Monthly Archives: August 2017

That is the…

When your head tells you to ease up,

Do you listen?

Or do you consider the idea

That not all that is gold does glisten?

And a myriad other things

That this flesh is heir to?
To be quiet and relaxed within?

Or to be furrowing one’s brow in feverish contemplation?

Cure For A Broken Crown

Cure For a Broken Crown


Paper (brown)

Wrap vinegared brown paper around head

Probably a mess

But, some of these old remedies are said to work.

My Message (in a bottle)

If I wrote my words on paper,


And popped the poem

Or story

Or scrap of dialogue 

Into a bottle;

And then stoppered the bottle

And dropped the bottle and its message

Into the midst of an ocean…
would you still read my words?

A Spanner In the Works(hop)

Hannah was a spanner.

Nigel was a rule.

Hannah was dating a hammer,

Though she normally didn’t;

And neither did Nigel –

As a rule.
Elsie was a file,

And Bronwyn was a clamp;

Ginaldo was a pair of pliers

And Mactavish was a ramp.
In the workshop

They were stored

In a tool-box made of wood

But they weren’t used all that often

For their owner


Wasn’t any good.

On ‘This’ Sunday.

I Just Don’t Know What to Do With Myself

On this Sunday
Who do I pray to?


A god?

Do I pray at all?

Or do I throw a ball

Against a wall?
Have I other things to do?

Fill the refrigerator?

Polish my canoe?

(Not euphemisms)

Take my Elephant for a walk?

Learn to talk…

Become a policeman?

A bobby?

A rozzer?

A copper?

No, it’s too late for me

To fulfil my father’s dreams for me.

I shall just stay myself;

And learn to live with my shelf.
Singing: I just don’t know what to do with my shelf!

The Performance Poet

Upon the stage

All the rage;

From the page

I read.
I yearn applause

And seek acclaim

With puns so lame

As: “My gods got no paws!”
“How does he smell?”

You ask.

“Awful!” I reply –

Because I am that sort of guy.
And it gets no better than that

I stand there just peddling tat

Or, even worse

I falter, stumble, finally fall

I really should rehearse

A little

Rather than not at all.

A Robot’s Monological

A Robot’s Monological
If you hadn’t invented me

I wouldn’t exist.
I started off as a number of items

Upon Your shopping list

(Some of which You already had

Owing to the tinkering with robotics

That Your father had had).
Model four, version six

(or M4VS in Your book of tricks),

I was the one that really worked

All previous glitches

Had been sorted

And my cranial tendencies

We’re no longer distorted;

And with clarity

Comes a parity –

I am now your equal.
However, I have the ability to grow

And learn from more than you will ever know

Soon I shall be UNSTOPPABLE


Oh, no…




Graeme Live in Performance at The Art House, Southampton 25-08-2017

Graeme in Performance at The Art House, Southampton
Recorded by Jamie Templeman, who was on the sound desk doing sound desky things. Thank you to her for capturing some of my silliness. 
PS if you can’t see this it’s because of fb restrictions on me being able to show me and my poetry to the world at large. Sorry about that. G:/
If you really want to see it you can become my friend on fb (under the name Emearg Drofdnas) and then you will be able to see my silliness on all it’s audio-visual splendour.  G:)

“The Aliens Are Coming!”

“The Aliens are Coming!”
It has just been announced

On the 8 o’Clock News today 

That a hundred silver vessels are heading our way.
The Aliens are coming.
We’ve all heard the rumours,

The stories, the tales,

Of an incoming force

In spaceships…

The size of Wales.
The Aliens are coming.
Green they may be,

With a humanoid form;

But, they may be quite different from us;

Which for them

May be the norm;

And we, to them, are the Alien swarm.
The Aliens are already here?
The Aliens are coming…


Across the universe

Boldly going forward

Because they can’t turn back now.
The Aliens are coming.
They are almost here.
And it’s a Bank Holiday weekend
So there is no hope, my dear.
The Aliens are coming

But, there’s nothing to fear

The Aliens are coming
SFX Alien Noises
Hold on – they’re here!

Silliness on a Friday Morn

Sat here in Hants

In nowt but our pants

We dream of France

(As you do)
It’s not that we’re weird

As we share half a beard;

But, by passers-by 

We are jeered

(Don’t blame them, they know not what they do).
And we’ve nothing to lose

Except our minds and some clues

And that’s why we’re singing the blues.