Poetry

Dogma

Dogma – a stone‑set creed, etched in stubborn, iron‑clad seed, its doctrines stand like ancient walls, unyielding through the shifting calls. Yet minds, like rivers, wear them down, each ripple cracks the solid

Slang

Slang In the street‑corner chatter, where the crowd does press, A secret code of words, a lively, restless press— “Cheeky” mates and “gobsmacked” tales, “sorted” and “bloke,” All bobbing like a bobby’s hat in

Jelly

In the kitchen’s quiet hush, a bowl awaits, A ruby‑red wobble, trembling like sunrise on the sea. Spoon‑kissed, it sighs, releasing sweet perfume, A gentle quiver that dances on the tongue. Jelly,

Visor

Upon the crown of everyday wear, A stiffened brim— the visor— lies, Guarding eyes from sudden glare While sun climbs high in English skies. It shades the brow of cyclists keen, Of cricketers

Tacky

In a shop of plastic rainbows, Where neon ties and sequined bows Hang like cheap confetti on a dull day, We call it tacky — bright, absurd, and gay. Yet somehow it pulls a

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives