Confusion by Pete Brammer

September’s trigger ‘Confuse … Confused … Confusion’ – possibly based on words that sound the same, produced a great variety of pieces. A few follow Pete’s which takes the ‘pun’ route.

Confusion by Pete Brammer

Why does the washer eat my socks?

How does it achieve this ‘Feat’?

The way it’s going, I’ll soon be wearing,

Add socks upon my ‘Feet’.


It’s said, if someone’s clever,

That they are in the ‘Know’

But if you answer, in the negative,

You will then be saying, ‘No’


Words and many letters make,

A book containing a ‘Story’

Several floors of windows and doors,

Then, one could be a ‘Storey’.


Rasp, black, straw and tay,

All these are types of ‘Berry’

But you could live, in a town up north,

With a football team, called ‘Bury’.


Right in the middle of one’s face,

You’ll find you have a ‘Nose’

And how many hairs you have inside?

I’m afraid nobody ‘Knows’.


After a young lady marries,

Her name comes after ‘Nee’

And of all those pretty ladies,

I’d like some, on my ‘Knee’.


If you go and strip your clothes off,

Then you’re known as being ‘Bare’

But one who cannot do that,

Is the humble teddy ‘Bear’.


That bright light, high up in the sky,

Giving off heat, is the ‘Sun’

But a little male offspring,

Is of course, your ‘Son’.


A baker who’s been brought up well,

Could well be called well ‘Bred’

But then he makes his living,

By baking stuff, called ‘Bread’.


Long ago in days of old,

On a fire, you’d use a ‘Poker’

Then settle down, with a friend or two,

To enjoy a game of ‘Poker’.


A wild strike in a cricket game,

One might hear the shout of ‘Duck!’

But please don’t look into the sky,

Hoping to see a ‘Duck’.


Little girls, out for a walk,

For mum, may pick a ‘Flower’

But the miller, he gets covered in dust,

When turning wheat, to ‘Flour’.


Shopping for things at Harrods,

Could turn out very ‘Dear’

Like a pound or two of venison,

From that lovable, little ‘Deer’.


Every morning on your doorstep,

Came milk, in a glass pint ‘Bottle’

Yet when you’re scared of something,

They say, you’ve lost your ‘Bottle’.


Attending Retford Writers’ Group,

Stories and verse, we ‘Write’

But for me, the poems that do not rhyme,

I think, are just not ‘Right’.

Pete Brammer