“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
The Doctor’s Reply
It just isn’t true
that doctors dislike poems –
they just hate poets.
A haiku a day
helps keep the doctor away –
doctors hate poems.
Remembering things;
watches, and strings
on ancient guitars;
places I’ve been,
bands that I’ve seen,
the purchase of dodgy old cars;
people I’ve known,
styles I’ve outgrown,
that time that I landed on Mars;
the toys that I’ve had,
hols with Mum and Dad;
collecting bugs in jam jars.
Unfortunately,
Monosyllabic Haiku
are not my forte.
Sunday Morning, 3am,
it is;
not ‘Wednesday’
I know,
I’ve checked;
I’ve checked my calendar,
checked my watch,
checked my bottle
of twelve-year Scotch –
half empty!
or maybe half full, to you,
depending on your point of view.
Haikus do not work,
Acrostically speaking,
In terms of their length.
“Betty Botter bought some butter but, said she, the butter’s bitter.
If I put it in my batter, it will make my batter bitter.
But a bit of better butter will make my bitter batter better.
So she bought some better butter, better than the bitter butter,
put it in her bitter batter, made her bitter batter better.
So it was better Betty Botter bought some better butter”
“And that is Mrs. Botter’s defence, is it?”
“Yes, m’Lud.”
“And is there anybody who can confirm the veracity of Mrs. Botter’s… tale?”
“Well… we do have a lady that sells seashells on the seashore… she saw something.”
“Something?”
“Yes. She swears she saw several sea-urchins sauntering southwards, sometime soon after six-seventeen, Sunday the Sixteenth.”
“Around the time that Roger Rusk, retired Landlord of the Rugged Rock ran those ragged rascals out of Rockpool Town?”
“Indeed, m’Lud.”
“Then the case is solved.”
“It is?”
“Indeed, it is; my unlearned gentleman of the persecution. Mrs. Betty Botter – formerly of Quick Brown Fox Incorporated – is a notorious felon with a long history of telling tales and demeaning all kinds of foodstuffs – I do believe her to be the sole perpetrator of the crimes heretofore listed against her.
I pronounce her very guilty of rhymes against the saying of.
Therefore, I sentence Mrs. Betty Batter to a long and lonely life, living and languishing, longing for a little largesse, lofty latitudes, lengthy literal lunches, lasting levity and late lolly-gagging laughter. Let that be a lesson to her.”
“Lunch?”
