When
Does
It
Ever?
(An
Anti-
Acrostic
Non-
Poem)
There are no Rainbows
under the sea.
I don’t know
if that’s true or not;
but, it seems a distinct possibility
to a person like me.
I saw a cloud today;
it was in the shape,
the shape …
of a cloud.
I think that’s allowed,
not to be in the shape of a dog,
or a dancing frog …
or France –
it was just a cloud-shaped cloud.
My human …
gives me food.
My human ….
gives me water.
My human …
gives me love …
and protection …
and a place to stay …
and so much more.
If your human
doesn’t give you all these things …
then they darn well oughta!
“Watch out for the lippery sleeves!”
I called, to a cyclist bycling sigh.
He took no notice, not a bittle lit,
his fycra lashed,
his spedals pan
and then he went tass over it.
Charles Dickens was once said to have said,
‘Thank you for my meal, Catherine.’
However, this was not
what
he is remembered for.
Bleak House, one of his finest novels,
originally serialised in 1852/3,
tells a tale – as do all the rest
of his works –
and is of matters that matter.
There is a lot of legal jargon and
Inspector Bucket is brought in to investigate.
There may be more; but, perhaps,
you should read it and find out if that is the case.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #BleakHouse, #CharlesDickens, #FF, #poetry. #poem, #PoetryNot, #vss, prose
I found an old red telephone box
by the side of the road;
I entered in –
it was working –
so I thought I’d give it a go;
I was calling occupants of random various houses.
The people that answered,
I didn’t know them at all,
and I didn’t know their spouses;
well, I spoke to them for a few seconds,
and wished them a happy day;
told them I was on my way;
I was calling occupants,
which I know is not that funny;
I don’t know why you laughed;
I was calling occupants …
of interplanetary craft.
I saw an old man
walking down the street today;
he was a little unsteady
on his feet today;
he was going round the road
to see a mate,
to have a chat
about this and that.
.
I saw an old man
walking down the street today;
he was a little unsteady
on his feet today,
.
They do say
that you are
only as daft
as your last poem.
.
Or, if that poem is unfinished,
your last poetic outing
in draft.
.
But, how will I know
when I have written my last poem?
.
Or can I choose
to go forward
to Hell
from this place of dwell
when I have written
a particularly daft one,
or even a sensible one –
though what are the chances of that …
Uther Pendragon Kellaly,
father of Arthur …
and the inventor
of tiny little guitars …
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #FF, #nonsense, #Pendragon, #poetry. #poem, #silly, #Ukulele, #Uther, #vss
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Graeme Sandford 