Monthly Archives: March 2018

*key of CMaj / F with a G and Em in there somewhere.

I was singing sea shanties

With six or seven aunties

Somewhat salacious they were

We reached for the chorus

Let no one ignore us

We sang just like Harpers Bizarre

So, we were feelin’ groovy

Singing to be or do be

That is the question we asked

Shall we continue

Or stop things right here?

We find ourselves so sorely tasked.

If you’re asking the question,

May I make a suggestion

That you only take port in a storm

For the secret is out

It’s the main cause of gout

And Stilton is no good for Norm.

Pottering at the poetry table;

just dabbling, as one does;

hoping for inspiration

with minimum perspiration

and for the words to write themselves.

As if that was going to happen.

I may as well reign until September;

and, looking back, remember

this fine March day,

just before April,

and well before May;

when I was pottering,

and dabbling like a poet

does.

The writing is upon the wall;

I don’t know who wrote it,

or what it actually says;

but, I’m sure that it’s writing

and not just a doodle or some scribble.

And, although the actual words,

if words they are,

don’t make any sense at all,

I am sure that there is a secret

held within their enigma.

Something tells me

that I am stood upon

the saddest place on Earth;

for what it’s worth,

that makes me happy;

inside, out of view;

I don’t have to run

and hide

from you,

or seek absolutions;

no, those are not the solutions.

I think through mind pollutions,

and the internal fog

that clouds all thought;

and come up with nothing,

nought;

and all is bought

with a few coins of phraseology.

Hearing woodpeckers pecking wood

made me feel good;

and, as we had only recently talked about

‘not’

hearing woodpeckers pecking wood in the wood,

we are pleased to say

that the woodpeckers are doing okay,

doing, exactly as they should.

You’ve commented upon

the size of my font,

the colour of my paper,

and the words that I use

and the words that I abuse;

by making them jump through hoops

and getting them to loop the loop;

creating them out of air, thin air, Miranda;

as if they could not possibly be there

without my persistence and my continued assured assistance;

and they would keep their distance

until all else failed

and all was lost;

unless I continue to create them

at any and every opportunity –

so, please, I beg you,

forgive my importunity.

On this day

in history

some people

did some things;

But, what?

it is a mystery

and we can only guess

whether they tidied up,

made a mess,

opted no,

or voted yes.

Yesterday,

was today

and tomorrow

shall always be;

a mastery of mystery

I do not have,

and shall not

and will not

and why not?

Who knows?

It’s all a haze

of past, present and future days.

Ugly Poem

This

is

my ugly poem.

No redeeming features,

it stinks

(thinks: ‘how can it be, ugly?

for only beauty there is in po-et-ry.’)

Pinks and blues

have pretty hues,

this poem is brown and gritty;

smelling to high Heaven

of a shark-secreted city…

or worse.

A Chevy or a Lincoln Continental have style;

this is a hearse of a poem,

undertaken in verse

by an attitude terse;

no Terpsichore or muse

is more likely to abuse

the senses,

and I have will have once got

a confusion of senses

to boot.

Who gives a hoot?

Rhetorically speaking of course;

for I consider this a tour de force!

“I used to run

I used to walk

I used to laugh

I used to talk

I used to write

I used to chalk

upon a board;

but, now I’m dead

I don’t do anything at all

except lay awake at nights

looking at the cemetery wall

considering all the things I did

the life I led,

before I was dead.”