“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 Poet climbed the Poet Tree,
he had to,
because it was there;
he wrote a word,
climbed up with it,
taking care
not to reach too high,
too soon,
as the Poet Tree
can reach to the Moon,
and even beyond –
on Mars there’s a pond.
The Poet,
reaching the top
of the Poet Tree,
pinned the word
to a high, thin twig,
then climbed back down
for another word,
that from the ground he’d lovingly dig.
A warning heard,
but ignored,
didn’t stop his next attempt
at reaching the heights –
see the Poet
with his hair unkempt,
and his simile trailing
like a kite tailing in the breeze;
a poet loves the ascent of trees.
Carrying words from the Earth
to the heights,
at anytime of all those innumerable days,
unaccountable nights,
is what a Poet must do;
for what is a word
if left buried in soil,
if it’s not to be heralded
by a Poet Tree toil?
Today, if I didn’t write a poem
would you notice?
Would you say to a friend,
‘Tell you what…’
and describe to them
the feelings inside?
If I didn’t write a poem, today,
would you care?
Would you check your media closely,
to see if you’d missed me there?
If I didn’t, today, write a poem,
would I feel okay?
And even if I had
nothing to say,
shouldn’t I still write a poem,
anyway?
If I didn’t write that poem today,
would ‘you’ still have something to say,
that you could put in a poem
just to fill that gap?
Is that a ‘yes’ I hear you say?
The sky
was obscured
by crowds
of clouds
all jostling
for a place
near the front.
An icing bag pipes
your decorative icing
without all the noise.
Osrid the Poet
writing his haiku daily
by the water’s edge.
Better Self-Isolate
If you want to stay alive –
the clever survive.
Troll sat alone on his seat of stone, – JRR Tolkien
Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
Done by! Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by.
Up came Tom with his big boots on.
Said he to Troll: ‘Pray, what is yon?
For it looks like the shin o’ my nuncle Tim.
As should be a-lyin’ in the graveyard.
Caveyard! Paveyard!
This many a year has Tim been gone,
And I thought he were lyin’ in the graveyard.’
‘My lad,’ said Troll, ‘this bone I stole.
But what be bones that lie in a hole?
Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o’ lead,
Afore I found his shinbone.
Tinbone! Skinbone!
He can spare a share for a poor old troll,
For he don’t need his shinbone.’
Said Tom: ‘I don’t see why the likes o’ thee
Without axin’ leave should go makin’ free
With the shank or the shin o’ my father’s kin;
So hand the old bone over!
Rover! Trover!
Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
So hand the old bone over!’
‘For a couple o’ pins,’ says Troll, and grins,
‘I’ll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
A bit o’ fresh meat will go down sweet!
I’ll try my teeth on thee now.
Hee now! See now!
I’m tired o’ gnawing old bones and skins;
I’ve a mind to dine on thee now.’
But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
He found his hands had hold of naught.
Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind
And gave him the boot to larn him.
Warn him! Darn him!
A bump o’ the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
Would be the way to larn him.
But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
As well set your boot to the mountain’s root,
For the seat of a troll don’t feel it.
Peel it! Heal it!
Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,
And he knew his toes could feel it.
Tom’s leg is game, since home he came,
And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
But Troll don’t care, and he’s still there
With the bone he boned from its owner.
Doner! Boner!
Troll’s old seat is still the same,
And the bone he boned from its owner!
