Poetry With A Mission

...a thought provoking poetical exercise.

Henry Sturgeon

Harry was in trouble, for someone had burst his bubble, and he was down,
His heart was feeling like lead, as he didn’t like what they’d said, hence his frown.
He felt like ranting and raving, didn’t bother shaving, and went to bed,
And that’s where he would have stayed, just grumpily laid, but for his Uncle Fred.

Fred took him to see a surgeon, clever Henry Sturgeon, who worked on brains,
A man of many skills, used to certain ills, and nasty negative strains.
He knew just what to do, so he called for his lively crew, and vials of fun,
And before he started, all the curtains were parted, which let in the sun.

Such made the room more cheery, the atmosphere more merry, and work began,
Masterly jabs of humour, pierced Harry’s sombre tumour; such Henry’s plan.
Soon the tumour was shrinking, and Henry winking — yes, very knowingly,
For laughter, with follow-ups after, helps return one's positivity.

Armed with witty potions, and some comical lotions, Harry bade farewell,
His life looking brighter, his heart feeling lighter, and he no longer ill.
For Henry Sturgeon, the jesting surgeon, chose to leave Harry in stitches,
Knowing that bouts of laughter, ever after, a person’s life enriches.

Harry’s no longer in trouble, nothing bursts his bubble, nor gets him down,
His happiness beguiles, he’s full of beaming smiles, and never wears a frown.
He loves to have lots of fun, is quick with a witty pun, and wisecracks too,
And a career with Henry Sturgeon, the waggish surgeon, might well pursue.

Yes, all thanks to Uncle Fred, who rescued Harry from his bed, thankfully,
For there he would’ve remained, mentally drained, and just locked in self-pity.
But thanks to Henry Sturgeon, the slapstick surgeon, Harry was saved in time,
Hence his peals of laughter, from thereafter, that people have often heard chime.

Therefore, whenever you’re feeling down, nursing a frown, remember Harry,
And visit Henry Sturgeon, the clever surgeon, and there, gladly tarry.
He’ll pierce your sombre tumour, with his jabs of humour, and smile with delight,
And in no time at all, his fun will enthral, and you will be feeling right.

By Lance Landall

2.  The Soggy Moggy Strikes Again

The trouble with rainy days and a cat like ours, is that one ends up with a soggy moggy,
One whose muddy paws aren’t fussy where they go, nor he fussed where he places his sopping body.
Yes, he more like a doggy, for what cat likes being a soggy moggy; whose owner’s have to clean,
They reaching for the tissue box as soon as he is spotted, and who on Earth knows where he’s been?

Oh, how he meanders back and forth come rainy days, he unhappy to be cooped up inside,
And finally heading through the well used cat flap, or back out again, after having been dried.
So much for the tissues, not to mention his being rubbed down, as if we’re mere servants who provide
A valet service for Siamese cats who after having got thoroughly wet, head back inside.

Now before you complain, let me make very plain, that we’re well aware that sometimes nature calls,
Hence that little tray with its parcels by this owner’s back door, on whom the removal job falls.
Yes, not a pleasant task, but hey, there’s only one thing I ask, and that is that he stay inside,
Rather than becoming a soggy moggy with muddy paws, that how many times have I dried?

Yes, it seems it’s a case of the soggy moggy strikes again, the evidence from room to room,
Hence not only that soggy moggy, puddles and muddy prints, but freshly mown grass — where’s the broom!?
Oh, how exasperating, even aggravating, but what can a Siamese cat owner do?
And there is something else that I must convey here: It’s definitely far worse when there is two!

By Lance Landall

3.  Laugh Out Loud

I’ve never seen a bumble bee wearing a helmet, nor goggles,
And as for hedgehogs wearing pantyhose, such my mind boggles.
Imagine a rhinoceros wearing lacy pink pyjamas,
Or even worse to contemplate, the odd sight of diapered lamas.


What about a brawny elephant in a shiny sequined dress?
Well, that it would be stretching things, I have no choice but to confess.
However, things could get worse, you know, so I'll quit while I’m ahead,
Lest I see a chimpanzee knitting jumpers while lying in bed

By Lance Landall

This poem was upgraded 1 March 2020.

