Monthly Archives: May 2017

The Bavarian is at the Gate (please read this poem out aloud in an EPIC style) 

The Bavarian is at the gate;

He rang the bell; but, he won’t wait;

He’ll storm the walls

And break them down

And all we do is watch and frown.
The Bavarian is at the gate;

There’s no chance ‘he’ will hesitate;

He’ll stroll right in and take control;

And send us packing; or worse than that;

He won’t reason, he’s no diplomat.
The Bavarian is at the gate;

We cannot even communicate;

He speaks a language that we cannot;

And nothing now will stop his plan

To be the king, the one, the man.
The Bavarian is-
Oh, hold on a minute…

… he’s going next door…

It looks like he might have had the wrong address

We’re 4a, perhaps he wanted no. 4.

It’s Wednesday!

Wednesday is a day much like any other day

In fact, of the seven to choose from
(In our ‘weekly’ calendar)

It is one of them.

The others may have their qualities

And their inequalities

But, I shall not speak of them here

As this is a light-hearted look at just one of the days

Of the week.
Of all the days in all the world’s existence

Very few have been Wednesdays;

In fact, less than a seventh.
Or, to be precise,

A lot less than a seventh

As, for a fact,

We didn’t start naming the days at all

Until fairly recently;

And Wednesday is still not universally recognised as the day it is.

Some people have their ‘Wednesdays’


Or later

Or, in some places,

Not at all

In the week.
However, let me just say

That at this very moment

A lot of people are enjoying

This very Wednesday- 

However, a lot lot more

Tomorrow, I shall endeavour to enjoy Thursday. 
Take care as ‘you’ travel through the weekdays.

The Neighbor is where you can read some fine poetry – I particularly like the flow of ‘the neighbor’ and it’s wistful, watching theme. Billy has caught ‘neighbor’ watching well. G:)

(#15) t.a. houseman presents… his poem ‘brain’

(#15) t.a. houseman presents… his poem ‘brain’
if the rain

gets into my brain,

it soaks up the creative moisture

like a comparative oyster.

A Blank Space

A Blank Space
My mind

It may be thought a blank canvas

Clear of any thing or any think

But, blink, and you may miss

The idle thought

Wending it’s lonesome way

From edge to edge

Leaving nary a trace

Of anything;

Having brought nothing to the table

And left the same nothing of note.
I, once, wrote

Of a time when

Rhyme was all I could do;

That was Thensday

This is nowhere the same;

I gave that time a name

‘The Time of Rhythmic Plenty’

Which seems an age ago

And as unlike now as possible;

It’s feasible that the ‘Time of Rhythmic Plenty’

May come again –

But, I can’t say when

Or if

That will be…

Maybe tomorrow;

Maybe the day after

Or a day after that…

We shall see. 


I remember ‘now’

Like it was only a few seconds ago.

The Tale of Malcolm McPherson

Mr Malcolm McPherson

Was a very strange looking person

Whom, it is has been remarked,

When faced with a stray hound

It was found

That it was ‘he’ that barked.
He walked with a strange gate

Even though it was heavy

And, probably, stolen;

He almost drowned one day

Trying to carry it

Across a river that was deep and swollen.
His outlook on life

Was to eat with a knife

Except for Wednesdays

When he didn’t eat at all;

And he only ate fish

From an edible dish

But, desisted to eat

If a bone he did meet

And he’d just eat the dish

(Which he’d always say was ‘delish!’).
Malcolm McPherson

Was such a peculiar person

That he wore socks ‘over’ his shoes

He thought socks were demeaning

And his shoes he protected

“They’ll never need cleaning!”

And no scuffs were thereby detected

But, socks he got through by the score.

He was laughed at by some

To which he acted dumb

And just wore brighter socks all the more –

And mismatched they were;

So the people did concur

That Malcolm was as mad as a latter day hatter

Or, for that matter,

A hare.
But, Malcolm, he took no notice of the people who’d stare

And just imagined them walking about in their underwear

At which he’d laugh and then he’d bellow:

“Hello, Mrs. Smith!”

(If it were she)

“I see you love the colour yellow!”

And she did blush

For the only things yellow that she wore

Was the sort of things

You kept hush hush

And yet, Malcolm McPherson

Seemed to know what people wore

Under their clothing

Which was another

Reason for people’s fear and loathing.

So, eventually, Malcolm McPherson

Left town with a bag

And little else upon his person

Apart from that gate

And a loaf he did blag

From the lady in the baker’s

Whose name it was Kate.

And she passed him the loaf,

And he said “Thanks, dear;

Is it so hot in the bakers

That you’ve no underwear?”

She also blushed

And stammered “Goodbye.”

Then went home feeling dizzy

And the need for to cry.

But, Malcolm just smiled

And went on his way

Now imagining the people

Au naturel, as they say.

And never again was seen Malcolm’s face

In the town where he’d lived in a sort of disgrace;

And the people forgot him

And buried his name

But, when he had left

The town was never the same:

It became all lacklustre

And placid and faint

Without the one character who just wasn’t a saint.
The town faded away

In a year and a day

And where it once was

No one can say.

“Are you ready to order?”

“So, would you prefer

The former or the latter;

The Chicken Korma

Or the Sea-Food Platter;

The first comes with rice;

And, for your thirst,

A Laasi with a slice

(It is rather hot).

The Plateau de Fruits de la Mer

(Which is beyond compare)

Is likely to thrill your taste buds

And, still leave you wanting more 

And , it is said, that Mermaids are fed

Upon this meal

As their daily bread.”

Letter G

I have a problem with letter g

I can’t spell it 

And I can’t be bothered to learn to.

The Planets (not by Gustav Holst)

The Moon is a Banana

The Sun is an Orange

Earth is an Elderberry

Mars is a Melon

Jupiter is a Juniper Berry

Neptune is a Nectarine

Saturn is a Satsuma

Uranus is an Ugli Fruit
Need I say more?