GILGAMESH. (Epic in a Sonnet).

Gilgamesh, the earliest epic told.
The great king, two-thirds divine, one-third man.
His power and will something to behold.
Already strong as his story began.

Undisputed, until he’s taken on
by Enkidu, two-thirds beast, one-third man.
After their intense struggle, they belong
together, and in partnership they stand

and defeat forest monster, Hunbaba.
But after Enkidu’s death in conflict,
Gilgamesh sets off, and what he’s after
is immortality, but he gets tricked.

For all his efforts, a snake takes the ‘leaf’.
Returns to live well life left, long or brief.


Invitation to the Devil’s wedding,
For me to attend the ceremony.
Be there, it said, or you’ll be regretting
not being a guest, most definitely.

The service will be great, the invite said.
No promises made, commitments or vows.
Satanist rituals performed instead.
And lots that’s wicked proclaimed and allowed.

Virgins will be there to dance in the aisles.
The worst criminals set free to give praise.
Political leaders, the most reviled,
and the smooth but evil ones, in their place.

The scum of the earth. The rich and greedy.
Some celebration, but why invite me?


I think I’ll be on a State watch list now,
following my internet inquiry.
Seems I showed an interest can’t allow.
No way to deny the sight I did see.

Like the child asked to describe where he lived,
reported by the school for his remark,
pronounced it ‘a terrorist house’, he did,
but meant ‘terraced’. Placed in the same ballpark.

I looked up the son Tamburlaine murdered.
Calyphas was the unfortunate’s name.
Web choices, for pressing, based on the word,
but up came Caliphate. Not me to blame.

Islamic State’s aspired-to government,
Means I’ll be monitored, ‘though innocent.


Banter at my chiropody session.
Whilst my feet were treated, we exchanged jokes.
Said, ‘into Americans possession,
Trump will put lumps of parmesan’; no hoax.

‘It will make America ‘grate’ again.’
She said, ‘why is it that cows have small feet?’
I didn’t know, although the answers plain.
‘Because they ‘lack toes’. That’s the joke complete.

‘There was a young lady with her clippers.’
Start of limerick next, as trims my nails.
‘Who said take off your socks and your slippers.’
‘I will cut your nails, but if all else fails,

we can still fit you up with some flippers.’
Turned out, we were a couple of quippers.


Trusting anyone in authority
could well turn out to be a misjudgement.
May end up not as you want it to be.
Have own agenda, the establishment.

Power goes to the head, and there are rules.
Can start to help you, then can turn on you.
May also, sometimes, have to suffer fools
who’ve learned too much at bureaucracy school.

Could find there’s a cost to the assistance.
Some awkwardness imposed, unexpected.
Or, to sensible case meet resistance.
Or, some past history resurrected.

My tradition’s not to be too trustful.
of clerks, who may just give you more trouble.


I was terrible at school at Physics.
Grade 9 in the exam. Only nine grades.
Not at all competent, but can’t resist
to explain this, before memory fades.

The difference between copper sulphate
and, what seems similar, copper nitrate.
So, that difference I will hereby state,
although my answer I’m not sure you’ll rate.

For the former, there’s oxidisation
of the metal when it’s mixed with sulphur.
It forms a salt, in this explanation.
Used as pesticide on land spread over.

And copper nitrate. What it is, now penned.
What a policeman earns after 8 p.m.


I am not sure what I am meant to say.
I do not know if it will make much sense.
Will attempt to get it out, anyway.
Not certain, these days, it won’t give offence.

The words seem like they’re bubbles in my mouth.
Expect soap-filled sort of utterances,
from cheeks ballooned as though they are a house.
Anticipates expansive sentences.

Appear like I am just about to talk,
and say something that really contributes.
Pearl of wisdom … you know …, to walk the walk..
that, long after, will get praise and tributes.

But it is air, amidst a gurgling sound.
To a poem, such as this, surely bound.


Robust and raucous, and rumbustious,
street trader in the market of my youth.
Drawing the attention of customers
to his product, which he says is of use.

Sounded like he was describing himself.
His skills for dealing with a car engine,
larger vehicle, or some machine itself.
But what’s that to do with street trading, then.

“Diesel Fitter” he loudly exhorted.
“Diesel Fitter”, his shout that filled the air.
Suddenly, I understood; it sorted,
as he pointed to ladies’ standing there,

holding up cloth, … I realised knicker …,
and said “These will fit her. These will fit her.”


A joke or two, I think are historic.
This one, the first I’ve heard from a robot.
A speaker, replies on any topic,
like the weather, a poem, or what-not.

Asked for a joke, itself put a question.
“What do with a cat that won’t stop hunting?”
Brief time for a little introspection,
then, “Put under mouse arrest”, answering.

The next one on the show ‘The Avengers’.
TV episode from the seventies.
By now, I feel sure, no one remembers,
about the doe, from the forest, so pleased,

says, “wouldn’t go back in for fifty bucks.”
Here in this sonnet, recorded reflux.


Custard cream blonde ladies outside my door.
No doubt the hair dye plentifully used.
Touch of yellowness included, for sure.
The blondeness intentionally pursued.

There will be a darker colour below.
If light or fair, maybe a dirty blonde.
But not a streak of that allowed to show.
Of the double creamery, very fond.

It is their personal fashion statement,
this coiffeured mop’s unnatural colour.
Should not really be source of amazement.
If not this extreme, could be another.

Bright redhead or blacker than black brunette.
So, custard cream hair what one might expect.


The hospital’s capability stretched.
High numbers of people needing treatment.
Money-saving cuts have had their effect.
The medics prioritise. They’re well meant.

Those waiting to be seen spill out the door.
Pleas made for patience. That is ‘calmly wait’.
Not for more ‘patients’. Can’t take any more.
All be seen sometime, we anticipate.

Too few beds. Told back then, were too many.
Of course, wrong with their false calculations.
Means now, when one needed, isn’t any.
So, on a trolley with palpitations.

The Corridor full of women, pregnant.
Name it ‘Fallopian Passage’. Joke meant.