4.  Flies

Could someone please tell me what’s the purpose of a fly,
And why they won’t stop walking all over my apple pie,
Or anything else on my table that I’m about to eat,
Infecting it all with their grubby little hairy feet?

Though I wave my hands about, they insist on returning,
So, I reach for the fly swat, but do you think they’re learning?
No! Back they come again, fly after fly, zeroing in,
Seemingly unmoved by my crazed attempts to discipline.

Often they wait out of reach until I’ve sat down to eat,
And then, down they swoop, thereby making me vacate my seat.
After all, my arms aren’t that long, of which they seem aware,
Hence why they go for the yummy food that’s not quite so near.

They seem to come from nowhere — more so, when you’re eating food,
Or when you’ve put the swat away — talk about attitude!
It seems that they’ve got us sorted, and hence why I agonize,
For just when you think you’re fly free, it’s a case of, “SURPRISE!”

By Lance Landall

5.  Fleas

A flea may be very tiny, but oh dear, what trouble it can stir
Once underneath your clothing, or hidden within pussycat’s fur.
Hence all that furious scratching after they have triggered off itches,
That has one looking odd — and observers, doubled up and in stitches.

Yes, they’re little rascals, adept at causing much bother, misery,
And especially so where there’s not just one of them, but two or three.
They appear to roam in numbers, and, I might add, very silently,
Hence how they go unnoticed ’til, “Oh no, I’ve been bitten by a flea!”

Sometimes they appear in one’s bed — the cheek of it! — and there goes your sleep,
For how can one snooze when into your pajamas they stealthily creep?
Hence the wriggling and jiggling, the disordering of blankets and sheets,
All thanks to some itchy little bite that a good nights sleep defeats.

Why don’t they find a sandpit, and leave us and our pussycat alone?
And why are they crashing at our pad? Can’t they read the sign? Flea Free Zone.
Yes, they’re troublesome little rascals, and very difficult to see,
For once they’ve taken a bite of you, they seem to very quickly flee.

By Lance Landall

6.  Dear Aunty May

My dear Aunty May, we’re having a wonderful holiday,
We’ve not had a drop of rain, nor heard thunder-claps since yesterday.
We’re never short of fresh water — in fact, it’s up to our knees,
And we’re not being battered by wind, as it’s now dropped to a breeze.

Our food supply seems endless, it just keeps going around,
Probably due to the water circling knee-high off the ground.
We’ve clambered up a hill-side, found a rustic little hut,
That from a scenic viewpoint, miraculously seems to jut.

We’re itching with excitement, though that’s more to do with fleas,
And the air’s so refreshing in-between each hearty sneeze.
We’re sleeping beneath the stars as the roof has bid farewell,
And our thin summer blankets are helping keep out the chill.

Our car is nice and handy, we can just make out its roof,
The seats we’ve just had treated, we’re so glad they’re waterproof.
Our tents safely in the boot, though we’d rather have it here,
As someone else has joined us...oh, actually...it’s a bear!

I’m off back down the hill now, though sliding’s a better word,
And judging by the noises — the family, last I heard.
We’re seeing sides of nature that we’ve never seen before,
But a hill-side, on my backside, is a line that I must draw.

It’s a shame you can’t be here, for we’re having so much fun,
I warned you you’d be sorry, but a fine excuse you spun.
We’ll let you see the photos once our camera’s retrieved,
For unless those shots are seen, all our fun won’t be believed.

Oh, we may be a little late, as I wish to groom the car,
It’s smelling a little stale — I guess that’s the reservoir.
We’ll probably need a bath, and will want to head to bed,
So, don’t stay up, aunty May, we’re adventurers born and bred.

By Lance Landall

7.  Go Away!

Go away rain! I’ve had enough. It’s really depressing.
It’s not as though I’m tucked up inside convalescing.
I want to get out, get things done, go for a walk somewhere,
Not just waste all my time cooped up inside, slumped in a chair.

Yes, go away rain, and take all those sulky clouds with you,
They’ve been hanging about like they’ve nothing better to do.
They’re so dull and boring, and are covering up the sky,
So, why don’t you both disappear, clear off — go on, shoo, fly.

