Monthly Archives: February 2019

My Cornish Ancestry (or ‘We B’ain’t Be Blow-ins’)

My Cornish Ancestry (or ‘We B’ain’t Be Blow-ins’)

My family left Cornwall, heading East,

in search of wisdom, or a wise man, at the least;

after many years they realised the truth:

that there b’aint be wisdom in a single tooth;

they searched on high

and they searched down low,

all across the foreign land

they were fain to go;

until at the last, he who spoke for them said:

I want to taste once more the pasty

and die in a Cornish bed.

“Where Thou, Art?”

“Where Thou, Art?”

There was a black Hamlet,

and a white Othello,

all the youths were salad green,

and Dogberry was yellow;

Lady Macbeth was spotty,

and King Lear, he was dotty;

all in all, a colourful performance

of Shakespeare’s ‘Where Thou, Art?’

A Few Words To The Wise

A Few Words To The Wise

A Crow is just a Cow

with an ‘r’;

and a Crown is just a Crow

with an ‘n’;

and a Clown is just…

silly.

In Response to an Unfair Criticism. @WildFutures

In Response to an Unfair Criticism. @WildFutures

The monkeys do what the monkeys do,

they don’t perform for the likes of you

and I don’t ask them to perform for me

they are just being monkeys

trying to be;

away from cruelty, living their lives;

not feeding people’s vanity

in a restricted insanity,

where Nature never thrives.

And if the monkey wants to sit

and quietly think on its own a bit

at the back of the enclosure,

and doesn’t want to come any closer…

well, that is what they are able to do

and what’s right for them

is that you appreciate that necessity, too.

#SoCS @LindaGHill – Critical Al, the Analytical Pal

#SoCS Critic(al) – Critical Al, the Analytical Pal.

See here for Linda’s guidelines

Al was a Critic of the Financial Times;

dodgy rhymes and vitamin pills;

Al wasn’t political, and only analytical

when there was a Thursday

or a Tuesday in the week.

All didn’t seek anonymity,

or courtmasculinity,

he just said what he thought

And thought what he said

was to be underlined red.

Al didn’t compromise,

criticising birds and flys,

other people’s alibis, and gingerbread –

mostly in a large and cursive font,

as was his wont.

Al was Al C O’Holic,

from when he used to drink,

but he’d given up the Guinness,

for a herbal lemon mead – at three pounds a shot,

he never drank a lot.

Al was the man who said that up was down,

but, would probably be back up,

as he was ushered out of town;

he thought black was too dull,

there were too many trams in Hull,

though he’d never ever been there – the tram there was actually full

ad so he’d gone to Gateshead instead.

He dissed all of the wallpaper

that William Morris ever made,

and though Dandelion without Burdock would never make the grade.

Apart from his critical ways,

Al liked to invest in Porcupines,

Eagle-tops and Jays –

never earning much,

but laughing at the days

when all the people could say was:

‘There goes Al and his critical ways!’

Haikuu, Sweeeeet Haikuu!

Haikuu, Sweeeeet Haikuu!

What can a Haiku do

when it’s a syllable too long

on all three of its lines?

#Ideas 2 – A Trip to IDEA.

#Ideas 2 – A Trip to IDEA.

I popped into IDEA

the other day;

looking for a flat-pack poem –

not too heavy, not too light –

that I could comfortably carry away.

I finally found one

that I thought would do,

carried it to the checkout,

Checkout No. 2;

purchased that poem,

and transported it home.

It was when I tried

to put it together

that it all turned out wrong;

I couldn’t make head nor tail of the instructions for my ‘Platt-Pack Dikt’,

and before too long

I was scratching my head;

but I wouldn’t be licked;

you see, I didn’t have enough words

and some were underlined red;

there seemed too many verbs,

and a spare letter zed;

then I found all the adjectives

some of which filled me with dread;

only fitted by using a hammer

on their countersunk thread.

Eventually, I had put it all together,

five minutes before I would have reached the end of my tether;

it didn’t look ‘quite’ like the picture;

and it sways in the breeze,

but, it’s a permanent fixture

for a decade or two,

as it’s all held together

by my use of some ‘very’ strong glue

#Letters 4

#Letters 4

I don’t have letters after my name,

nor bailiffs after my goods and chattels;

I am solely to blame

for any skirmishes and battles

that I have entered into

with the dubious intention

of staking my claim

to the wealth of a nation;

and I have ‘never’ liaised with the Devil;

though, to give him his due,

he has ‘never’ ‘ever’ asked me to.

I don’t receive many letters

with my name emblazoned

upon the envelope;

I live in hope,

not literally, but laterally,

and how long is a piece of rope?

What is there left when all soap is gone?

Why do rhetorical questions matter so little to me;

the former? The latter?

the letter of the law is unsure upon this point,

and, so, I anoint myself with the moisture of sweat,

or, better yet,

a lack of physical and mental debt.

We are ‘all’ living in a material world,

and I am a material;

well, maybe knot.

My D.I.G.N.I.T.Y.

becomes less ev’ry day.

PS Good Luck with the above.

The Tale Of Dave the Nautical Peanut

The Tale Of Dave the Nautical Peanut

The other day,

a peanut by the name of Dave,

was telling me the story

of his life upon the ocean wave.

He’d travelled every single ocean blue,

and all the seas from Kathmandu

to the fiery waters of Peru,

and he’d even been to Wigan, too.

Once he had been a pirate, after treasures bright,

until he fell awake one night,

and saw the light of a Hunter’s Moon,

and heard the sound of a bass bassoon.

He joined the Royal Navy Rum – sorry –

he joined the Royal Navy,

rum was his downfall, and too much gravy;

until one day he met a peanut girl,

who left his head in a mighty whirl.

Her name was Ella, she was a beauty;

but for a 12-year stretch he’d trothed his duty;

she didn’t mind, she loved the ocean,

and had a chest of suntan lotion.

For nine long years, and three slightly longer,

they loved and danced, mainly the Conga,

until came the day his years were up,

they left the boat, and one of them was assaulted.

#Boundaries 2

#Boundaries 2

A bounder he was,

a bounder he will remain;

always giving me a hard time,

messing with my brain;

crossing the line

when it came to pain;

a bounder he was,

a bounder he will remain.

And a cad, too.

Much more than a scallywag;

now he has a two-tone Jag,

and four point two children –

or should that be

a four point two jag

and two-tone children?

a bounder he was

and is

and always will be

to me.