“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!’ “

Poetry from a far off land

I hear your words,

as if they were echoes,

spiralling down

through the centuries;

and then realise that only days have past,

since your words were cast.

I never could get the hang of Thursday poems

Douglas wrote it for Arthur to say,

that he couldn’t get the hang of any Thursday;

and I know what they meant,

and I know what they felt,

that upon a Thursday

all sense does melt,

and things seem all out of kilter –

perhaps the week

should have a Thursday filter.

Mouse Haiku

Small, with a long tale,

that it tells to its children

on cold Winter nights.

.

マウス俳句

小さく、長い物語があり、

それが子供たちに伝えること

寒い冬の夜に。

.

Mausu haiku

chīsaku, nagai monogatari ga ari, sore ga

kodomo-tachi ni tsutaeru koto

samui fuyunoyo ni.

As I was going to St. Ives…

As I was going to St. Ives,

I took a train,

where husbands, wives,

children, pets,

long lost goats,

mediaeval gents

with castles, moats;

and sundry other various types,

and then it rained,

it poured, and ‘Cripes!’

we all got wet,

and yet, we all were still upon that train –

open top?

Well, whether it was,

I’d still go there again.

The Dandelion and the lonely Mouse

One fine day,

towards the end of May,

Mouse was just wandering lonely,

‘like a cloud’ thought Mouse,

when all at once she spied

a Dandelion.

‘When is a lion

not a lion?’ asked Mouse,

of no-one in particular.

‘When it is a Dandelion.’

came a voice from above.

‘What is a ‘Dandelion?’

asked Mouse, ‘if it pleases you to tell me’ –

for Mouse was a very polite mouse.

‘I, am a dandelion.’ said the voice.

‘As any young mouse should know.’

Mouse looked up at the golden flower,

marvelling at the beauty.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mouse, ‘but I never went to Mouse School, and so I don’t know many things.’

‘Ah!’ said the Dandelion, ‘I never went to school, either; but, I talk to all the creatures

that pass by, and learn about the wide world from them.’

‘I don’t know any creatures, and nobody ever talks to me.’ said Mouse sadly – a tear in her eye..

‘I am talking to you’, said the Dandelion, ‘and I can be your friend. I will tell you of all the things that I have been told.’

Mouse looked up at Dandelion, with a different tear in her eye. ‘Could you? Would you? That would be so nice of you.’

Dandelion looked fondly at the Mouse, ‘I am only here for a short time – much shorter than your time will be – so I shall firstly tell you the names of all the birds and other creatures of flight, the insects, flowers, and the growing things that are nearby, then you can say hello to them by their names, and they will also talk to you.’

‘Thank you.’ said Mouse.

And the lesson began.

The Bee and the Flower (revisited)

The Bee sat upon the Flower

for just under an hour,

which was longer than usual, by far;

The Bee sang a song,

the Flower sang along,

(she joined in the chorus, ‘La la!’)

.

When the Bee flew away,

it was a much duller day,

thought the Flower, with a sigh and a tear;

‘but Bees must buzz on,

and the memory’s not gone’,

thought the Flower,

‘and the song was so lovely to hear.’

.

Then she sang the chorus

of that song once again,

much quieter than before,

and she sang it to all those that passed

in the Sun and the rain,

it could softly be heard

all day long, until night fell at last. 

‘La la,

la la,

la la…’

Let the Dandelions grow

Let the dandelions grow,

and let their seeds fly

wherever they wish to go;

and let the dandelions flourish,

nourish the tiny critters

that pop by to say ‘Hello!’.

Please, let the dandelions grow.

Sometimes

Sometimes,

a single word

is more than I can manage.

Butterfly flying by

I saw a butterfly flying by;

flying by without a care;

flying by to I don’t know where –

I looked again,

he wasn’t there.

Grace Darling

Mother?

What is it, Grace, darling?

What sort of bird are we?

I think that we are called, ‘starlings’, my dear.

Oh.

Is there a problem, Grace?

No. I just wanted to grow up and be a kingfisher.

Ah, the fisher king – such a fine colouring, almost as beautiful as yours, Grace.

Beautiful? I am a dull shade of slate grey.

Not when you are in the sunlight, Grace; then you are without doubt the most beautiful of all birds.

Really?

Definitely.