You’re not listening, are you, determined to have your way,
Both of you, shedding your moisture, making everything grey.
Can’t you go somewhere else? There is plenty of world, you know.
You’ve no need to remain here, you’re just making me feel low.

Can’t you see everything’s green? Go find a desert or two.
You’re just flooding my garden, and muddying things up too.
Give me sunshine any day, I’d rather have warmth than cold.
That’s right, bucket down! I might have known that you can’t be told.

By Lance Landall

8.  Showoffs

I’m looking out my window at a clever little bird
Who’s perched upon a cable, and weather-wise, isn’t deterred.
Although the cable’s swinging, he’s still sitting there singing,
Thereby, amusement and pleasure this intrigued poet bringing.

Yes, there he perches or clings with the odd flutter of wings,
And midst his bouts of chirping, joyfully back and forth swings.
He hasn’t a fear of heights, so he’s completely at ease,
A chatty little showoff who has mastered the trapeze.

Sometimes I’ve seen him flirting with a little lady friend,
Who sooner or later, time nesting will probably spend.
And then there’ll be more chirping, more antics that’ll catch my eye,
As back and forth, up and down, more clever little showoffs fly.

He visits with his buddies seeking juicy worms to chew,
Who should they pop their head up, get a close up bird’s eye view.
Sometimes it’s like a party, given the numbers that I see
Poking their beaks in the lawn in search of something wriggly.

But all in all, it’s nice to have a pleasant diversion,
Particularly midst one’s poetical immersion.
Yes, a break from serious concentration, albeit brief,
Via little feathered showoffs providing some light relief.

By Lance Landall

9.  Food Fads

Have you ever wondered what certain folk might like to eat?
For example: If asked, would a jeweller say, “Silver beet?”
Would electricians say, “Currants?” Would surgeons say, “Parsnips?”
Would a spy say, “Pecan nuts?” Would a woodcarver say, “Chips?”

Would psychiatrists say, “Blueberries,” accountants say, “Beans,”
Would a painter more than likely gravitate toward greens?
Would twins say, “Pears?” Would bankers say, “Cashew nuts and chickpeas?”
And would a plumber say, “Leeks?” Or a photographer, “Cheese?”

Would Eskimos say, “Ice-cream?” Would weightlifters say, “Raisins?”
And come to think of it, are feminists anti-mandarins?
Would rock climbers say, “Walnuts?” Would courting couples say, “Dates?”
Would pool players say, “Cucumbers, dished up on green coloured plates?”

Would gardeners say, “Prunes?” Would percussionists say, “Beetroot?”
Would a batsman shun vegetables in favour of fruit?
Would a goldsmith say, “Carrots?” Would comedians say, “Corn?”
Would dentists say, “Candy floss?” Hey, who took mushrooms off my lawn?!

By Lance Landall

10.  Woosh!

Oh, you’re so mischievous, Maestro Wind, you really are, you create quite a stir,
And there are times when you take things too far, get carried away, unkindly err.
It’s one thing to tug at the washing and tangle it up, or to loosen the pegs,
But quite another to yank clothes right off, and to strengthen when, “No!” somebody begs.

You get terribly boisterous at times, we’d rather you settle down, be a breeze,
We’d rather see you waltzing pretty little flowers or slender branches in trees.
Yes, we don’t mind you rustling the leaves, rippling the grass, even swaying power lines,
But please, do we have to put up with all that moaning, and those irritating whines?

Quite frankly, you’re a tease, can’t seem to help yourself — I guess it comes naturally,
But hey, not when we’re having a picnic — it’s bad enough fending off flies, a bee.
And say, couldn’t you give us warning, not suddenly appear, or turn blustery?
And there’s no need to toss things about — that’s dangerous, acting unreasonably.

Yes, Maestro Wind, it’s about time you acted more moderately, less impishly,
Though it wouldn’t be so bad if it were just occasionally, infrequently.
But dear oh dear, you’re often bothering us, and as for those gales, they’re most unfair,
And so too, I must add, those annoying cuffs when I’ve combed and lacquered my hair.

