Read some of the poems which received shortlisted entry prizes in the Funny Poetry Competition.
When I Grow Old
by Betty Pearson
When I grow old I’ll have me a ball
Eat what I like and do beggar all.
Get up when I want. Go to bed when I like
Stay home all day or ride on me bike.
Book me a cruise. Sail round the world.
Wear a red wig of tumbling curls.
Chew pickled onions. Drink lots of gin.
Eat Belgian chocolate and never think thin.
Hitch up me skirts. Do a fine jig.
To Hell with opinion. I won’t give a fig.
I’ll turn up the Mozart, the Jazz and the Blues.
Do just as I please. Just as I choose.
I’ll open the door to every stray cat.
Feed them all amply. Watch them grow fat.
Toss out the rubbish to left and to right.
Sing very loudly. Fly me a kite.
Wear big floppy hats, long flowing robes,
Bright dangling earrings on me earlobes
Buy me a sunbed. Fry like a chip
Wear a gold belt slung low on one hip.
Live life to the full be it ever so hard,
Be forgiven by all for being a card.
I’ll ride in a taxi. Travel first class.
Carry a passport. Sling the bus pass.
Visit Las Vegas. Have a good bet.
Buy lots of chips. Win at Roulette.
Have me a ball. Won’t it be great?
Spend all me winnings before it’s too late.
When me trip’s over and it’s time to shoot through
My obituary will read ‘She left not one sou’.’
Are U Following Me?
by John Hyde
Why is it that the letter Q
Is always followed by a U?
Whilst it’s waiting in the queue,
Wondering just what to do,
It quietly thinks ‘I’m staying here,
This is my quest, I need not fear’.
It tries to break away from U
But U stays there – what can Q do?
It queries quirks in normal spelling,
It quantifies the need for telling,
So, within that very quaint equation,
Then U remains Q’s close relation.
While Q tries to calm his inner qualms
He quakes into U’s tender arms.
So should Q, in a fit of pique,
A life of quietude seek?
Then Q and U both try to quell
The idea of a separate hell,
A quantum leap, both on their own,
Standing proud, at last alone,
Now, in the end, what can Q do?
The question I simply leave to U.
Waiting Room Thoughts
by Doreen Wrigley
I sit here awaiting an X-ray to see
If it should reveal that I need a new knee.
The two that I have are not really my own,
They’re both made of metal, I wish they were bone.
I’ve only one limb, that is still as it came,
The one that I use when I’m signing my name.
My hip is of steel and my elbow is too,
Downhearted? Oh no! That just wouldn’t be true.
I see through my ‘Specs’ and I hear through my ‘Aid’
There’s so much of me that is ‘factory- made’.
These are my own teeth, and this is my own hair,
And while it remains so, then I’ll not despair.
Best British Steel is now keeping me active
Only a magnet would fine me attractive.
I have to admit that when all’s said and done
I’m finding that life can still be lots of fun.
Goodbye to All That
by Joyce Nina Davis
I find it quite odd and really surprising
That the number of elderly folk is rising.
If you listen to experts it immediately appears
We have all been eating the wrong things for years.
At breakfast time we began our mistakes
With the top of the milk on our cornflakes
Then fried eggs and bacon! That was very bad
Especially with fried bread. We must have been mad.
On Sunday we had roast beef, Yorkshires and mustard
Followed by apple pie covered with custard.
The week went along with meals tasty but naughty,
It's a wonder so many lasted past forty.
So no more suet dumplings or chips with the fish,
In future we must choose a low-calorie dish.
And good bye to puddings covered in cream,
From now on we will just have to dream.
With our five fruits and vegetables we'll be doing fine,
Plus one square of dark chocolate and a glass of red wine.
To keep to the guidelines must be our endeavour,
Then maybe we will all live forever and ever.
Intensely Farmed
by Maureen Oliphant
Powerscourt is a health farm situated under Sugar Loaf Mountain in Co Wicklow, Eire
Blushing, flushing, running, plumpily pink,
the ladies jog along the country lane,
their lithe, handsome trainer alongside,
flirting, encouraging, empowering,
the sweat banded, lycra covered bodies,
escapees from the health farm.
Running in the shadow of Sugar Loaf Mountain
and there’s not a bar or tuck shop in sight.
In unison, they’ve cycled, weight lifted,
performed water aerobics, yoga, steps, stretch.
They’ve chanted, meditated, mantra’d.
Detoxed, spa’d, mud bathed, seaweed wrapped,
flotation tanked, steam rolled, massaged.
Covered in lotions, potions, anointed with oils.
Brimming with vegetable juice and salads.
But in the dark hours of night, a Mars bar
is finely sliced, cigarette smoke curls
from the open window, gulps taken
from the ‘orange juice’ bottle.
They can’t wait to hear the gravel drive
crunch under the sleek BMWs.
Rescued by their loved ones,
their favourite table booked,
the wine warming, the wine cooling,
the mouth watering, deserting with
Death by chocolate.
An Opportunity Missed
by Christine Higgins
A senior citizen on his deck chair
Was soaking up the sun,
Hoping to get a tan
Before the day was done.
Simply reading,
And feeling quite at rest,
When suddenly he felt the bump
Of something on his chest.
A pretty little green frog
As attractive as could be
Was looking for attention
So far as he could see.
He thought it rather funny
And something of a joke
And was about to brush it off
When suddenly he spoke.
‘It’s not a frog you’re looking at
Although you’d never guess,
Underneath this greenish skin
There’s a beautiful princess.
You’ve only got to kiss me
And you’ll get a different view.
I’ll appear in all my loveliness
With my charms just for you.’
He listened very carefully
To what was being said,
And in reply just stated
What was in his head.
‘A beautiful princess, you say,
When I’ve the feelings of a log?
I’d have more fun at my time of life
I think, with a talking frog.’
