Monthly Archives: October 2019

The Cornish Mizzle

The Cornish Mizzle

In Cornwall, twixt the mist and drizzle,

which is something that’s called the Cornish Mizzle;

for, it’s when two like things do meld as one;

that they become a confladum.

In Transylvania, long ago,

there was a thing that joined, just so;

a twilight rising of the mist

known back then as the Transylvania Twist.

“Whatever happened to my Transylvania Twist? spoke Dracula.

Then, he hastened to add, “It is so sorely mist!”

Thus he spoke from his castle keep

when he deemed to arise from his daytime sleep.

“Shall we go Parranda, Miranda?”

“Shall we go Parranda, Miranda?”

“Shall we go Parranda, Miranda?”

asked Prospero, with a wry smile.

“Father, you are all a lather,

if you think we can spend a while

in doing so. The answer, it is, ‘No!’ “

10,000 Steps

10,000 Steps

Narr: A journey of ten thousand steps begins with a single step. I shall begin. (Pause) Go on! Get a move on! (Sigh) Oh, well – a sleep of a thousand snores begins with a single snore. (yawn… sigh… snore… snore…)

Pizza Oven

Pizza oven

I put my pizza oven

in the corner of the room

because my elephant likes pizza;

but, I had to move the loom;

and the grand piano,

the billiard table, too;

my Moto Guzzi sidecar,

an African canoe;

the Vienna String Quartet,

who were playing by the fire;

and every single member

of the Vienna Male Voice Choir.

Because my elephant loved pizza,

he shrank and disappeared;

and all the musicians hurried back,

they applauded and they cheered;

Occasionally, my elephant,

he comes and visits me,

together we get drunk;

mull about the old times,

we natter ‘til way past three;

but every time he’s in the room,

I think, that maybe he has shrunk;

and maybe one day, in a future time,

he’ll really pack his trunk.

When all is said and dun.

When all is said and dun.

Light Beige

is Ecru;

Dull Brown

is Taupe;

so…

‘“Please welcome to the stage,

Incredible Beige!”

just joking.

Beige is as boring as are all of the rest;

once, I dressed in Dun and Tan,

and Arboreally assumed the hue of an Autumnal Nest;

I went camouflaged in a pile of leaves;

and stayed there, unnoticed,

for three whole months

(which is an untrue fact,

that no-one believes).

The Butterfly

The Butterfly

The butterfly did flee,

it seems he was afraid of me

he flew so fast, I barely saw him go

and where he goes I do not know.

An admiral from the Russian Navy

once stopped a while and spoke with me,

“Do you prefer the butterfly, or the flea?”

I told him it was all the same to me,

whether it be,

the flutter of a butterfly

the braying of a flea,

or the saying that,

‘whatever a bee will be… will be.’

The admiral smiled,

and looked at me,

handed me his cap

in humility,

and now, I am the ruler of the Tsar’s navy!

The Best View In Looe

The Best View in Looe

For the best view in Looe,

there are a few things you have to do;

firstly, you see, you have to be

in Looe, in Cornwall’s fair county –

and not in one of those other, paler,

imposter Looes;

such as the one in Yorkshire

or the one in Kent;

where some people

have mistakenly spent

their days

wandering around

in confusion,

before, eventually,

coming to the conclusion,

that the Looe In Yorkshire,

or the Looe in Kent,

were not the Looes

where they should have went.

And, secondly,

and most importantly;

when you ‘have’ ascertained

that you ‘are’

in the correct Looe,

and not pining from afar,

you have to look around and see

the best view in Looe,

from wherever you may be.

I am the ghost in the machine

I am the ghost in the machine

I am the ghost in the machine,

the elephant in the room,

the fly in the ointment,

the wolf in sheep’s clothing;

and I have a loathing

for what I am.

I am the ghost in the room,

the elephant in the machine,

the wolf in the ointment,

and the fly in sheep’s clothing;

and I have a loathing

of what I have become.

I am the wolf in the room,

the fly in the machine,

the elephant in the ointment,

the ghost in sheep’s clothing;

and I have a loathing for this type of poem,

where the combinations grow

with every word

ever more and more absurd –

I am the septic in the poem,

or should that be sceptic?

Anyway, as I was saying,

I am the poet

in the septic,

tank.

No, that’s not right…

I am the poet in the room,

sheepishly wearing wolf’s clothing,

flying in the ghost machine,

whilst coated in ointment…

allegedly.

The man entered the room – and never came out again.

The man entered the room – and never came out again.

I was sat at the window table – two seats, one occupied by my good self, the other vacant – with an excellent view out onto Fore Street, and, if required, an observational point with which to ‘people-watch’ the footfall through the cafeteria.

It had been fairly quiet in the twenty-three minutes that I had been there: one couple had finished their cream tea and left; one lady with an ancient Gladstone-type bag had painstakingly hauled it away with her, after popping the cruet set inside; and then the two girls in the corner who communicated with the world via their phones, but spake not a word to each other unless it was to pass judgment on fashion or the fitness of boys.

I stirred my black coffee, savouring the aroma of distant Columbia, and dissolving the sugar cube to sweeten the harshness of the brew.

Opposite me, in the far wall, was a door signed as ‘Toulet’ which I gathered was just a spelling mistake.

I was going to ask the waitress when she next returned about the sign, when a tall, slender man entered from the street. He shook his umbrella out, stamped his feet upon the ‘Welcome’ mat, and headed purposefully towards the ‘Toulet’. He entered and closed the door firmly behind him.

I returned my attention to Fore Street and the passage of all life that there was beyond the window’s barrier, and awaited, the return of either the waitress, or the tall man – laying bets on which would be first.

The waitress crossed the line first, and so I asked her about the sign. She laughed. “That is a ‘trompe l’oeil’, sir; a visual illusion in art – we often confuse people with it – the toilet is out the back, down the alleyway to the side of the café.”

I looked at the waitress with a face that expressed stunned confusion to perfection. “But—!” I managed. “That man went in there.”

“Tall, thin man?” she queried.

“Yes.”

“That’s Paul-Jean – he seems to have adopted us for a bit of spiritual haunting. It all happened when the artist wrote ‘Toulet’ on the sign by mistake. I’ve never seen him, myself – I think he only appears for writers and poets. Are you a writer or a poet, sir?”

“I dabble.”

“That’s probably it then, sir.” she walked away, wistfully mumbling to herself, “Writers and poets – who’d have thought it.”

Well, I thought, who indeed.

A cloud wondered lonely as me

‘A cloud wondered lonely as me’

A cloud wandered lonely as me,

that walked on low along tracks and lanes

when all at once it spied a cow,

and thought:

‘Wow! They are so much bigger,

the closer you are to them!’