By Lance Landall

11.  Down Below

I say, little worm, what’s all these holes in my lawn? Are they yours?
Are you responsible? If so, you must have amazing jaws.
And given the amount, you’ve clearly been very, very busy,
Or could it be that you happen to have a large family?

You’re such a wriggly, squiggly thing, slimy too, actually,
And so devoid of features, which doesn’t help with poetry.
I hope you have a helmet, because I have to mow the grass,
And over the top of those holes will be making a low pass.

I’d watch out for those starlings too, lest they grab you with their beak,
For they often visit me, and wriggly little fat worms seek.
I guess they need their dinner, but I wouldn’t rush to their aid,
So keep your helmet on, and your head down, and act unafraid.

Pardon? Worms are good for one’s lawn? Then I’d hate to see you go,
Though it’s rare for me to see you, given you’re mostly down below.
It’s simply all those holes I’m seeing, and squiggly little mounds,
Yes, that underground activity that intrigues and confounds.

By Lance Landall

12.  It's Been A Hard Night's Day

It’s been a hard night’s day — yes, hardly slept a wink! — and it’s a long way to go till midnight,
So here I am, too tired to do a thing, feeling like I’ve been through the wringer, not too bright.
Yes, it’s been a hard night’s day — well, so far anyway, and things really aren’t looking too good,
For despite being too tired to do anything, I can’t seem to doze off like I wish I could.

There are things I need to do, but I just can’t be bothered, so now I’m feeling really bored,
Which is hardly a nice combination — I slumped in a chair, couldn’t move if a lion roared.
Well, seemingly, that is — too tired to even scratch my chin, and probably too tired to grin,
And were folk to look through the window, they’d possibly think that they’d spotted a mannequin.

It’s no good me counting sheep, and besides, I’d lose count if I fell asleep, but doze I can’t,
And if I did, would I fall out of my chair, not that such would do much to the rubber plant.
And then I’d wake up, perhaps with that pot plant on my head, and it still far too early for bed,
Me having fallen on the remote control, my tummy surfing all the channels instead.

Yes, it’s been a hard night’s day — well, if you get what I mean, how many more hours to go?
And I could well end up going through it all again once my poor old head hits the pillow.
Oh dear, oh dear, the last thing that I’m wanting after a hard night’s day is a hard day’s night,
And were I to go through another sleepless night, it wouldn’t be a very pretty sight!

By Lance Landall

13.  Smitten

The moment I entered the room, I knew she was the one for me, and my heart skipped more than a beat or two,
And when her gorgeous eyes locked on mine, my poor heart thumped so eagerly that I was scared of what it might do.
And when she strode my way, her eyelashes fluttering beguilingly, I’m sure I turned a sports car shade of red,
So grateful all the lights were dimmed — and what on earth to say to her, running 'round like a greyhound in my head.

When she cooed “Hi,” in a way that had me melt like ice-cream on a summer’s day, I stammered, “Yes,” in return,
And deep down inside that furnace being stoked within me, flames of love began to uncontrollably burn.
Politely ignoring my “Yes,” though somewhat quizzically, I thought, she attempted to make me feel at ease,
And all the while, midst her chatting and my agreeing with all that she said, how I wished that her I could squeeze.

Yes, she really had me smitten, and when next we were sitting together, I didn’t want the night to end,
And wildly hoped that she (so innocently searching my awe struck eyes), the rest of her life with me would spend.
When she said she’d see me again, and assured me that such she wanted too, oh boy, I was over the moon,
Excitement barely containable, levitation almost obtainable — yes, bring on the honeymoon.

Well, as further outings passed by, and I, still comatose on cloud nine, wedding bells began to ring-a-ling,
Hence that day when locked in a cosy embrace (just to keep her warm, of course), I popped the question, waved a ring.
And when she cried “Yes!” (eyeing the eighteen karats), yours truly hugged and kissed,  submitted more than willingly,
'Cause the moment I entered the room, I knew she was the one for me, which a sparkling ring would help her see.

By Lance Landall

This poem was upgraded 10 February 2020.

