“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
How can I rejoice,
when I have never even joiced?
Did I have a choice
that I missed
and never made?
Did I fail
to make the grade?
And, if not mine,
at whose door can the fault be laid?
How can I rejoice,
when I’ve never even joiced?
I’ve spent many hours
in an ivory tower,
looking out at the sky,
and the brave knights passing by;
dreaming of where they were going,
never knowing if they would return
to their families and homes.
Not many people (one, if you include my self) know that Hairy McClary was written by a tall man who travelled between Glasgow and Berwick, Krannock Muir, Aberdeen, and Galbraith, with the occasional visits to Aberystwyth, Belfast, Bangalore, and Dublin – just like the travels of my Scottish accent. Although it may be a Scott’s Accent, or even a Scotch accent – but, as I don’t drink Scotch (Whiskey or otherwise) I cannae say.
Hairy McClary was born in Glasgow, hence he ‘has’ to have a Scotttiche accent; there is a Glasgow in Kentucky, America, but, my accent for that ancestry would cause Hairy McClary to travel the world in minutes, never mind eighty days.
No, truthfully, the Hairy McClary stories were written by a New Zealander, named Dame Lynley Dodd – although, what her parents were thinking when they called her ‘Dame’, I do not know; luckily she actually became a ‘Dame’ in 2009 and is now known as Dame Dame Lynley Dodd, what are the odds on that happening?
There was a big storm they named Dennis,
Which made it quite hard to play tennis:
When blowing a gale,
With wind, rain and hail,
it resembled a street walk in Venice.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #limerick, #poetry. #poem, #StormDennis, #Storms, #Venice, Rain
‘A walk to the Hurlers,
is just what you need.’ they said.
So, I set off straight away,
with my sturdy boots,
my rambling stick,
and my curlers still warm on my head.
‘It will leave you feeling awed and inspired’,
they told me -it was possibly true;
but, it was blowing a hoolie,
and cats and dogs
were falling from a sky,
that was the blackest shade of blue.
I watched, as the mizzle soaked me to the skin,
and the West wind knocked my socks off,
it was just the sort of weather
that would knock the steeples and their steeplecocks off.
I may have been hasty,
with my skin tone so pasty,
and my allergic reaction to rain;
so, when I came out in a rush,
I was soon out in a rash;
and made a mad dash for the tea-rooms.
Where I dripped a lot,
and thawed,
then expired.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #CornishWeather, #Hurlers, #Minions, #poetry. #poem, #StormDennis, #Storms, Cornwall, Kernow
A.C.R.O.N.Y.M.
A clever little way with letters instead of words,
Cunningly disguised by using the first letter of each word in the title,
Riddling the meaning into an easily memorable (or forgettable) one;
Obviously, those in the know understand what the letters stand for,
Nullifying those that haven’t the foggiest what it is all about,
Yet, the ego-stokers continue to roll them out, A.S.A.P.,
Mindless of the petty annoyance to U.N.Me.
I don’t read my poems
from a scrap of paper;
and I just don’t possess
a cast-iron alibi,
or an old-boot scraper:
I was there at the time,
when this rhyme was writ;
but I took no efforts
and so my rhyme is rubbish.
I don’t read my words
from the back of a packet;
even though I know that
that is what some call style –
‘Style’, I lack it.
I read my poems
from off the top of my head;
and I’d keep that fact
under my hat,
if it wasn’t for the lack
of tact
that I attract,
or have.
I don’t read my poems,
just to get to the end,
sometimes, I stop in the midst of—
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