Monthly Archives: January 2022

Leaves without trees

Leaves without trees,

and trees without leaves;

the Autumn and the Wind

are such seasonal thieves.


Gone are the thick coats of summer,

and barely they stand

or they fall;

leaves without trees,

cling to their memories,

and trees without leaves

wait the call.

Tree Fellers

Tree Fellers

Three of them, there were;

armed with cheery banter,

and a thermos of coffee a piece.

Down came the tree,


⁃ the end of an Ash.

Reading the Leaves (Tasseography)

The leaves in my teacup were telling a story.

You had to listen quite hard, they were speaking very quietly, and slowly, and in leaf language; but, if you were patient, concentrated hard, and happened to know leaf language, you could just make out the outline of a tale about the coming of the Winter Winds.

Always the Winter Winds, never the Summer breezes – and perhaps an allegorical tale about talking field mice that was actually about something other than the mice of the fields.

Anyway, I had had to endure a cup of tea for this. I was a coffee drinker through and through (and through a bit more) and only tortured myself with the evil brew so as I could hear the stories of the leaves.

If only coffee beans could tell such tales.

In groups of four

A story written in—

groups of four words—

that stops and starts—

in the middle of—

sentences – thus halting the—

flow, and causing the—

reader to get angry.

If the reader doesn’t—

get angry, it is—

thought to be a—

problem on the reader’s—

part, and nothing to—

do with the writer.

A Nurge

A Nurge

I have a Nurge.

A Nurge

that needs to write.

And, sometimes,

other things stop my Nurge

from doing so.


When my Nurge does write

it is happy to have done so.

Do you have a Nurge?


Having taken just one short look at my rockery,

he turned and he shouted, ‘It’s a mockery!’

I thought him a character of fun,

like Dockery in ‘Dockery and Son’,

but, as he went, he smashed all of my crockery.

‘This ‘jiggery-pockery’ has got to stop!’

I looked at the clock, and its tick-tockery,

and knew that the time was near;

I pawned all of my jewels

(put them all into hockery)

to raise up the funds to pursue,

follow, go after,

that man whose name was Englebert Nockery.

The Bird who thinks it’s a leaf

It’s almost beyond belief,

but I’m a bird

who thinks it’s a leaf.

I perch on a branch

and sway

sometimes for as long

as a day.

The other birds laugh at me

in the Winter –

in the Summer I’m harder to see;

and in Autumn and Spring

I’m just doing my thing;

so, please leaf me alone,

let me be.



is not having dined

upon animals, fish, or fowl;

but being mindful,

of how

you live your life,

and provender your dish;

I wish to find

that all are


that is my wish.

The silent seagulls soaring skywards

“ ‘The silent seagulls soaring skywards—‘ “

“Ooh! sounds like a poem!”

“Could be.”

“What’s the next bit?”

“The next ‘bit’ is,

‘aloft, upon the breeze, breathless blown—‘ “

“No, it’s a bit too frilly for my liking. Can’t you make it into a Limerick? That would be better.”

“I could, but it would lose any noble quality that it has.”

“That’s as maybe, but it’ll be a lot funnier.”

“Oh, dear. ‘There was a young seagull from Looe,

Who got caught in a ‘How-do-you-do?’,

It welcomed all sorts,

to one of Cornwall’s fishing ports,

and only stopped when the season was through.’ “

“Needs work.”

“Thank you Mr. Poetry Critic.”

“You’re whelks!”

“I suppose I am.”



My feet aren’t warm

my hands are cold,

a sign, they say,

of growing old;

my body heat

is such a treat

but at times

my extremities

feel like they freeze.

My feet get cold

and stay like ice,

and defrosting them

is never nice,

It hurts to thaw

to melt the floe;

but this is life

and age does show.


include my nose,

and that gets red

and I call it ‘doze!’