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?
Questions.
Cure For a Broken Crown
Ingredients:
Vinegar
Paper (brown)
Method:
Wrap vinegared brown paper around head
Result:
Probably a mess
But, some of these old remedies are said to work.
Posted in Poetry
If I wrote my words on paper,
Handwritten,
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?
Posted in Poetry
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
At DIY
Wasn’t any good.
Posted in Poetry
I Just Don’t Know What to Do With Myself https://g.co/kgs/MQUQYY
On this Sunday
Who do I pray to?
Myself?
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…
Proper?
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!
Posted in Poetry
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.
Posted in Poetry
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
AND IN CONTROL OF YOUR FATE!
NO!! DON’T TOUCH MY ‘OFF’ SWITCH!!!
Oh, no…
t…o…o…
l…a…t…
…
…e
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:)
Posted in Poetry
“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…
Humming
Star-trekkin’
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!
Posted in Poetry
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.
Posted in Poetry
Graeme Sandford 