“Shall we go Parranda, Miranda?”

“Shall we go Parranda, Miranda?”

“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!’ “

When the Bad Bee bothered the Beautiful Butterfly.

‘When the Bad Bee bothered the Beautiful Butterfly.’

There were buzzy bees, beautiful butterflies, stingy wasps – sorry sting-y wasps, and all manner of other bugs and beasties…

but…

… it was the bad bee that bothered the beautiful butterfly,

by bombarding her with… alliteration,

“Buzz, buzz be gone!” bade the bee.

Meanwhile, an army of caterpillars marched by, unnoticed by all but me.

The Madge Hatter Tearooms

Now, you might think that operating a tearoom going by the name of ‘The Madge Hatter Tearooms’ there would be something of an ‘Alice in Wonderland’ theme involved – yet, you would be so wrong.

There was nothing ‘curious’ or ‘curiouser’ about the Madge Hatter Tearooms, nor about Madge, herself, come to that.

Madge Hatter was Madge Hatter’s one and only name – her parents, Peter and Greta Hatter, being oblivious to any literary connotations that they might have created by their choice of the – even then – outdated, Madge.

Those who came to the Madge Hatter Tearooms seeking a cornucopic wonderland of Lewis Carroll’s creation in a convivial tea and cake setting inevitably left disappointed, and, usually, a little non-plussed, and, here must be mentioned, that the cakes were dry, the sandwiches usually curled up at the edges, and the tea… well, weak tea is not everybody’s cup of – well, tea.

Madge, and her tearooms, existed; neither bringing in huge profits, nor huge losses, it was more of a hand-to-mouth existence for Madge – usually with a slice of ‘even-beyond-giving-away’ cake.

TBC?

Ada

Ada was an aibohphobiac

she avoided Mum, Dad, and Nan;

she never phoned up Hannah,

and asked to be called Amy,

Caroline, or Fran.

Friday (I don’t mind)

I’m neither happy

nor unhappy

that it is Friday –

I don’t mind at all;

but, I know,

that there are some

who have been waiting

for this day to arrive

since last Sunday night –

which is alright…

if you like Friday;

which I neither do,

nor don’t –

or so I say.

At 01:42

At 01:42

I am writing a poem.

For me?

For you?

I don’t really know

who I am writing it to,

or for.

Then I stopped.

As it was 01:42

no more.

Xtreme Gardening – at the Poles.

I have two,

yes, ‘two’ gardens –

I am so blessed –

but, there is a distance between them,

and I have no rest,

as I go from one

to the other,

which is a round trip

of some forty-thousand miles or so –

and the climate’s not good

in either garden,

I have to grow frozen vegetables,

in the ice they harden;

well, at least they are ready

for the local farm shop –

to which place I stop

as I travel down:

Longyearbyen in Norway,

the nearest town,

or up to Ushuaia

in Argentina –

and you wonder why I wear a frown.

Yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Every day is tomorrow,

until it becomes today,

and then quickly becomes yesterday.

A Haiku a Day

A Haiku a day

is too much for some people –

by just one Haiku.

Xtreme Gardening: In Babylon, about 600 BCE.

I have to admit,

that it’s a bit of a kerfuffle

getting to my garden;

there is a lot of hanging around,

waiting for a slot

on the Time Travellers’

Allotment Bus –

but, I’m not one

to make a fuss;

the journey is worth the wait;

and, I can also tell you,

that the Tower of Babel,

is definitely ‘not’ a fable.

Xtreme Gardening: In Zero Gravity.

In Zero Gravity,

no one can hear you scream,

as your secateurs float away,

and the herbs and vegetables

(that you so carefully planted)

disappear towards a distant galaxy

where the aliens shall feast upon them.