Poetry for Fun
in the Covid-19 Lockdown
By David Townsend

This site is being upgraded and added to continuously. Feel free to visit again and browse. I have ADHD so the order of material may be confused. If you have ADHD, you know that!


I’m told that I am ADD.
It’s a bit hard to define
My brain’s connections all mixed up
Some bits are out of line.

I’d like to be an elephant
stomping through my junk.
I’d do it rather carefully;
I think I’ve lost my trunk.

My sister’s sort of normal
but she has to sing to count.
It drives her teachers crazy.
The tensions start to mount.

My brother Fred is OCD
which keeps me rather worried.
His stuff must be exactly right,
which bugs me when I’m hurried.

My dad was rather mad at me
so breakfast was all mutter.
He found my ‘jamas in the fridge
sitting on his butter.

And then I got the frown again.
My toast caused all the trouble.
I’d buttered it on both the sides
While trying to count his stubble.

Then homework is a problem.
I mostly let it slide.
My brain is rather good at that;
Distraction far and wide.

I hope you have a Gift like me.
At school I’m rather wacky.
But I can just dash off a poem,
and then I’m feeling happy.

The Davies Goat

 I’ve come to the end of my tether,
I’m a lonesome Billy Goat.
I’ve chewed my way through the pasture
and come to the end of the rope.

There’s a bunch of delicious berries
four tail-lengths more away.
I’ve been really puffing and straining;
can’t get them into play.

I strain and contemplate them:
They’re something that I miss.
It’s rather like the feeling
There’s more to life than this.

There’s a rumour down the goat-vine-
(we never get a grape)
we once roamed free on mountains
and even on the Cape.

My mother was a Spanish goat
My father came from Wales.
A Davies from Glamorgan,
or so I’ve heard the tales.

We once roamed free and blissful
upon the open hills
and leapt from rock to hillock
undaunted by the spills.

We leapt from every outcrop
Our hair flaired in the rush,
We chased excited Nanny goats
Across the Hindu Kush.

 It’s just genetic memory,
Day-dreaming in the sun,
But maybe there’s a heaven
where we goats can run.

He’ll need us up there anyway
to lead the Sheep in line.
And I think I heard there’s mountains;
Mind adrift in Bible-time.

Uh, huh! Here comes trouble,
Now it’s ‘walkies’ to the barn.
Little Charlie’s got a tow-rope.
They’ll comb me for my yarn.

I know we’ll meet again one day
chomping through the grass
Meanwhile I’ll butt this aweful boy
he has a tempting arse!


In the bleak Midwinter
Far beneath the snow
Elves have built an igloo
In a place they know.

Warm burn golden oil lamps
Tended by a gnome,
Dozens of hydrangeas
In the perfect loam.

Pruned and dressed for winter
Here they quietly rest
Hibernating sweetly
Forming powerful zest

To burst forth in spring-time,
Glory of the earth
Beauty multi-coloured
heaven’s bliss to birth.

Very close to heaven,
here Dave’s heart is girth,
beauty stored to leaven
gardens of the earth.

Skipped coronavirus
as their heart is strong!
Metered multi-distant,
Best way to belong.

Dark Trade

Uncle Charley’s been released;
thirty days inside.
He had a set of handy tools
Only locksmiths can provide.

Three a.m. and all was dark;
along the street he slipped
when from a hedge a bobby leapt
and Charley boy was nicked.

It didn’t stop the family trade,
Charley saw to that.
He taught me skills that keep us fed,
I pick in seconds flat.

Of course, caronavirus means
I’m OK in a mask,
but people mostly stay at home
which complicates my task.

I’m very fond of cat doors
because I’m rather slim.
I slide quit easily through them,
there isn’t any din.

And animals just love me.
They never make a sound,
they think I’m just the sweetest thing,
They follow me around.

They lick my leg as I pocket
the jewellery from the drawer,
They let me lift a pile of cash,
They beg me, Take some more!

Of course you’re wondering
is it something Zen?
The truth is very plain, you see,
next year I’m turning ten.

The Happy Place

I keep an open coffin
on the floor beside my bed
I’m hoping I won’t need it
until I’m really dead.

It’s this wicked coronavirus,
It’s got me rather worried.
With all the wild confusion
I’m becoming rather flurried.

Requiescat In Pace
isn’t what I want to hear
lying in the casket
nicely propped up on my bier.

The priest will speak quite nicely
to the ten that have been asked;
that’s provided it’s not raining
and they’re all grotesquely masked.

So I’m locked up in my office,
isolated from the crowd,
protected from the virus
alone with head unbowed

linked to the world by wireless
they call it Wi-Fi now.
I am universally present
so I think I’ll take a bow.

I’m still alive and kicking
The sun comes up each day
So join me on the internet,
And grow in a great way.

I’m dancing on the coffin lid
(temporarily replaced!)
It’s party time for all the world
The President’s* been disgraced,
displaced, etc. *Fill in your own choice,
writing in sand and then erase
because the CIA has universal access
to all computers and
They are watching you.

My psychiatrist says I’m paranoid,
I think that means I’m mad.
That is a super real diagnosis;
At last! Join me, I’m so glad!

    From Ward 6.

     David Townsend

From Ward 6 , Farout Psychiatric Suite.


I thought I saw a pussy cat
Sitting in a tree
But the tree was in a mirror
And the pussy cat was me.

I though I saw a yummy mouse
I leapt upon in fiercely
It really was a porcupine
And tasted rather beastly.

 My doctor says that there’s some hope.
He’s given an injection
As well as half a dozen pills
I’ve swallowed in reflection.

 The trouble is the mirror’s there
But on which side is me?
I tried to walk away from this
But fell out of the tree. 

Another person in my ward
Has got a mirror too.
It really is confusing now
Am I whom I view?

 But reflecting back and forward
Through many a mirrored brain,
Has proved to me conclusively,
I’m absolutely sane.

 © David Townsend 2018

 © David Townsend 2014