“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
An orange is not a Satsuma;
but, a Satsuma is orange all the same,
Identical they are, apart from their size,
and except for the sound of their name.
There once was a rumour
that a wayward satsuma
‘peared up’ with an orange from Spain,
but, when the details were sought,
there was evidence nought,
and the story was held in distain.
Liza with a Zee,
Liza went to sea,
to sail the oceans blue:
in a boat of crimson hue;
she travelled ‘cross the waves,
had close and distant shaves,
met mernaids by the score,
and washed up on a distant shore
many leagues away
from when she set out that day.
An island she had found,
not quite but sort of round,
with fruit upon the trees,
she lived a life of ease;
for many, many years,
she dwelt, now her ending nears.
Liza lay upon the sand,
a smile on her face,
that only she’d understand.
The proliferation of the veneration of Alliteration…
blah blah
blah blah
blah
… is not a thing…
… and, do you want to know why?
No, I disn’t think you did.
Which leads me to write,
‘What sad state of affairs
has led to this sort of thing?’
And,
‘aren’t rhetorical questions annoying?’
No, you don’t have to answer that–
you really don’t.
‘LWG 10-minute exercise: The Bookshop Was Closed’
There was a note Blu-Tacked to the door, ‘Back in 10-minutes’, but, was that 10-minutes nearly up, or had that 10-minutes only recently started? Would 10-minutes see me inside the sanctuary of books, or would 10 become 20… or forever? I know that sometimes a note written to let people know when you’ll be back (in the case of Bookshop proprietors) should be literally the maximum time that you are going to be away – it should have a built-in allowance for delays and distractions – but, I am all too aware that life, being what it is, can put paid to the best laid plans of mice and people that run bookshops.
I made a decision. I would wait until twenty past (it being ten past now) based upon the premise that the note was freshly scribed and someone would be unlocking those doors any minute now.
People approached and passed me as I stood nervously upon the threshold of the haven of hallowed hardbacks (and, to be honest, a larger number of paperbacks) twiddling my thumbs (and flexing my index fingers – in the hope that they would be tracing down the spines all too soon).
There was a call from across the street, ‘I’ll be with you in a tick, sir.’ The lady from the bookshop! ‘Huzzah!’ I would soon be reunited with the papery stories and inky words.
I looked back at the note, ‘10-minutes!’ I had been right to wait.
There was a long screech of brakes. A thud. * A cry of pain.
I turned. ‘Oh, no!’ I howled dejectedly.
—//—
*This was where my 10-minutes ran out – which is quite ironic really.
‘Grandad was the oldest, at 89, and ‘Nipper’ the newest member of the O.R.B.C. at 80 years, three months and two days – that’s if you didn’t take into count their trusty ‘steeds’, born of a time when Queen Victoria was still fondly remembered from her 1885 visit to Nottingham for the state opening of the Raleigh Bicycle Company.
They rode in single file along the country lanes in the colours of the lead cyclist of the Tour de France, their fluorescent yellow garb could be seen from space, and, on night-rides the crimson and white of their lights closely rivalled the Blackpool illuminations.
Often, you would hear their cycling songs long before they came into sight; one such is printed below,
‘Sturmey-Archer, Sturmey-Archer,
you can change gear when you like,
unless you are blessed
with a fixed wheel on your bike!’
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Bicycle, #Cyclist, #FF, #Octogenarian, #prose, #Raleigh, #SturmeyArcher, #vss
“More Cowbell!” Is the phrase that came to my mind;
it’s a thing about ‘less is more’ I think you’ll find.
I borrowed the title
from a poem I saw,
it was called ‘This Poem is,
well, what do you think
it was called, ‘… This Poem is…
About to Explode!’?
(Which title I have now ear-marked for later).
Anyway, what makes this poem,
as oposed to that poem,
(which I am not, oposed to it, I mean)
what makes this poem,
different from that Vegan poem?
And, BTW (by the way)
can I just say here,
that I ask questions,
yet I very rarely answer them.
But, in this case,
the other poem was
a ‘good’ poem,
whereas this one…
is not.
Happy now?
I have to write them,
Haikus, that is, and yet, no,
I shall not do that!
But, who has power,
who can honestly say, no,
when a Haiku calls?
I know I cannot,
I have to write the three lines,
because, I have to.
Not that I am weak,
but, every week day is
a Haiku day, no?
Go on, try it out;
seventeen syllables, then…
create your Haiku –
or add a couple of lines
and it becomes a Tanka.
Or make it funny,
and, by definition, you,
have a Senryu.
‘Thank you for the food we eat’
said a banner read in Merrymeet;
‘Thank you for the cheese and chives’
said a poster posted in St. Ives;
‘Thank you for the bread and sup’
said a post-it note that I picked up.
‘Thanks for nothing’ I replied,
with hunger pangs,
and then I died.
The Poetry Knight
rode in upon his steed,
then he was gone;
the people sighed,
they had a need,
for poems,
yes, a need indeed.
The Poetry Knight
he hadn’t stopped,
not one small verse
had he dropped
into the laps
of the people;
perhaps he had,
forgotten to stop,
“Begorra! Egad!”
the people shouted,
the people cried,
one of the people was very old
and died (of natural causes –
it’s sad to say,
that things like that
happen every day).
The Poetry Knight
was, by now, far away,
and little did he have to say;
upon the subject,
he was as mute
as the mutest swan,
who was one day here,
the next day
gone.
