Monthly Archives: March 2018

Sea Shanties – a song

*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.

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


The Writing is Upon the Wall.

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.

@baffled – time.

And the time was ripe;

so we plucked it from the tree

and time was eaten.

What do all these words mean?

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,


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


hearing woodpeckers pecking wood in the wood,

we are pleased to say

that the woodpeckers are doing okay,

doing, exactly as they should.

Upon my words.

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.