“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
Opportunity:
If an opportunity comes along grab it with both hands.
But, don’t shout out to a colleague ‘Grab it!’ if you see an opportunity for them that they haven’t seen*.
*This mainly applies for when you are upon a boat.
Now, why Begonias should need an education is beyond me – as are so many other, less important, things. But, if I just go along with the premise that they do, then I shall be able to comprehend why these things are.
It is at this point that I ask,
‘Why is monosyllabic such a long word?’
And other questions. Eventually.
Returning to Begonias,
‘Last night I dreamt I went to Begonias again.’
as was once, fictionally, almost uttered by the second Mrs. de Winter in the book ‘Rebecca’ by Daphne du Maurier.
‘Amanda was a carpet-fitter,
Amanda lay a carpet.’
as was recently written by me in my short prose piece, ‘Education for Begonias’
But, to the crux of the matter – or the important bit (whichever you prefer) – the Begonias.
Not the 1963 film directed by Alfred Hitchcock, nor the famous (yet unheard of) pop group from the mid-1960s, but the specific breed of flower. Begonia Obliqua as the Latins might have called it if they were alive today.
Actually, all plants need to be fed and watered with knowledge otherwise they shall remain ignorant and grow the wrong way down a one-way dead-end street.
So, send them to college, fill them with knowledge, and make sure that they ‘are’ Begonias, and not Triffids – there is a difference, but only time William Tell what it is.
Up the Begonias.
Why didn’t I mention ‘Begonias for Beginners’?
There’s your other question.
I won a falafel in a raffle once.
Actually, that’s a fib;
or it may be a fig
-ure of speech.
I do that;
it is my wont;
I’d be surprised,
if I were you
(which I’m not)
if you read my words
and there wasn’t
a hint
of pocket lint
attached.
Anyway, less is more;
and, so …
Never say it;
for who knows what may befall
the crew, passengers, and boat.
It may be hard to stay afloat
when your dog jumps ship,
when you let the ‘R-word’ slip,
and it answers to the call.
If I died now…
this very moment…
upon this very stage…
who would finishing reading out this poem?
Would you?
Or would you try to bring me back?
Give me the kiss of life?
Return me to the task in hand?
For, I have been told, that ‘nobody’ could read my poems
the way that I do.
And once I had gone…
would they be forever silent?
NB Funny how some poems just happen. This took about two minutes and very little editing. Bit bleak; but, it’s only a collection of words in a certain order put. Graeme:)
I said ‘Hello!’ to a random leaf;
but, the random leaf ignored me;
I said hello to another leaf –
with the outcome just the same;
I said ‘Hello!’ to many leaves;
but none of them replied –
so, eventually,
I gave up saying hello to random leaves –
it was silly,
and it bored me
Now, not everybody hates a Triffid (if you consider all life being valuable, you don’t have favourites – all are equal).
So, when (in self-defence, I hasten to add) I shot the top of a towering Triffid, I was mightily surprised when a young lady ran up to me clutching leaflets and a sad expression.
“You’ve killed it!” she cried. “What harm was it doing you? You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Why?”
All these exclamations and questions were not readily answerable to her satisfaction, and I was soon being issues with a notice under Regulation TR1, Section 5, Sub-Section 3, that stated I was formally warned that my actions had brought me in direct conflict with S.C.A.T. (Serious Crimes Against Triffids).
“Do you know S.C.A.T.?” she asked me.
“Without hesitation I broke into some Scat / Do-wop and braved her exasperated look for all of twenty seconds.
“Very recently.” I answered her question.
“What, about two minutes ago?”
“Yes.” I mumbled.
“We shall be watching you.” she warned, as she departed the scene.
I looked after her retreating form, then around at the Triffid trunk.
Shaking my head, I picked up my Triffid Gun, and headed back to my truck.
Passed by a show of many a paw,
the Paw Law – as it was known –
made it illegal to own
a bear for the pursuits
of boxing, dancing, baiting,
or waiting upon tables.
The Paw Law stated,
‘This law enables
the Bears of England
freedoms unheard of before.’
Sadly, humans had their own law
which did ensure that ‘all’ animals were unequal,
and some moreso than others.
It would be another thousand years
before animals of all ilks (including elks)
were even considered to be like
sisters or brothers.
Change is slow,
as the immutability of the inhumanity of humanity
is always saying, ‘No!’
Sometimes the little black dog
comes to visit;
I see it in my mind’s rear-view mirror,
catch a glimpse of it as I move through the day,
see it in my reflection.
My mood is down
and I am quieter,
assessing all around me,
withdrawing into my shell.
It may stay for a few days,
keep me company,
run after thrown sticks …
eventually … it will grow tired of my way,
and we shall part.
But, I’ll always have that memory stored
within my heart.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #BlackDog, #Depressaion, #Feelings, #MentalHealth, #poetry. #poem
See the church,
see the steeple;
see the chip shop,
see the people.