14.  Botheration

It seems when summer appears, and the door’s wide open, that blowflies think they’re being invited inside,
So in those blowflies come, as if on cue, when the truth of the matter is, they’re all meant to stay outside.
And once in, its seems they can’t remember where they came in, buzzing from room to room, agitatedly,
And should you be sitting quietly reading, they buzz you like kamikaze pilots, mercilessly.

Given such strong provocation, frustration inevitably sees you swinging your arms here and there,
A cushion in your hand, perhaps — anything! — they having succeeded in getting you out of your chair.
Yes, swipes to the left and right, all seemingly to no avail, though should you deliver a fatal blow,
In comes another after you’ve settled back into your chair, because somehow these blowflies seem to know.

Maybe its body odour — I just don’t know — but for some reason they keep coming back to where you are,
And this, despite you conveying via your frantic movements that you’re not saying welcome but au revoir.
I guess they can’t read sign language, nor understand modified English, not that one should curse, lose their cool,
'Cause unintelligible words and bizarre body movements tend to suggest one’s plain drunk or a fool.

Well, it could be worse, 'cause though they are indeed a bother, they’re hardly the same threat as a bumble bee,
Which, when it comes to open doors in summer (though not quite as much), has the very same mentality,
And some sort of directional flaw too, or is it that they just don't like using the same open door,
That door that they came through without so much as wiping their feet, another thing one can hardly ignore!

By Lance Landall

This poem was upgraded 11 February 2020.

The continuing saga...

15.  The Blowfly

The blowfly — oh, how it pesters, and I don’t know why, when I’m sitting reading or writing quietly,
Yes, minding my own business, a hot drink awaiting my slurping, and it buzzing 'round me insanely.
Oh, how it races 'round the room in maniacal fashion, no rhythm or rhyme to its manoeuvres,
And so inconveniently, rather than when I’m up and can do something, like when one hoovers.

Why they buzz 'round the room in such a fashion beats me, and who knows where blowflies get all that energy,
Oh, if only I could harness such, though I’m sure I’d wear myself out, like I do flailing maddeningly.
But oft to no avail, they too fast for my cushion (please don’t tell the wife), or whatever else I grab,
Which I guess provides some exercise (looking on the bright side), and helps me shed any unwanted flab.

Now, I’m not a violent man, lest such horrify, but there’s naught more annoying than a fat blowfly,
One that refuses to settle to my advantage, but rather, causes frustration to intensify,
'Cause until it's bid farewell (one way or another), there’s no returning to one’s former peace and rest,
Thanks to the entrance of what can only be described as an infuriating maniacal guest!

Did I say guest?

Yes, the blowfly, a troublesome botheration, which has given rise to poetic inspiration,
'Cause one must express these things lest an inner boiling pot overflow, or one seek some medication.
But I’m not pleased I’m reduced to penning such poems, 'cause what blowfly has the right to torture me so,
Simply because on sunny days I choose to leave the door open, or a certain desired window?

By Lance Landall

This poem was upgraded 11 February 2020.

16.  Could I Have Breakfast In Bed, Please?

Could I have breakfast in bed, please? 'Cause I just don’t feel like getting up today,
My bed’s so warm and the day too cold, and it’s going to rain and hail they say.
Yes, I can’t face the trauma of getting up, nor those chores I haven’t done yet,
Which, will only make me even more tired, and it is my birthday, don’t forget.

So please, could I have breakfast in bed today? And yes, a magazine or two,
And oh, a nice comfy pillow would also help, not to mention some menu.
Sorry, I don’t mean to cause any bother, but could you make my bed as well,
For when I arise I'd better take things easy lest anything make me ill.

Yes, I can feel a draught already, could do with that heater on, and near me,
For half of me will be sitting up, and I’ve summer pyjamas on, you see.
And I wouldn’t mind my dressing gown on — oh sorry, I forgot to unpack,
And say, if mother nature calls, would there be any chance of a piggyback?

By Lance Landall

17.  Computers — Ahhhhh!

It seems like there’s a little man whose intentions are not that clear,
But who I am very certain revels in being most unfair.
He hides inside my computer and constantly interferes,
Which is why it often crashes, or a warning sign appears.

I would catch him if I could, but he is far too smart for me,
'Cause he’s computer literate, knows it back to front, you see.
His timing’s just appalling, and his impishness knows no end,
Hence why he's blocking some emails, and some refusing to send.

