Protest Songs!
I’ve written a few;
had a lot more of my songs
protested to;
Protest Songs!
I know I shouldn’t do
what people don’t want me to,
writing protest songs,
or any songs
at all.
I grew up
next to the A35;
it was small and black,
almost a bubble-car;
I don’t suppose that I would fit in one now;
but, upon seeing one on the road, today,
It took me on a little journey.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Austin, #Car, #ChildhoodMemories, #NotTheRoad, #poetry. #poem, #prose
Sat on my chest
at 5am
licking my nose
with your rough tongue,
I love you,
Rosie Cat;
but, do you think…
perhaps a little less of that.
I have no vendetta
to carry out;
no voiceless virtuosity
to scream about;
I don’t even visualise a veritable venue
in which to vacuously pout.
V is for Viennetta,
of that I am sure;
a little Vignette,
or just a bit more?
A poem, a joke, and a puff of smoke.
A Red Setter walked into a bar;
well, that’s what Red Setters do;
and a Labradoodle doodled in the corner,
cocker-doodles do that, too!
As for hot dogs
they are not meant to be left in cars to die;
they should be eaten whilst still hot,
whether you have ketchup or mustard
(or both),
or even onions atop the ‘dog’.
Leap the frog?
If you wish to do so, do it.
All frogs are frogs,
so are toads.
Slow Theo was a sloth; but, not just any sloth, he was the slowest sloth that there had ever been. It took him a day or two to just open an eye when another sloth said ‘Hello, Slow Theo!’ by which time the other sloth had almost reached the other end of the branch that they had both been on.
Slow Theo hadn’t always been called Slow Theo, once he was just called Theo and nobody thought him any different from all the other sloths in their forest. But, even before his first birthday, Theo had gained a reputation as being a little bit tardy when it came to exercise or travel – it’s doubtful whether he will ever as the four corners of the wood, never mind the four corners of the ‘round’ world.
(PL14 3LP)
Our postcode ties us to Plymouth,
though we are firmly in CornwalL;
in wonderful Merrymeet
near to Fer Liskeryss town.
“Free the Cornish!”, “This isn’t England!””
Narrow Lanes and trees on hedgerows;
a Proud people, living fields of glory.
Harry Lime?
Harry Lime?
Have you got the time, Harry Lime?
The Reverend Green?
Has anybody seen the Reverend Green?
Ah! He was, was he?
In the Conservatory with a candlestick?
Interesting.
I asked Harry Lime if he knew the time,
he told me it was two minutes to midnight,
he sang this in a song,
he got it wrong.
We asked the Reverend Green
if he’d seen anything at all
at the crime scene;
but, he didn’t know what we did mean.
TBC
Roses, I once read,
are red;
so are books,
proclamations,
and letter heads,
post-boxes,
old telephone kiosks,
the letter in
the book
by Nathaniel Hawthorne,
and the colour red,
when written down
(usually in black ink, though).
Green- The Poem
Green is a colour,
verdant, bright;
dark green is duller;
but, it’s still alright.
When I was a younger fellow,
I used to like the colour yellow;
now I’m older, I’ve started to mellow
so now I like green,
you know what I mean.
Green is nature going well
with the rain, as far as I can tell.
Poets write blue, it’s how they write,
poets;
when we feel down
in the middle of the night;
and then there is black, of which I have a lack;
though I can be grey every single day.
Then there is purple,
for when I am older,
start wearing purple,
start getting colder
and then there is red
for when I am dead,
have I forgotten any other hue,
there must be millions,
and that must be true.
Graeme Sandford 