Monthly Archives: February 2016

Not about ‘P*******!’

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I have to write a poem
Without mentioning the ‘P’ word
I have used it far too often lately
In my work many times it has occurred
In variations, admittedly, which helped to make words flow
But, now, I have to stop it
I have to let it go
Even Esther seems to think I have a problem with it now
I have to write on something else, if only I knew how.
Sat on my couch like a…
Well, you know;
I need to go and do something else
To interrupt the flow.

Maybe I can hold out till Thursday
When another prompt will be
And I can focus on that
I hope so…
Pity me.

More Potatoes!

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Potatoes, it seems often have dreams
Of paper in reams and eating custard creams
What’s more
They snore
In this poem of Greem’s

One of our Potatoes is missing.

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“One potato, two potato, three potato… where’s Pomme de Terre?”
“I don’t know, sir; but, he’s left his jacket on his chair.” said potato three, Pomme du Mare.
Potato one just rolled his eyes – that was Petit Pomme de l’aire
Whilst Pomodoro, potato two, said: “I miss his earthy ‘how-do-you-do!’ And his dreamy ways, without compare.”
“You are a dreamer, Pomodoro; and I swear, you and he were quite a pair. A right pair, indeed!” the master quothed – he did often swear.
Potato four, sweet Pomme de Terre; without his jacket, with option rare; had left the college for new pastures fair.
But, without his jacket – totally bare – he wound up dancing (he had flair) with all the style of Fred Astaire.
But, his dream came crashing, a real nightmare;
And his love, Pomodoro, he wished was there.

Sadly, he took his life amidst despair,
And, with a spud-gun smoking by his side, did sightless, unseeing, become Pomme de Terre de Terre.

It isn’t unusual!

It’s not unusual to find Tom Jones in our garden mowing the lawn; but, he says that he misses the green, green grass of home. I asked him why, why, why he couldn’t go back. “Delilah?” I opined, laughing. Then I saw the pruning knife in his hand… and stopped.

The Kinkajou

As there is a story about Banana the Kinkajou and I saw it; well, I remembered this. G:)

Graeme Sandford

kinkajou-blossom

The Kinkajou is a lonely sort
Never signals left when it comes into port
Just won’t listen to the things it’s told
Turns off the heating; then wonders why it gets cold

Doesn’t give a hoot when he’s in his car
Poops in the water when he goes to the spa
Holes in his socks, only wears one shoe
Took out all the pages from a book of who’s who

Cheeky little chappie
Funny little fellow
Hippy hoppy happy
Favourite colour… Green

The Kinkajou is a lonely type
He’s calm and subtle – ignore the hype
Sitin the corner, minds his own business
Doesn’t care for fuss; doesn’t crave dizziness
No, no, no, that’s not him; it’s some other mammal
He’s small and totally unlike to a two-hump camel

He’s a crafty one
Seeks employment
In others misfortune
And his own enjoyment.

That Kinkajou… is just like you!

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‘Out’ is the new ‘In’ (or is it the other way round?)

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The daylight crept up upon me like a bad-intentioned thief in the night. And the sun rose like purple prose from below the horizon to assault my senses, leaving me dazed, confused, and, to be honest, a little teary (it was just like a birthing).

However, now that it was here, there were things to do, things to get done, and things that I neither had to do, nor would get done. It is the way.

I wandered out. It was rather cold. So, I wandered back in again to put on some extra layers. And a scarf. And a hat. Then… I wandered out again. Sometimes a false start is just a warm up to a journey.

‘Out’ was the new ‘In’ – if the truth be known it was just the opposite. ‘In’ was soon to be the new ‘Out’ – but, I had to travel the many roads that a man must walk down (and ‘up’ them on the way back) before you can call me ‘a man’ – it may have been forty-two, but I wasn’t counting.

So, eventually, I reach the metaphorical ‘back’ after my little literary leanderings (not a word – made it up for alliterative effect) and go ‘inside’ – where I am out of coffee. Sadly, that is what I went to the shops for.

Another day, another dolour.

All of a Zither

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Walking hither and thither
Whilst coaxing tunes from my zither
I received a look that would make a wallflower wither.

Not from a sister
And not from a brother
But, from another relatively related person (though not a father or mother).
I seem to have a dozen of them;
Each and every one a cousin;
And this one such fellow was not at all au fait
With my musical ability; my need to play;
For ‘practice makes perfect’.
I’ve a long way to go;
But, still I shall play it
Until I am still
And six feet down
Or scattered wide;
And, if I haven’t succeeded
At least I can say I tried.