Author Archives: Words from a Lentil Institution

Swapping Tales

A young man trying to do an old man’s job met an old man trying to do a young man’s job – they swapped their tales; and, afterwards, both were better able to do their job.

Leaving Do

I had a leaving do,

nobody came but you;

and then you left –

that’s the sort of thing you do,

and I was left …

bereft.

Poetry property

I want to live in a poet’s house,

like a little field mouse

living in a…

field.

.

I want to have an ‘upstairs’

and a reciprocal ‘downstairs’

connected by an Escher staircase,

which might

(or might not*)

take me from the one

to the other.

.

I want to live in a poet’s head

the wide-open spaces,

the crazy, made up places,

and the inmates…

oh, the inmates.

.

I want to live where secrets are spread,

where skies uphold dragons’ wings,

and seas can turn from blue to red;

where things are created by the thought of them

and stories lead to adventures and wonder

under those skies.

And there will always be something new

to be said

about the imminent pandemonium

of a poet’s head.

.

.

*It won’t

Red

In red we march

towards the foe

how do we not know

that red is so—

why not be a shade unseen

in livery of forest green?

.

Red we wear,

in red, beware!

It’s red! Beware of the red! They said, they said,

they said, beware the red –

and then ‘they’ saw,

and I was dead,

and I was dead.

.

In red we march

towards the foe;

to death we go,

to death we go.

On the A303 passing Stonehenge (in slow-mo) – an @Lucy_Worsley prompted poem.

See Lucy’s Video here

On the A303
just Stonehenge and me
on the longest day of the year,
and slow-mo me
makes me feels like I’m forever stuck in second gear.

My Parents made me what I am today.

My mother was a Poodle,

my dad a Labrador…

My grandfather a Seagull,

his mum an Albatross…

Just how I turned out as I am,

has left me at a loss.

Fathers’ Day

On Fathers’ Day

I’d rather stay

out of the limelight.

I’ll admit to being a bit

naff as one, and my own

was surely hard done

by my being the type of son

he never always wanted.

Sky, The.

The sky

goes by

at an alarming rate of knots –

or it barely moves.

It seems to be running with flame-clad hooves,

or hooves of lead encased in clay.

The sky might be in a hurry one blowy day,

then loitering upon a corner the next.

It leaves me vexed to see it changeable so:

should it stay?

or should it go?

The sky is full of many things:

clouds, and the Sun, birds and planes

that spread their wings

and fly away;

midges that cluster around me,

for an anytime feast.

And the sky is all around,

in every single direction, to say the least,

wrapping us in its frail cocoon.

And best of all, up in the sky,

is the character of our own sweet Moon.

Crime Scene Seen

A crime scene

once seen

can never be unscene,

or unseen.

“Where have all the butterflies gone?”

Where have all the butterflies gone?

“Where are ya? Where are ya?

Have you gone off for a nap or a scone?”

.

‘That seems unlikely;

but, when thought upon,

is as likely as not.’

said a lone Oxford don.