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.

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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’

Earlier

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

Aren’t.
Tomorrow, I shall endeavour to enjoy Thursday. 
Take care as ‘you’ travel through the weekdays.

The Neighbor

thenaga.org 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:)

The Naga

She waved at me from across the street

with her flabby arms, like she was in a parade.

There was no candy at my feet. She was still

in her slippers, we didn’t need each other

just the gesture. She had everything she needed,

water, shelter, food, and heat.

Long ago the natives depended on each other

for survival. Now, she with her kind and me

with mine, we look good on paper downtown.

Hell, I don’t even know her but we have watched

each other’s movements for sixteen years now.

Perhaps we will meet?

It’s a quiet street, no outlaw’s just sparrows

and squirrels that watch for hawks. We don’t need

each other for safety, for trading whiskey, furs,

guns or gold dust. The ground doesn’t rumble today.

My lever action collects rust.

We have become bells that ring only when things

go wrong. We are somewhere between apathy…

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(#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. 

Nostalgia


Nostalgia
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

Who 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.