Monthly Archives: January 2020

The memory poem (which I have memorised – not).

The memory poem (which I have memorised – not).

I can’t remember

if I remember;

I can’t remember

if I forgot,

to do a thing,

or do it not.

I can’t remember…

and, when, or if,

I do remember,

I can’t remember

whether I forgot

to do a thing

or do it not,

on purpose;

I can’t remember if I didn’t remember,

or did remember to remember it not?

“Hey, Google, can I have some audience applause, please?

“Hey, Google, can I have some audience applause, please?

“Hey, Google, can I have some audience applause, please?

SFX Audience Applause.

“Thanks, Google – could you pop in a few cheers, too, please?”

SFX Audience Applause with a few cheers.

“Great! Thanks, Google. Now, can you hold that in readiness for if (or when) I need it?”

Google: Audience Applause with a few cheers is waiting your instruction.

“Marvellous. Let’s get on with the show.”

String Poetry Theory

String Poetry Theory

I am trying

the tying

of words

together,

stringing one phrase

to another;

and what have I got?

A String Poem?

I’m afraid not.

The ghosts of Seagulls haunt my waking hours

The ghosts of Seagulls haunt my waking hours

The ghosts of seagulls

haunt my waking hours;

and various nefarious

other seabirds,

taunt me at night;

the Herring Gulls,

in particular,

have taken a

particular dislike

to me,

and attack me,

physically,

mercilessly;

whilst the Great Black-Backed Gulls

mock me from aloft,

call me soft,

and hurt me to the quick;

I feel sick

of all the birds

of the sea,

that do so hate me.

“Hello! I’m Charli the Flying Chinchilla!” *Reposted because it made me laugh yet again.

“Hello! I’m Charli the Flying Chinchilla!”

Charli was a Chinchilla –

and, as I am struggling

to find a rhyme for Chinchilla,

I will ask you this:

‘What do you call a Chinchilla

with no is?’

Answer: a ‘chnchlla!’

Anyway, I don’t know why,

but a Chnchlla

(or a Chinchilla, if you like)

cannot fly

(and, more for information’s sake,

than for anything else,

they are also unable

to ride a bike –

they can’t reach the pedals,

for a start,

change gear,

or apply the brake –

their limbs being quite

short)

and it is thought

that

when they developed from fish

sixty-five million years ago

the absence of bicycles

was a factor in this.

Now, sighing, they often wish

to cycle down country lanes,

atop a two-wheeled contrivance;

or, satisfy their craving

to ride upon

a penny-farthing

over some crazy paving.

However, land-based still

would be the Chnchlla

abreast the two-wheel vehicle;

when what they really want

is to fly

high

in the sky!

Why?

I haven’t a clue –

do I look like a Chnchlla psychiatrist

to you?

I do?

Well, I’m not.

Most Chnchllas

stay firmly Earth-bound

upon the ground

is what long and lengthy

(not to mention ‘costly’ – so I won’t)

research has found.

Until, one day,

not so long ago,

a Chnchlla ran away

to join the circus.

Sung: ‘They fly through the air

with the greatest of ease;

those daring Chnchllas

on the flying trapeze.’

Books

Books

Surrounded by books,

I receive the funniest of looks

as I smell the pages

of an old and treasured tome,

that has found its way,

to here, today,

which is but it’s latest home.

Written hundreds of years ago,

by a man that I am sure

I am soon to explore

by the reading of his words;

and published in a classic font

that fashion knows no more.

I pay the price

for a literary friend,

whose journey never, ever,

seems to end.

Arthur, King.

Arthur, King.

Now here’s a thing

old Arthur, King,

in Cornwall he was born.

In Tintagel,

he was heard to yell,

on a cold, dark Winter’s morn.

His nights were long,

his knights were strong,

his table it was round;

he is the once

and future king,

so maybe he’ll refound

to say hello

and save us all

from our now and future fate.

The Crowfly

The Crowfly

I was attacked by a crowfly yesterday;

it came straight at me,

in that way that crowflies do.

I had an idea

I had an idea

I had an idea

for a poem,

a wonderful poem,

better than all that I have ever written

before…

then I saw a hypothetical squirrel…

… and that poem was no more.

Lucille in Lucerne

Lucille in Lucerne

Lucille went to Lucerne

not to steal

but to learn;

and learn she did,

her talents,

for so long

hidden under a bushel,

were soon unhid –

but, being fictitious,

I cannot tell you

a single thing she did.