Sometimes things will just disappear, even never to return,
And as for those viruses, they are the least of his concern.
It’s aggravating, exasperating, and it’s escalating,
And I fear that my patience is quickly evaporating.

It seems he hides amongst the chips, playing with the CPU,
Thereby making my computer freeze, randomly go slow too.
I’m sure that my graphics card, my motherboard and memory,
Are sadly falling victim to his cruel roguish energy.

Yes, I can just imagine that he's giggling away with glee,
Beholding my expressions and my disappearing dignity.
Yes, I can just imagine that he is doubled up with mirth,
Every time that something goes wrong, and I exclaim, “What on earth!”

By Lance Landall

18.  While I'm Asleep In Bed

You know, it’s almost as if I say, “Here, mind my brain while I’m asleep in bed,”
And that whoever does so, does his or her own thing with my poor tired old head.
Hence those dreams that they put together, and sometimes very mischievously,
They clearly drawing on the old archives where fodder beckons them temptingly.

Yes, they certainly enjoy raiding the vaults, and often replay this or that,
And then there’s those ghastly nightmares, my sudden awakening scaring the cat.
But whatever their arty concoctions, they’re very clever to say the least,
Though such probably aided by that close to bedtime snack that becomes a feast.

Well, there isn’t a lot I can do, for once asleep they’ve the run of the place,
Hence those smiles, grins, frowns, or anxious looks that come over my buried snoozing face.
But how they do what they do truly baffles me, those dreams being so real to me,
As if I had filmed every one, and placed them in my head conveniently.

By Lance Landall

19.  Have You?

Who’s seen those stripes on zebras, who’s seen a peacock’s proud tail,
Who’s seen a cat’s long whiskers, and an awesome spouting whale?
Who’s seen an emperor penguin, an elephant’s huge ears,
Who’s seen a burrowing mole, adorable polar bears?

Who’s seen an armadillo's armour, a chameleon's tongue,
(Who’s heard the bird’s dawn chorus that each morn is loudly sung)?
Who’s seen those humps on camels, who’s seen a turtle’s hard shell,
Who’s seen a reindeer’s antlers? And as for skunks, oh, that smell!

Who’s seen those spots on leopards, a platypuses flat bill,
Who’s seen those tusks on walruses, a spider’s weaving skill?
Who’s seen a praying mantis, a tiny ladybird bug,
Who’s seen a giant panda, (that many would love to hug)?

Who’s seen a tree hanging sloth, that teeny and pesky gnat,
Who’s seen a rhino’s horn, those intriguing wings on a bat?
Who’s seen a swinging gibbon, a baboon and gorilla,
Who’s seen prickly hedgehogs, an elassssstic caterpillar?

Who’s seen an electric eel, cockroaches, worms, slugs and snails,
Who’s seen a giraffe’s long neck, animal’s various tails?
Who’s seen a flashing firefly, glow-worms that glow in the dark,
Who’s seen the clever beaver and that odd hammerhead shark?

Who’s seen a cheetah speeding, who’s seen a rabbit and hare,
Who’s seen a komodo dragon-cum-lizard extraordinaire?
Who’s seen a lion that’s roaring, and those coyotes that howl,
Who’s seen a rooster crowing and those kittens that...meooooow?

Well, I know that I have, though to be quite honest with you,
I’m talking more about TV, that comfy armchair view.
Oh, how spoilt we are, courtesy of one’s remote control,
And to top it all off, popcorn in a sizable bowl.

By Lance Landall

20.  Figurative Speech

“I’m tied up,” they say, when nothing’s further from the truth, because it isn’t so,
They simply speaking figuratively, not that one would necessarily know,
Because they could be, literally, but one’s phone not able to display such,
And so, one taking it all with a grain of salt, hardly able to do much.

“I’m in a mess,” they say, when that isn’t true either, ’cause they’re tidy and clean,
Yet their figurative speech leaving one imagining quite a grubby scene.
Oh, when will people stop it, because it’s so misleading, hardly true at all,
And why, figuratively speaking, one just has to live with it, when they call.

By Lance Landall