Born on the bleakest of mid-Winter nights, Lemuel Plain was never destined to live; his mother didn’t even last long enough to hear his first cry of hunger; but, Lemuel was determined to fulfil a destiny.
He nearly capitulated many times in that first cold experience of life; someone was watching over him and so he kept breathing and every day was a step towards the manhood that would make him famous.
He seemed stubborn enough to shove aside illnesses and fevers that took stronger souls than him; ‘he’ wasn’t going to surrender to an early demise – oh, no.
It is colder now than it was… Or will be…
That’s because it is Winter – and, as I am a living thing, I know that to be the case.
I have the knowledge of my past and the brain-power to realise that the future rotates in seasons – unerringly and with simple ease – and that the past will mirror the present and the future (when it comes to weather).
Whether that is an exact science or not I cannot say. I have no ‘specialised’ knowledge – just knowledge.
I shall have to live with that.
It seems the thing to do.
Does my story fit the criteria? Does it?
I need to mention winter, life and creation; I think I needed to mention those. – I’m not sure any more.
I have to check the rules: a hundred words I know that…
subject matter for me check…
‘Living Things’ and ‘Winter’ that was just what I thought; now what can I possibly write about those in just one hundred words?
And it’s no use asking you, the reader, rhetorical questions, is it?
Okay, let me start…
In the Winter living things can survive by a number of methods.
Baker: What has
Able: No! Scone!
Able: Ay, scone.
Baker: Just the one?
Able: Ay, a singularly singular 'scone!'
Baker: I'd call it a scöne!
Able: You would!
Baker: What's that supposed to mean?
Able: Tomatoes, potatoes, pineapples, scones!
It's the different way that you and I say the same things.
Able: Yes - took your time - you'd call it a 'nexotic' fruit;
whereas to me it's just a common everyday 'pineapple'.
Baker: What a lot of cahones you talk.
Able: No it's gone
Baker: Scone or scöne
Able: No! My sketch idea.
Able: A scone.
Able: Oh? Is that all you can say?
Baker: Well, I mean... it's a shame, and all that; but,
it was just a sketch about a... (slowly) ...scone.
Able: 'Just' a sketch?! It was a brilliant idea;
a work of genius; a creative masterpiece; a... a...
Baker: (blandly) ... sketch about a scone.
Able: Oh, you; 'you' wouldn't know a genius sketch about
a scone if it bit you on the backside!
Baker: Is that likely? 'Scone-Sketch Bites Man!'
Able: I can see the headline now.
Baker: Whatever! (leaves)
Able: He... 'sgone!
The word of the day is ‘Pernicious’
Just say it; it tastes so delicious;
But, be careful, my friend
It’s a means to ill end
Bit by bit, it will turn out malicious.
The word of the day is peripatetic
It keeps moving around – quite athletic
Here one day, then gone
No dust will fall on
And to stop it you’ll need anaesthetic.
An Ode to an Anode Ode
Oh, Anode Ode
How much is owed
To your creation?
The answer is: little;
Which is to say
That your worth
Is not measured in mere amounts;
It is your very being that counts
For, without you, there would be a space in my dictionary
And a lack in my life;
Although, I speak here of the words that spoke of your worth
Rather than of you, yourself.
As, you existed long before I;
And ‘I’ long before the words
That I wrote upon you –
If that makes sense of our mirth
And I here use the Earth
As my playground
It is the best place for writing upon
That ‘I’ have so far found.
And the ‘only’ one
I’ll be bound.
Oh, Anode Ode,
How much is owed?
Crawford the Crow
My Crow’s Poetry
Crawford the crow
Usually spoke with Cawtion
But, sometimes he was
His poems, of which there were many, were scrawled upon
Scraps of paper that he found
When rooting around for his food.
One of his best was a poem
He wrote one Saturday in January
When he’d just been thrown a measly crust
It was okay, but tasted of dust
But, then a chunk of cake came towards
And in his mind it deserved awards
Not that Crawford should have chocolate cake to eat
But, just this once, as a treat.
His poem was:
Cake, I like your style
Your taste is worth my while
And though my tummy may soon ache
I’d like to say I loved you, cake.
Short and sweet it was
Which as the crow flies is the best way,