I saw a stonechat the other day;
it went on and on and on,
until… I rolled if down the hill
that we were stood upon.
It may have kept chatting,
I know not;
but, it probably gathered no moss.
Posted in Poetry
I am a harvester of combinations.
No, not the undergarments –
that would be extremely silly.
I gather the combinations from safes and locks.
’What is the point?’
I hear you ask.
’Everybody must have a hobby.’
I reply, with a degree of certainty –
rather than the degree of uncertainty
that I normally assume.
’Weirdo!’ you throw in my direction,
with all the mockery that you can muster.
’I’m not a ’weirdo’ I’m a ’nerd’ ’
I attempt correction;
but, knock me down with a feather duster,
you have gone, and didn’f hear my response.
I sigh a sigh,
and,
by and by,
continue on.
Posted in Poetry
We walked along a pretty street,
the scent of Spring around our feet,
and with the sight of verdant roses,
the aromas did assault our noses.
Posted in Poetry
There was an old lady from Fowey*
Who wished she had been born a boy;
Tom as her name;
Playing the rough-tumble game;
But, as Cindy she was purely a toy.
*Fowey in Cornwall is pronounced ’Foy’.
”Plant a banana!” she said to me.
Well, that’s what I thought she said – I was only half awake, and only half of that was listening.
”I shall!” I replied, with just a hint of Potassium and a modest soupçon of Irony on the side.
I did. And wasn’t surprised when it bloomed in the night; because, I wasn’t there to see such a sight.
”You fool!” she cried, tears in her eyes – I’d wound her up quite a bit.
”You’re a silly banana!” she said with a shake; then she split.
Posted in Poetry
With a syllable count of 2-3-5-1-5-4-5, the Hungarian Badriomaku is interesting in that it gives you a structure that doesn’t fit any preconceived ideas.
“What on Earth is a Badriomaku?”
Today,
was Tuesday;
and the Sun shone down…
lots.
Tomorrow there’s rain;
and maybe storms;
well, we can but see.
Don’t you just hate it
when a Haiku
just won’t fit the structure
and has too many syllables
to fit into three lines?
The Ballad of Caoimhe and Saoirse.
Caoimhe:
Unpronounceable,
that’s what you are to me,
unpronounceable,
Too many syllablesy
unpronounceable, you.
Saiorse:
Unpronounceable,
that’s what you are to me,
unpronounceable,
too much syllabilty,
you’re unpronounceable, too.
Both:
Unpronounceable, you.
Posted in Poetry
There was a young lady from Tring
who just didn’t rhyme with a thing;
she was rather upset,
so she phoned up a vet;
who examined her knees in Peking*.
*I know it’s now Beijing, but the vet often sees Peking Knees.
I didn’t wander lonely, I’m a clod;
just soil beneath unbroken sod,
I’ve never seen a cloud above,
tasted air, fallen in love;
I wait here with my senses numb,
down-trodden, hidden, non-sentient, dumb.
‘So, how can you write a poem?’ you ask.
I must admit, it was no easy task;
I started off with one small word;
then added all the rest you’ve heard.
Posted in Poetry
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Graeme Sandford 