New bakery of breads and of cake,

So hard to choose what not to take,

Casting spells on addicted eyes,

For that hard hit of sugary prize,

Smells of cocoa and pastry sweets,

Invading noses aroma meets,

Boxes loaded up with much haste,

Saliva filled mouths want to taste,

But ears remain on neutral ground,

Picking up an unwanted sound,

Eyes and nose decide to just ignore,

Preferring make believe in the store,

Cannot be someone being sick,

Must be some type of dirty trick,

Mouths dry up and eyes awaken fast,

In truth the magic does not last,

Cake consumer with gastric band,

Ingested goodies he cannot stand,

And so he eats and spews it out,

Casting gastronomical doubt,

More so because he is the maker,

He the overindulgent baker.

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Exclusive Art

Artist added sounds to a stew,

And cooked them up, created new,

And to that new he gave a name,

‘Mine’, he firmly stamped his claim.


Artist took letters, mixed them up,

Formed words, sentences by the cup,

Arranged them into types of tale,

A sea of new ‘Mines’ set to sail.


The artist espied scenes and sights,

Catching them with different lights,

Fixed firmly making them his ‘Mine’,

New visions, of colour, shade, line.


Oh how many new ‘Mines’ of art,

Essential for world’s mind and heart,

But cordoned off from the Theys,

In legally determined ways.


And the Theys in this larger world,

In which new art had been unfurled,

Could tread much less than could before,

Where bigger is not always more.

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A World Of Labels

So many pieces, big and small,

No easy labels for them all,

Label talk so short and clear,

Black or white is what we hear,

Labelling our social duty,

She is ugly, she’s a beauty,

Labels are given such respect,

Poor, lots of money, rich effect,

Labelled for your health, point out sick,

By a chair or a walking stick,

A label for the wrapping, blind,

The real treasure, you undefined,

The only label to abuse,

Is your name for them to use,

Else all become the label, it,

Just a one word generic fit.

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The Eater Of Dirt

Kept out of the way, not to be seen,

Is the rag with which you like to clean,

Underappreciated in a heap,

Waiting in a bucket to earn its keep,

Your dirt picked up in its vast enfold,

It does not rebuke and does not scold,

Absorbing the muck, providing shine,

So that all is in order, all is fine,

When this rag’s luster is faded, lost,

It prepares itself for being tossed,

After all it is covered in muck,

Become loathsome in your very yuck,

Can’t bear even the thought of its touch,

The transferred dirt being much too much,

Better just use a rag that is new,

Clean, for all your new dirt to imbue.

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Cup Of Quirk

All tastes better in this cup of beauty,

Banal transformed to upmarket snooty,

All looks better in this cup of art,

Not run of the mill, an exquisite part,

All smells better in this cup of aroma,

Known clothed with a mystery diploma,

All is more fun in this fun cup of quirk,

An amnesiac spell for toil and hard work,

Fully immersed, the cup is hard to see,

And forgetting the cup’s there is too easy,

Liquid contents causing confusing haze,

Of correct context and time, hours and days,

To appreciate the cup and not to sink,

Must stop swimming and swallow all the drink.


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The Migrant Refugee

What a beautiful sight to see,

Migrant birds in their flock of V,

But girl wrapped up in silver foil,

Only thoughts of how she will spoil,

Running away from civil war,

Her fault no status and dirt poor,

And boy hopped from place to place,

With cheeky refugee disgrace,

He recalls leaving all he knew,

So the Nazis could not pursue,

Settlement homes dismantled so,

Houses emptied nowhere to go,

And the people are spilling out,

Our silence and their loud shout,

From so many corners, leaking,

Different languages speaking,

But World is full up with folly,

Can’t stay here, we’re very sorry,

Move on quickly and climb up high,

There is always room in the sky.

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Armed With Chocolate

It was mayhem in that field,

Queueing masses to be billed,

And carts loaded up with ire,

Erupting bodies of fire,

In minds mutiny was planned,

Flames of discontentment fanned,

Whilst one queuer sat on crate,

Her face showing the hour late,

When at last it was her turn,

Chocolate was her main concern,

She checked it out with such haste,

No more time could she waste,

How long would it take to eat,

That quick fix to her tired beat,

But the target was another,

This woman was all mother,

Chocolate given like a smile,

To cashier girl who all the while,

Was working as best she could,

In her shoes, queue had not stood,

And with that simple sweet act,

The shopper indeed changed fact,

Scene of black became so white,

Same facts, rearranged, despite.

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