Monthly Archives: February 2017

Noppan Cakes Today!


Is a pan cake

Easy to make?

Is a Jaffa Cake

A cake, Jake?

If I sowed the seeds

Of the need

For a seed cake

Would a seed cake

Be

What you would bake

Me?

Or would you make

Me

Slake my thirst

With a cheesecake

Milkshake first?

D.I.Y. (Do It Yourself)


I don’t want to DIY

I’m much too young to DIY

I just don’t want to DIY 

I’m far too young to DIY

I want to live

Forever

And not do DIY!

My First Poem


Intro
My first poem tonight is called ‘my first poem’ even though, in reality, it wasn’t – but, it is a tribute to the long-almost-forgotten poem that I wrote first.
‘My First Poem’
This is ‘my first poem’ 

Even though it isn’t

My first poem was written many poets’ moons ago;

It was rubbish

I crossed it out

And threw it away –

Straight into the bin.
Then, I thought,

What if there was something –

A word, a phrase –

That might be there

That might be salvaged?

I retrieved that poem from the bin

Looked at it closely

And realised… it ‘was’

Rubbish. 

I tore it up,

And threw the pieces back, Into the bin.
Then, I thought,

What if I had used a turn of phrase,

Or an image,

That could be utilised

In a rewrite

That would make that poem

Live

And give the words

Of ‘My First Poem’

Life…?
I retrieved the pieces

Of my first poem

From the bin,

That they had lain within;

And, puzzle-like, selotaped

The pieces back together.

I looked closely once again,

At my first poem,

And saw…

That it was…

‘Still’ rubbish.

I burnt the conjoined pieces of that poem

And scattered the ashes

Upon the Rhododendrons

In the garden.
Then, I thought,

What if…

But, it was too late…
And, I, had learnt a valuable lesson…

‘Always’

Keep a copy of your poems

Even if they ‘are’ rubbish.

For, who knows when

You may need to compare your latest poem

To a far inferior work

Just to make 

You feel that things

Could always be worse.

Punless?!


Suicide is punless

My writing is now funless 

And you can take or leave it

As you please.

Suicide is penless 

A cockerel that is henless 

And I can not believe it

With my knees.

Where am I?


I

Am stuck

Between the ground

And the sky

And I can recite Pi

To three decimal places –

Three point one four two –

Which would be handy

If I ever needed to do so.

Am journeying 

Between birth and death;

And as long as I keep taking

The next breath

I shall keep travelling upon my path.
But, if I stop inhaling

And / or exhaling

I shall end my travails

And seek new destinations

Upon a foreign shore

No more.

On the death of a creative type

I am a writer


I am a writer

Not a take-a-bull-by-the- horns type of fighter

Neither a fly-by-nighter

Nor a cigarette lighter be,

Obviously.

I could be a little

politer

If I tried

But, enough is enough

And a Bard should have a little ruff
I am

In essence

A type of writer

All keyed up

To press the letters

Into the page

(It used to be all the rage)

Letters forming words

To be read

Or performed upon the stage

‘I’ should have been born

In a different age.
I do not do ‘serious’ works

And, sometimes, it is difficult to see

How I could be any

Triter.

Though I do try to

Be brighter

Than a sooth-sayer

Of the night

Err though I might

Err what is in sight

Ermine cloak

Instead of fur

I can do no more

Than but

Err

Spread thinly

As my talents are

Upon the bred

Of my upbringing.
And, here, I shall commence singing
“This ‘Bard’ of whom

To you I speak

Inflicts his words

Upon the meek;

He uses song

To stun the strong

And, as he has such little voice,

His songs…

Aren’t long.”
Now wasn’t that a dainty dish

To set before the King?