest
But today will be a challenge
And I won’t be at my best

So I wouldn’t bother trying
To engage with me today
I’ll be morose and sulky
If I cannot get my way

Better just to ignore me
And pretend that I’m not here
I might be a little joyless
But there’s nothing much to fear

Although it might help a little
If you want to cheer me up
To give me lots of chocolate
And pour some coffee in my cup

Domestic Drudgery

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Oh carpet on the floor
What’s with all the crumbs?
I vacuumed only last week
From where did they all come?

I’m sure that I just ironed
All those crumpled shirts
That they need another pressing
Rather disconcerts

Those dirty plates and cups
Are back sitting in the sink
But I only washed them yesterday
I don’t know what to think

Those walls now look quite shabby
But they were fine not long ago
Is there any point in painting them?
Would it all just be for show?

There really is too much to do
And none of it is fun
And as soon as I have finished
It all needs to be redone

Better not to start at all
And leave things in a mess
I’d rather live in squalor
It brings so much less stress

Where Did All The Chocolate Go?

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Where did all the chocolate go?
I had so much last week
But now I cannot find it
No matter where I seek?

It seems strange that it is gone
There was a plentiful supply
But it’s nowhere to be seen
And I really don’t know why

Ok I did eat some of it
Back on Easter Sunday
And I consumed a little more
During Bank Holiday Monday

And yes I might have had some
On Tuesday after lunch
And a delightful bit of Easter Egg
On Wednesday I did munch

But on Thursday there was plenty left
I know because I had some
And though I tried hard to abstain
On Friday I did succumb

But I hadn’t finished all of it
As Saturday was dawning
So I might have had a smidgen
To see me through the morning

But now it seems to have all gone
What has become of it?
And here’s another mystery
My trousers don’t now fit!

Poetry In (Loco)Motion

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I wrote this on a train
It was poetry in motion
The train was running late
Which filled me with emotion

The emotion, though, was joy
For I was late as well
My tardiness well-timed
I didn’t have to dwell

Better still, I got a seat
An unexpected perk
As I headed to my course
And an afternoon off work

I didn’t hold much hope
That my course would not be dull
But at least the journey there
Was semi-reasonable

So I took out my pen
And wrote this little ditty
While heading at high-speed
On a train into the city

A Man Most Modest

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When it comes to being modest
I really am the best
I am so self-effacing
That I outshine the rest

Few could be as unassuming
Less desiring flattery
My metaphoric trumpet
Is never blown by me

Though I do have many talents
And every right to boast
The greatest thing about me is
I’m less arrogant than most

Oh if I chose to show it
My genius would shine bright
But it’s well under a bushel
That I choose to keep my light

Yes, it truly is astounding
That I am so moderate
In the humble hall of fame
I am an all time great