Monthly Archives: May 2016

Oliver Sudden is now Oliver Flutter
He used to sell treacle but now he sells butter
He changed his name when the weather turned cold
Not wanting to be Fluttery when he finally became old
Oliver lives with his cat in a penthouse in Mayfair
A Siamese she is
She sits upon a mat
But, not too long does she stay there
And upon occasion
Has fresh fish for tea
That’s how much Oliver loves
Queen Nefertiti
Which is the cat’s name
Not some non-sequitur
And if it’s all the same
On that, at least, we can, maybe, concur.

Which is just my way of writing
About Oliver Sudden
Who changed his name to one new shiny name
From a dull, boring, dud one.

And what else is there to do
On a rainy Tuesday afternoon in Crewe;
Or Oxford (which is where I am,
But doesn’t rhyme in the way that ‘jam’ does with ‘clam!’)
Apart from create verbal wordal
masterpieces?
And my hypothetical thesis is based upon
The correct order that one should use when words are your thing;
And whether to sing
In the wood
As the sun shone
Or shines;
And to consider who defines
The lines
If nobody applies the rhymes
In these poetry-free times.

So, the rain it raineth everyday
Or so it seems
And these words are the stuff that
Nightmares are made on.

He’s Al the Author
But, he is ‘not’ Al the cove
Nor Al the Fresco.
Who hails from Hove
And shops at Tesco.

He’s not Al the Dente
Not a dentist is Al
So don’t make an appointment
When tooth hurty
With him
At 2:30 he is not available to fix your crown
And he’s not Al CoPops down with the kids
And he’s not Al down the gym.
If you think he is
I say:”No! That’s not him!”

He’s Al the Author
Writer of stuff
And if you say that he’s not
Watch out

Because, even though he’s not Al the Capone,
He looks tough.

G:)

PS also to be found at altheauthor.wordpress.com

where his words say things.

And you thought Al was short for Al…

Book Haiku

I look at a book…
Next, I look inside the book…
Then I discover…

Books

Books are fab
Books are brill
Books are so old hat
But we love them still.

The smell of a book
The turn of a page
A book is forever
A wonder of our age.

And if you look
Inside a book
You can find
Every single thing
There ever was
Or is
Will be
May be
And couldn’t possibly be.

And you ask what a book means to me?

I’ve just been diagnosed as a closet claustrophobic. Who’d have thought it. Oh, yes – me!

I spent all my time
Down a local mine
With a friendly mime
He was in his prime
We drank soda and lime
But, though sublime
I was aflame
With something I couldn’t name;
Then, I realised my hemmed-in feeling was to blame
And, to my shame,
I had to check my aim.
The last day came
And leaving fortune and fame
I left the game.

Now I feel different
Not the same
Not wild, but tame
And in a frame
Upon the wall
Is a picture of that mine
That mime
And that is the end of this tale of mine.

A conker in search of some strength

Was dipped in vinegar for such a long length

Of time

For the rhyme

Far from sublime

By this plonker who writes under the pseudonym of Strinegar Venth.

I am no sinner
And I’m no saint
I don’t know what I am
And I don’t know what I ain’t.
And grammatically speaking
My clarity’s feint
Is to step to the left
And step to the right.

straight down the middle?
One day, I might.