Monthly Archives: July 2020

The Keen of a Buzzard

I feel, that the certain sound of an uncertain keen would melt a heart of steel; and, I know that steel melts at approximately 395,000°F*, but I’m sure that the sound of that keening would definitely melt a heart of steel.

*actually steel melts at about 2,500°F – but, poetic licence always has priority over dumb facts.

The Groom

The groom was nervously spacing

t o a n d f r o ,

b a c k a n d f o r t h,

looking South,

heading North –

in his pants and bridegroom’s vest

(he veered away from East and West),

until he stopped,

to his knees dropped,

and considered himself quite blessed.

‘The Butterfly and the Bee’

“You really are quite funny looking.”

said the Butterfly to the Bee,

“With your silly round body,

your stubby little wings,

and your penchant for honey.”

“Me?” said the Bee,

“Why not take a look at yourself, Mr Butterfly –

take it from me

I never did see

an uglier looking guy

flying by.


Lily put Gulliver’s travels down to experience; she didn’t like to nag but hoped to ignore his favourite biscuits, then ate the lot of them in one sitting – the story unravels about Gulliver’s travels and how we travel to lands where people are small and horses rule.

Houyhnhnms: ‘Gulliver’ – who him?

“Mind your head”

‘Mind your head!’

said Fred;

and then he didn’t,

and he was dead.

There’s no Prussia?!

Is there a Prussia anymore?

Do you know?

Can you say,

No pressure,

I just need to be sure

whether or not Prussia exists,

anywhere, today.

Is it still on the existent place lists?

Russia, too – is that still a thing,

or has the whole world been relabelled,

like Beijing being from Peking.

Poetry to Goetry

Some people like their poetry

to eat in,

they don’t want to take it away,

‘No way, José!’

they say,

‘If we can’t sit down and enjoy it,

we’ll leave it for another day!’


This is a song that I wrote, based upon my experiences, when I was travelling in Brazil on my ‘Mind the Gap’ year, it’s called ‘Eusébio’’

(use slow, sad chords)


I say, ‘Natural odour’.

I wrote not a single thing

There was a day,

when I wrote not a single thing,

it may have been yesterday –

or, if not yesterday,

it was a yesterday, once, long ago –

when I was younger,

and life seemed likely to stretch on for ever.

Grey upon Grey.

Grey upon grey,

the next layer,

even greyer,

than the one before,

a mixture twixt mizzle and mist,

with heighth, and width, and depth,

all eager to show… nothing,

to hide all,

and live for the moment

in total concealment,

avoiding avidly prying eyes

and random inquisitive glances.