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…
Potatoes, it seems often have dreams
Of paper in reams and eating custard creams
In this poem of Greem’s
“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’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 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.
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.