Monthly Archives: July 2015

Another Train-Based Piece (Running 14 minutes late – wrong points setting at Droitwich)

Larkin or Auden
Auden or Larkin
Larkin or Auden
Auden or Larkin
Adlestrop stop
Thomas or Auden
Auden or Thomas
Thomas or Auden
Auden or Thomas
Thomas the Tank Engine?
No, Edward Thomas.
Edward Thomas or Aldgate
Aldgate or Edward Thomas
Edward Thomas or Aldgate
Isn’t that upon the underground?
Circle Line or Northern
Jubilee or Piccadilly
District or Waterloo
Bakerloo or…


Nursery Rhyme Time 1

A Scottish Black Bee

A Scottish Black Bee

“Buzz buzz, Black Bee
Have you lost your stripes?”
“No, sir; not me
Those bees are different types;

One courts disaster
When you’ve go-faster bands
One is so much safer
If you’re a ninja fan.”

We Do What We Can


We do what we can
Sometimes that relates to little
Or nothing
But we have something
When we do words.

Overheard (in the undergrowth)


“And, even amongst the nibbling and the scratching of the oiks toiling round the clock around the cock and the gonorrhoea and the diarrhoea, I’m sure I heard a wood louse sobbing ‘Get me out of here!”

@CarterJonas Summertown (A Haiku)

"What time is it, Eccles?"

“What time is it, Eccles?”

Behind barricades
Doughty maidens await you;
With greetings of… ‘Hi!’

If you go to Reception at CJ you will see the proof – I, myself, consider the Reception set up as similar to battlements or barricades. But, the greeting is friendly (no boiling oil… yet!)

Upon Writing and Artists… (No, it’s sillier than that title suggests – well, it’s me, what did you expect?)


“Oh, I turned this sort of art into an art form – even discussed it with artists on a forum; asked them ‘wherefore ‘art,’ thou?’ They just stated their opinions upon onions as still life.
I preferred the written form; have done all my life; I can’t apply myself (or paint) to a canvas with a brush or a palette knife; no, drawing or sketching for me; I haven’t the ability, you see.
I ‘paint’ my words upon a blank page:
Poetry! All the rage… once.
It’s all I can do to doodle a canoe…
That looks like a gnu!
Well, what did you expect to see
From a wordsmith like me?”

Amanda Upon The Verandah 1


Amanda, standing like a standard, upon the verandah (flapping about a lot in the breeze of a conversation about the restoration and conservation of Restoration conservatories) lost the plot – along with her floppy-brimmed hat – and, as it was rather hot, she decided to faint upon the grass – which meant a little stroll before that place was reached.
“I feel faint!” she cried limply; and fell to the cushioning surface.
Sadly, everybody else had gone back into the house to grab a quick drinkie before tea.
Amanda surreptitiously glanced around.
“Bother! I shall have to put that one down to bad planning.” and, climbing to her feet, she toddled off after the others to empty a few cut-glass decanters.

What Remains?


At a canter
my witty banter
Encroaches upon your mind
It goes in fast
But, will not last
For soon, it will unwind
And fade away
To leave nothing
But the memory of a Cheshire
Feline’s grin.

The man in black

charlypriest has the voice!


While he was walking on some dark track,
hiding his back from a passing train on the railway track .
He was walking alone,
with no overtone.
Suddenly he turned and shot him dead,
right in the temple of his damn head.

As he smirked he tied his black necktie,
he just shot his shadow who wanted for him to be swallowed…
and chewed up
then spit out
to leave in in a drought
of doubt


He had survived
so he could be revived

He was…..The man in black

Stay Frosty gents and gentesses.

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The Lunatic Poets Have Taken Over The Elysium !

Christopher Marlowe spake of Elysium

Christopher Marlowe spake of Elysium

Stone The Poets!
They are an evil, wicked bunch
They are planning to take over the world
Well, that is just my hunch!
Let’s cook the blooming lot of them
And eat the twits for lunch!

Well, perhaps we shouldn’t stone them…

And, now I come to think of it…

That does seem a little harsh;
Let’s just ridicule their silly rhymes
And maroon them in a marsh
Or snigger when they start to speak
Of ‘clouds that scutter by’
As if a cloud would do such things
‘That’s gibberish!’ We’ll cry.
And maybe sneeze and cough…
and other subtle things we know
Which will break the poet’s flow-

“Those sort often makes me lose my thought…”

Who am I? Do you not know?
I am the mourning poet
At the source of P.O.E.T.R.Y!

At odds with my self, as usual,
It’s the way I write, you see.

As poets go
When the time comes
That the rhymes just won’t come
I will go quietly into that goodnight, Vienna
With ne’er a look back
Or regret

But, until then…