Nick John Whittle Poems

‘Twas the night before Christmas in the small provincial town,
Soulless and starless,
With a dank reputation for brawls, bare bottoms and bakeries.
Not a creature was stirring
...

When Granma Mo breathed out her last
With the sun in west descent
My dad he phoned old Prendergast
‘Cause he discounts ten percent.
...

Under my leather I soak with heat
Wearing no helmet or straps on my feet
As bare as a slave, I run Aquila to the fort
Then panting, huddled, fall quiet to the chalk.
...

The Haquarious Twoo is a most wondrous beast
Who loves nothing more than an aqueous feast
In willow pattern dishes made entirely of lint
Laid out on a table of nose-crafted flint.
...

Cuda, mother goddess, in everything we know;
Hallowed is your simplicity, cult of measure and painted justice.
You are the damp currant soil between toes, stars of birthstone blue dust,
The razed warrior sun, mercury flooding moon,
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Some people will always be narcissists,
Bothered not with their sisters or brothers.
To their simple minds they are the majesty
And the world bows to them for one thing or another.
...

An Old Norse chieftain Derek was,
His Viking blood ran free!
He prayed to Odin, god of snow
And lived in Leigh-on-Sea.
...

And Lo! King Arthur, born of all England
Spake to his brethren armed and sashed:
'It's come to my attention just,
That the toilet-block's been trashed.'
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If you visit to London at this time of the year
You'll see a green place called Charterhouse Square;
No pleasant-er place of pure green will you find
For a sit and a sigh, and a head full of mind.
...