Monthly Archives: March 2018

A Homage to Beige (or Cream, Oatmeal, Acorn, and the like).

“Beige, did you say?

Oh, cream!

Yes, cream is a wonderful colour;

except that, day by day,

hour by hour, the colourful ‘cream’

gets duller and duller,

eventually turning sour…

like a lemon.

A colour pale

will not avail

when brightness is what we are asking;

be vibrant, be bright;

turn on the light,

any dimmer will bring us a tasking.

So, cream you say;

double with jam?

To add a dash of sparkle?

I hope that’s so;

or I’ll have to say:


and leave you to your debacle.”

Three Random Vignettes From My Thoughts.

Myself c. 1977

Myself c.1977

– – / / – –

The difference between a drought and a breeze?

Draughts are found on boats near the back

Whilst breezes are found round your ankles; not singularly, but in two and threes.

– – / / – –

They said ‘Wear a comical hat!”

Well, I thought that they said ‘Conical!’

Such is my life.

– – / / – –

It’s no good crying over split peas –

even yellow ones.

And as for the green ones…

A ‘Prompt’ Story – ‘used teabag’

The used teabag fell to the floor, where it lay in a heap – exhausted.

“Don’t you think that you should be a-picking that up, Mister Adkins?”

Mr. Adkins ignored this; and, with his booted heel, ground the teabag into the cold stone floor; turned, and left without a word.

“Well, don’ that beat all?” asked Maisie, of no one in particular. “Good manners don’t cost the price of a cup of tea.” and with this thought in mind, she laughed at the recent memory of Mr. Adkins and his need for Oolong… and his total disdain of Lapsang Souchong. “I shoulda given him Builder’s Tea for all the good it did.” Maisie laughed quietly about this for a while. If there was one thing Mr. Adkins was not, it was a builder.

“Any fool knows that the best teas come loose and not in a tea-bag.” she explained, to the room. “He considers himself intelligent and he don’t even know that!”

her laughter was to be heard, if any had been there to hear, for a long while after that.

Playing the ‘Nirvana’ Game.

Playing the ‘Nirvana’ Game.

G: My dog’s got no stick.

M: How does it smell?

G: Sorry?

M: Never mind.

G: Nirvana!

M: You win.


SFX phone rings and is picked up

G: Hello.

M: Hi, it’s me.

G: Hello, me.

M: Hello. This party of yours tonight?

G: If I was having a party…?

M: Go with the premise, go with the premise.

G: Okay. What about the party? I’m really looking forward to it.

M: Is it fancy dress?

G: I don’t know. Is it fancy dress?

M: For the purpose of this thing, no.

G: No. not fancy dress, as far as I am aware.

M: So, no need to dress up?

G: No. Just come as you are.

M: Nirvana! I win!


Dribs, Drabs (and the like).

Dribs and Drabs, Drebs, Drubs, Drybs and various Drobs

all turned up

to see the show –

which was playing to a full house.

There were also there

three Twonies and two Threenies;

so that was a full house, too.

Jonathan Sandford

Jonathan Sandford, my great-great grandfather – an incident in 1830.

I pondered lonely

as I ploughed;

as had my father,

and my father’s father,

and my father’s father’s father.

But, nothing much came to mind;

as nothing had for over a century

of my ancestors ploughing this same furrow

in this same field.

Then all at once I saw a crowd

going off to wreck some farm machinery

under the banner of Captain Swing.

Now, here’s a thing,

I was quite young

and easily led

under fed

and overworked,

and, although it was wrong

I tagged along.

We were caught and tried;

one of the leaders was hung;

several were sent down under;

but, when judgment was brung

I was released as a free man,

to carry on ploughing my furrow

in my field

as long as I can.

I consider myself a lucky man.

“Let The Ravells Commence!”

It is a little known fact, that, St. Chistopher (not St. Christopher) was the patron saint of ravellers.

This has led to some confusions over the centuries, causing St. Chistopher’s memory to be largely relegated to history – except by those that really love the concept of ravelling.

A Short Story

Once upon a time…

… there was a short story.

It wasn’t long at all;

and it wasn’t at all tall.

So short it was,

and set out so,

that it thought it was a poem;

but, it wasn’t.

It didn’t have much to say;

but, one day,

under the bluest of skies,

It left it’s home

and went off to seek fame and fortune.

Finding neither,

the short story settled down

with an extract from Coleridge’s Mariner,

and they lived happily ever after.

At The Annual Poetry Show (your attendance is requested).


No, please don’t go;

I know it’s a poetry show

but, we’ll give you everlasting thanks

if you could stay and fill the ranks.

We’ll keep it light,

we’ll keep it fun,

we’ll keep the pace going at a run-

it’ll soon be over.

please don’t worry,

sit back down, relax,

there is no hurry;

close your eyes

and open your minds,

draw back the curtains,

raise up the blinds,

and see what’s outside in the poetry garden,

I’m sure it will please,

if not,

we beg pardon;

for the fault is all ours

for making it so;

but, if you thought this was pottery,

you have our leave to go.”

“Ding-dong! Shakespeare calling!”




Are you sure he will appear?

I’ve been to other poetry shindigs

where they promised you the big-wigs;

but, all we seem to get

are not the real McCoy.

And, yet, I keep on hoping

that one day the Bard will show –

Today? Tomorrow? Tomorrow?

and… tomorrow?

When will you know?

You sent an invite to his agent

and have never had reply;

that always seems to be the case

I really wonder why.

Okay, I shall live in hope

that one day soon

the Bard of Avon

will ring the bell

“Bard of Avon calling!”

And all will be well that endeth well.