A Calendar
Winter:
Inside the embers glow in the grate
While the garden quietly suffocates in snow.
Spring:
The ice is melting!
The snow forgets what the birds remember,
A living root dispels December!
Summer:
The heat disfigures the soil.
The sun glares angrily
Till the clouds sweat tears.
Autumn:
Summer is over,
The moon strips the trees of leaves
And paints their bark with silver starlight.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Holier than Thou (alternative version)
Excuse me now, I'm such a cynic,
But my Christian friend is so 'organic',
He's like the fruit and vegetables and oh so pure
He's wholesomer than horse manure! !
I wish he wasn't so squeaky clean,
I wish he'd shout out something obscene,
I wish he wasn't so 'good' and 'nice',
But wallowed in some Terrible Vice! !
The worst thing is his Spiritual Pride -
It makes me creep and crawl inside! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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A Normal Person
The normal person only copes
By watching television soaps
And sees revealed on the demon box
His deepest fears and highest hopes.
Unlike you jerks that criticize
Our hero's really very wise -
You'd think he'd never been to school,
He's far too smart, he's far too cool,
And since he doesn't use his brain
He's well-adjusted, not insane!
The Truth for him is plain to see
Shown ex cathedra on T.V.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Dancing on Your Grave (The Misfit's Revenge)
They say you're cunning, strong and brave,
A lad the girls all want to kiss,
But in the last analysis
I will be dancing on your grave!
Tom, Fred or Harry, Mick or Dave,
You're heroes, but, in spite of this,
I will be dancing on your grave!
Bill, Stewart, Larry, Mark or Chris,
You thought that you could take the p*ss,
But, when you're dead, remember this,
I will be dancing on your grave!
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Dirty Weekend
I took you to a B&B
And signed us in as man and wife,
A cosy guest-house by the sea
For the worst weekend in my life.
All night you moaned and cried aloud
Although I tried to make you shush,
And when we came down for our meal
They stared at us in an awful hush.
I suppose I really should have known
That lust turns quickly into hate.
When everyone can hear you groan
It's better to be celibate! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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A Poet's 19th Nervous Breakdown
When writing truth instead of fiction
I'm having problems with my diction,
But poetry is my affliction.
It really is a bloody curse,
This mania for writing verse,
And now it's getting even worse!
I'm using my imagination
In scansion and alliteration
But is it mental masturbation?
I've said it now so many times:
Please save me from these verbal crimes,
This assonance and, oh, these rhymes!
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Amanda Knocks
When she reaches the door Amanda knocks
And Freedom is there to let her out
After four long years and a thousand tears
She's walking free but some people doubt
The decision was right. She'll be famous and rich,
But can she sleep at night?
An innocent woman or a scheming bitch?
Has she fooled them all with a hundred lies?
Hold on to your doubt, murder will out,
Nobody hears when Meredith cries.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Anti-Psychiatry
I wish my psychiatrist would have a breakdown
So I could give him ECT
And lots of useless medication
And boring Occupational Therapy!
Then when he was at the end of his tether
I'd tell him to PULL HIMSELF TOGETHER!
I'd love to have the opportunity
To make him suffer as much as me!
Then when he was feeling grotty
And felt like suicide,
He'd realise being 'potty'
Isn't quite such an easy ride!
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Diagnosis of our Times
What can you say of folk today
Who worship gods with feet of clay?
Their hearts are blind and their minds are numb
As they chew the nation's chewing-gum,
Enslaved by tabloids and T.V.
And the culture of Celebrity.
These people all are taken in
By words of reassuring spin
And politicians who expect
Them to be 'politically correct'.
They dream their pointless lives away
In an age of spiritual decay.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Goodbye to a Nun
Avoiding the mockery of flowers
And cursing the sun in the sky,
I wonder why you had to turn your face from me
And our friendship had to die.
All the lonely, meaningless hours stretch ahead
And it makes me want to cry
That you couldn't be more personal
And give your Iron God the lie.
I curse the sarcastic sun
And the gaiety of flowers
And watch the little flame of faith you kindled flicker and die.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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