Monthly Archives: February 2016

Not about ‘P*******!’


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!


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.


“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


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?)


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


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.

The Dream of a Potato


The Dream of a Potato

I dreamed a dream
Wherein ‘I’ was the king of the Potatoes;
They called me Eddy
(Even though my name was Vince);
Before that, I had been king of the Tomatoes
In Tomatoeland – but; I had to leave,
And… hadn’t been there since.

In Potatoeland,
My rule was firm, yet, as soon revealed;
A demanding one,
My eyes, I had to keep them peeled.

As King of the Potatoes
I was, as everybody ‘now’ knows
In a position of power;
I had a strange marching band
With ninety-six tubers
And one lone Piper
Who would play a merry tune
For an hour
Or maybe more
They’d parade, and played ‘stranger upon the shore’ upon the shore.

But, as dreams go
This one went;
I abdicated from the throne
Of Potatoeland;
Relinquished conducting my merry little band;
And returned to my life
Where I am just going to seed.
And soon I shall be buried in the ground
Indeed, it’s where it’s normal for a dic-tater to be found.

One Potato, Two Potato, Three Potato…

Mr PotatoHead

Potato Limerick #1

A ‘potato’ is a wonder”, said Edward the king

In fact it’s absolutely, positively mash-ing!

Boiled or chipped (in case you lose it)’

Sauteéd (once flipped – being careful not to bruise it);

Au Gratin, dans le matin, just the thing.”


Potato Limerick #2

The potatoes are coming!” the little boy cried.

We all ran for cover; but, the little boy lied.

When we surfaced from hiding

With our fears all subsiding;

He laughed at our faces and much wounded pride.


Potato (ish) Limerick (ish) #3 (in two parts)

You say potato, and I say chips

As in ‘Potato’ and, as in ‘Chips’



You know it might just catch on – barring mishaps.


You say tomato, and I say soup

As in ‘Tomato’ and, as in ‘soup’



You know it might just catch on – perhaps.

Day 12 Song: Prejudice by Tim Minchin


Tim Minchin takes on the serious subject of ‘Prejudice’ I shall let Tim tell the story. Thank you for listening to 12 of my inspiring musical heroes and influences. G:)