“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
‘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.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Alliteration, #bee, #Butterfly, #Catterpillar, #poetry. #poem, #prose
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Hatter, being oblivious to any literary connotations that they might have created by their choice of the – even then – outdated, Madge.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 was an aibohphobiac
she avoided Mum, Dad, and Nan;
she never phoned up Hannah,
and asked to be called Amy,
Caroline, or Fran.
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
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.
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.
Every day is tomorrow,
until it becomes today,
and then quickly becomes yesterday.
A Haiku a day
is too much for some people –
by just one Haiku.
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.
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.
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