Jane and the musical force that is Ryan Davies.
“Friday’s Tanka here!
I’d just like to say something,
if that is okay?
I am so pleased to announce
that my existence is true.”
Posted in Poetry
I wrote a Drabble,
then I removed a word;
and found that I had a ninety-nine worder.
The difference between the one
and the other
was ‘……’ –
for that was the word that I chose
to remove.
What does that prove?
And what can you do when you’re
trying
to be precise?
Spell-check once…
then spell-check twice.
Everything should then be
nice
(you may be able to fine a better
descriptive word
than that.
‘Nice’ is okay;
but, if you take my advice,
use it
and you may end up
where I am today!)
In Cornwall!
Yay!
Can a drabble
be written in poetic form?
I hear it’s wrong,
not the norm
to do such a thing with a drabble.
But, in the parable by Zak
there is always a lack
of detail upon the subject.
I object when I am told
“Behold! These are the rules!
To vary is only done by the biggest of fools!”
And, as you know,
I am one, so.
A hundred words here are written.
If you are not happy by that…
“Bite me!” I shall be bitten
if by my words
and how they are put
you are not smitten.
Have you ever tried
writing poetry on a train
you’ll write it time table and again
and the rhythm’s always the same
when you’re travelling on the train;
because, although life’s a pain,
a train will take away the strain
and leave you less insane
than you were inside your brain.
So,
Wherever you go
whatever you do
there’s always a train
travelling through
you get on the train
and look at the view
that’s passing you by
as you’re going to Looe.
Possibly on this boat…
It’s Thursday morning,
we are going on a boat,
and also a train,
to Liskeard Looe, Polperro –
it’s going to be so cool.
I’l take some pictures
of the journey to show you –
and it will not rain;
because we have ordered Sun
and it’s arriving at Noon.
Tanka very much,
I appreciate your help
in all that I do.
Which sentiment is sincere
if not a little solemn.
—//—
Well, that was no fun!
I usually say less
and make it jokey.
But, Wednesday can be dull
if it rains and I get wet.
–//–
‘Plinketty-Plonketty’ Peter Penquite (the second ‘e’ of which is pronounced thus giving it the full three-syllables of silliness – ‘Pen-Kwit-e’) was, shall we say – yes, let’s – quite pernickety.
Why?
Well, that’s a story for a post far longer than this one.
G:)
I don’t know about having an Elephant in the Room (there isn’t one, I’ve looked) but, there was certainly a big 🐝 in the room – no, a real one! He was buzzing a rendition of an old Nickolai Rimsky-Korsakov tune, and very loudly.
I soon trapped him humanely in a handy milk bottle, and he was thus returned to the outdoor area from whence he had probably come.
All has now returned to normal – or as normal as can 🐝.
G:)
Posted in Poetry
The good behaviour of the saviour
was recently called into doubt;
he was seen running about
claiming the benefits
of Mock-Turtle Soup –
the local paper thought they had a scoop.
He had also been observed
selling door to door
poor quality dishcloths and towels;
supposedly
being for the benefit
of fore-shortened foxes and small orphaned owls.
Howls of abuse
were heard in the area –
his supposed misdemeanours
more newsworthy than malaria –
and so a petition was started by one.
Posters were posted
about the host who now hosted
such scandalous thoughts in his head.
A target group were targeted
for their opinions
and, then,
when their opinions didn’t fit,
they were targeted about it once again.
But, the sales of dishcloths and towels
lacked success for foxes and owls – no one washed-up anymore – and he tried to sell to his flock –
which meek people were too poor or unwell,
to be able to afford of his stock.
So he went back to teaching
History to the young;
the Ark, Moses, Beeching;
the sad songs that Solomon had sung;
and when his days as a teacher were done,
he retired off to France
to play bingo and dance
and dwell in a villa in the sun.
Posted in Poetry
“Se-ver-al Ci-vil Ser-vice sil-ver sal-vers!” she said, slowly, salaciously, seditiously.
“Several!” said Sir Cyril Sissington-Smythe, severely.
“Sì, Signore Cy-ril!” Sonia Sanchez-Sans-Sevilla, Sir Cyril’s Spanish Secretary, asserted seductively. “Se-ver-al.”
Sir Cecil sighed – it was going to be another of those exasperating Esperanto Wednesdays.
Posted in Poetry
 | Lokesh Umak on We counted them out |
| Lokesh Umak on We counted them out |
 | Words from a Lentil… on We counted them out |
| Lokesh Umak on We counted them out |
| Words from a Lentil… on Down the Looe! |
