Monthly Archives: April 2021

Ladies queueing for the Loo(e Island Boat).

There they were,

in a long line,

staring at the sign

for the boat to the Isle.


With laughter in a queue,

as happy people do,

with many a smile

and a chuckle.


Ready to float,

on a tiny wee boat,

from Looe they’d sail

to the island;


and for an hour, nay two,

they’d wander fro and to,

in the sunshine’s rays,

along narrow meandering pathways,

on a small rock of land,

located in the bay of the twin towns of Looe.


A memorable day,

singing, ‘sail away, sail away, sail away’,

and back to the mainland, all too soon;

then toddle off home,

no more to roam,

by the light of the silvery moon.

Urgent Poetry Recall Notice

The poems in question

may (or may not)

contain trace amounts of Metaphorium,

Similents, and Allegoria,

all of which may (or may not)

prove harmful (or beneficial)

to a state of health

if ingested in large enough quantities.

If you have (or have not)

in the past (present, or future)

purchased, purloined, or merely speed-read

any poetry that has contained

any of the above elements

please return the words

(with proof of purchase – or a letter from a nun)

to whence you bought, thieved, happened upon them.

Refunds will be allocated at sixpence in the pound (less fees) per annum.

Termites and Conditioners may apply.

(or they may not).

My 4 a.m. Haiku

I should be asleep; but, I’m obviously not, so here’s a Haiku.

It’s four of the clock!

I really should be snoring,

maybe whilst sleeping.

A background haiku

Rhubarb rhubarb rhu—

barb, rhubarb rhubarb, rhubarb

rhubarb rhubarb, rhu—

Stone Chat

Talking to a stone?

A pet stone?

Or, a pet rock?

Do you have to carry out

both halves of the conversation?

Or just imagine half?

Is your stone or rock

a talkative soul?

Or quite quiet, upon the whole?

What is yours called?

My friend is called ‘Enroll’.


PS This was published at 12 o’Clock Rock!

Flying Crooked – Robert Graves

The butterfly, the cabbage white,

(His honest idiocy of flight)

Will never now, it is too late,

Master the art of flying straight,

Yet has — who knows so well as I? —

A just sense of how not to fly:

He lurches here and here by guess

And God and hope and hopelessness.

Even the aerobatic swift

Has not his flying-crooked gift.

The orange tip

Hurrah! Hurrah! the orange tip

who would not stay,

her bags unzip,

and take up a place upon a leaf,

actually settled for a second;

best endeavours

catch a picture

that is like a bas relief

to me.

Kernewek Haiku?

Ny won vy, how

to do Kernewek Haiku,

so, meurastahwi.

A Complaint to Uncle Albert

“She is so noisy, uncle Albert,

and she hasn’t done a single thing all day;

didn’t want to bother you about it,

but, it’s something that I really had to say.”

I remember the song

(if not all of the words)

from a long time ago;

so, let me take those words,

and give them new wings

to fly again.

Butterfly Stop

A butterfly

set down atop

a spiky plant

a mome to stop.

“I think I’ll stay!”

I heard her say,

then she flew off –

and all within a second –

brief, though her visit was,

on she went,

her rest time spent,

as the lure of flight still beckoned.