“Shall we go Parranda, Miranda?”
asked Prospero, with a wry smile.
“Father, you are all a lather,
if you think we can spend a while
in doing so. The answer, it is, ‘No!’ “
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Miranda, #poetry. #poem, #Prospero, #TheTempest, @Shakespeare
Jack was a fruit.
Not a specific fruit,
like an Orange, Apple, or Pear;
or a rare fruit,
such as a Physalis, Durian
or the Mighty Horned Cucumber;
he wasn’t even a Tomato – which is a fruit.
Jack was ‘all’ fruits,
though not all at once,
for that would certainly be a fruit cocktail to confuse.
One Monday, last month, Jack had been a Lemon. The next day he was a Gooseberry; and this caused quite some confusion.
Jack the Lemon had had a lovely chat with Sally Strawberry; when he met Sally on Tuesday, she didn’t recognise him – for he was now Jack the Gooseberry. This caused problems for Jack and embarrassment all around.
Sometimes, when Jack was nervous, he would change fruits ‘during’ the day – and occasionally more than once – talking with Bella Banana had been the worst, Jack had changed into a Banana, and Bella had fallen for the unexpected stranger in her life, although she preferred Jack the Plum, but he had seemingly left the building – a Shoe Shop – and was never heard of again.
Finally, Jack was found close to tears, having lost the friendship of Bella Banana, Cindy Cherry, and Polly Peach all within a week.
Archie Apple saw a Lime in a corner that seemed to be crying and almost sobbing in despair.
“What is wrong, Friend Lime?” asked Archie.
Between sobs and tears, Jack the Lime answered,
“I keep on changing from fruit to fruit, and I can’t keep a steady relationship. One day I’m a Prune Plum, the next day I’m a Manila Mango!”
The tears fell down Jack’s face and started pooling around him, creating himself as his own island.
“Listen… I didn’t catch your name?” said Archie.
“Jack.” said the woeful Lime.
“Listen, Jack; all I can say is be yourself, and perhaps wear this T-Shirt that I fortuitously found just over there.” he pointed. “It looks about your size.”
Archie handed the T-Shirt to Jack.
“It’s a magical T-Shirt that stops the wearer from changing into a different species, be it animal, mineral or vegetable. Or fruit.”
Archie smiled benignly.
“Actually, Jack, I am your fairy godmother – I knitted you that T-Shirt myself.”
Jack popped the T-Shirt on and went to look at himself in a nearby mirror.
“Do I have to wear this always?” asked Jack.
“If you wear it three days running, it will be upon you forever, and you will stay as that fruit until the end of fruit days. So, this means that you can choose which fruit you’d like to be.” Archie disappeared in a puff of smoke – as fairy godmothers tend to do.
“Archie had stopped crying. He knew which fruit he would like to be. And all he had to do was put his magical T-Shirt on the next time that he became that fruit.
It couldn’t be that long before he was a lemon again, could it.
And Sally Strawberry might still be waiting for him.
This is not a haiku,
or a love song –
so deal with it.
When a city
loses its focus,
and can’t be seen
for what it once was,
what are its occupants to do?
Higgledy-piggledy the little piggies go,
carefully tripping over unseen obstacles,
and seeking things they do not know.
The one or two ‘lucky’ ones
that retain their sight,
see such calamities,
that cannot be put right.
Bill Masen was one,
Josella another;
their paths crossing
led to salvation for each other.
Although not straightforward,
with life plot twists and woe,
it takes a deal of anguish
for a complete bond to grow.
And the blind lead the blind,
to see what next they can find.
Triffids are as unlikely,
or as likely,
a creature to exist, as any other.
Though the fact that they should bear some resemblance
to the few carnivorous plants that there are,
and that they are so inclined to perambulate
in search of human flesh,
is something that doesn’t bear a lot of thought.
Thinking about how they arrived upon this planet,
it is less through the comets’ antics,
and more about the designs of Mankind
to create a super-oil producing vegetable.
Or so the story goes.
Seeds, stolen from the Russians (allegedly)
were scattered upon the four winds (I thought there were more) and found their way to the four corners of the world (I thought there were fewer). Thus were sown the seeds, literally, for Mankind’s downfall.
If only they could have seen that.
Whether it is the beginning of the end,
or the end of the beginning,
I can only say that,
it began to end
on Tuesday, 7th May,
in a year unspecified*,
with green flashes in the sky,
possibly from comets
passing by –
possibly not.
Anyway, that was when
it all began,
to end.
*1901, 07, 12, 18, 29, 35, 40, 46, 57, 63, and 68
are possible years
in the last century,
when this fictional tale
may have taken place;
but, only if you infuse –
or use –
a little reality
into proceedings.
It gave me the option
to shuffle
the seventeen audiobook episodes
of ‘The Day of the Triffids’
by John Wyndham.
How that would have effected the outcome
of the story,
I am not sure,
but, I think that
maybe ending on a Wednesday
that seemed more like a Sunday
than Sunday itself,
is a fine place to end…
or maybe not.
Three little dogs,
twelve little feet,
one virginal beach,
as the tide moves out of reach.
Given no note than a few minutes
of running to and fro,
there is no part of the revealed sand
that doesn’t have a paw-print show.
Holes have been dug,
ragged rocks run ‘round,
and all can be discovered
from the tracks on the ground.
Three tired dogs,
twelve tired legs,
“We deserve a biscuit treat!”
the spokesdog says.
Friday, June 17th.
With five triffids awaiting us at the front of the house, and one solitary fellow at the rear, we have become something of a cooped goose. We can still look out at them enquiringly from behind our upstairs windows, but feel that their presence, and their depth of patience, will outlast our limited food supplies. They are already mounting pressure upon the wooden porch that precursors access to the rest of the house – ‘How long will that stand against their efforts? is a question that we are continuously asking ourselves.
In seventeen short words,
I can say that my monosyllabic haiku
is not a thing that exists.
—//—
I am… monosyllabic;
yes, that is what I am,
monosyllabic.
Just one word at a time,
short words,
not long.
It is a thing
when you are…
monosyllabic,
that you do not use
long words,
at all –
just short ones.
but, I do use…
monosyllabic
to let folk know
what it is that I am.
“Oh, Buzzy Bee,
come back to me,
this silence is an agony;
please return, and set me free,
I’m imprisoned without your lullabee!”
Graeme Sandford 