“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!’ “

“To be… “

To be,

or not ‘not’ to be;

that is no question;

it is merely the saying

of the same thing…

in differing ways.

To not be,

or not to ‘not’ be;

is just confusing,

and aren’t we

already confused enough?

That is a question –

although it may,

or may not, be

a rhetorical one.

Never Forget to Feed the Elephant in the Room

Never, ever, forget

to feed the elephant;

because, you don’t want

an angry, hungry elephant,

in your house.

A mouse might chew

on your skirting boards

to get through to the other side;

but, you won’t be able to hide

the damage that a ‘phant would do

if they wanted to.

The skirting boards

might be the only things left;

of the rest of the room,

you could well be bereft.

Nothing to see here

Nothing to see here, today,

all ideas have been consumed;

please come back tomorrow –

when abnormal service may be resumed.

Sunday, not a poetry day?

I tried to write a poem,

something, anything;

but, nothing could I write;

so, I went for a walk instead,

to consider the nothingness

in my head.

R.H.Y.T.H.M. & R.H.Y.M.E.

Red-handed, you, the hit-man,

are caught with my misspelling

clenched between your teeth;

your reply:

‘Red-handed? You, me, everybody!

Culpability is my only crime.

A quick Haiku thing

Because time is short,

and I have some things to do,

a real quick Haiku.

(I know, it’s a fix,

to write a poem so trite;

but, it’s what I do).

Less is More? (more or less, that is).

I have written less today,

than I did yesterday;

hence my surge in popularity

today.

Should I continue the trend,

or amend my writing

to allow peaks and troughs?

If I continue to write less,

I confess I would be non-plussed

if my stock was still to rise;

I would have to surmise

that if I wrote nothing at all, ever,

I could be famous.

Or infamous…

Whatever.

Potatoes and Poets

Poets like potatoes,

and potatoes like poets;

what is more,

a poet can be found in potatoes,

but not in a potato;

a potato, it should be said,

cannot be found in a poet.

It’s all just letters and words,

don’t you think?

Rosa Brupptley

Rosa was a stand-up.

Her rise to stardom was meteoric.

Her fall from grace catastrophic;

one minute she was riding the heights,

the next, she was plumbing…

plumbing the depths, that is.

“It is a buoy, your grace!”

After 9 months of plain sailing,

the master and his attendant crew entered the area of storms.

In that vast place,

their tiny wooden craft was sea-tossed,

and thrown from wave peak to wave trough innumerable times.

When, eventually, the craft had miraculously reached beyond,

they found themselves becalmed upon a mirrored ocean,

where there was not even a breeze.

Like the ship of the Ancient Mariner,

there was grave concern amongst the sailors;

and the relief felt from passing through the storm

was replaced by a dread of another kind.

Water rations grew scant, food was turning away from being edible, and all seemed about to be lost.

Until the master’s wife gave birth; which was a bit of a surprise, as no one had known she was pregnant.

“It is a buoy, your grace!”

“I am not, ‘your grace’, I am just the master of this vessel; but, I think that Grace will be a good name for our child.”

“It’s a buoy! You can’t call him Grace.”

“We can call him what we wish – Grace is a name that shall befit his style and grace.

And so it was that Grace was named, and grew to be the son that his father, Muriel, had always wanted.