I love sewing,
toing and froing
coming and going
and staying put.
I like nothing
better than knitting,
do I like knitting?
No, I do not,
Not at all, not a lot
I do not knit;
I can’t see the point
in doing it.
That’s not to say
It’s not a good thing
If you do it that’s fine;
it’s just not a hobby of mine.
One misty, moisty morning,
or so the poem goes;
I walked along a country lane,
a dew drop on my nose.
Posted in Poetry
Autumnal leaves
fall from the trees
leaving them barer than before;
the leaf-bearer shedding its load,
and I behold their falling.
As the crow flew
he made a joyful noise…
well, maybe to a crow.
I think it was a ‘crawk!’
or maybe a ‘crejk!’
But, what the heck
he seemed happy enough.
For Linda’s prompt page and details see HERE’
Can I write something in ten minutes?
Well, sure.
But, will it make sense.
Does it ever?
Shall I write it in the present tense?
I can, and I shall.
Shall I write it in a polemical poemical format with tricksy wordplay.
What, for a change, do you mean?
I can; but, I won’t
Huzzah!
Are you my writing conscience?
I can be. Do you need a writing conscience?
I might do. Will you help me to prepare for my ten-minute challenge?
The one that you are already doing?
Yes.
I can; but I think that you will just do this (and well) all by yourself.
I can do that?
Why sure! You can do anything.
Anything?
Well, no, not anything, obviously. How are you going to invent the perfect sandwich; fly to Mars using a homemade rocket; learn Swahili; climb Everest in a washing machine; reconcile the-
I get the picture. Your list of things is probably… quite long.
It is.
And I can ‘probably’ only do a ‘few’ things – in the scheme of things.
True.
‘Cannot the Human Being do all things in the mind.’
Did you just make that up.
I might have done. I write and I create. I can do that. And in my mind I conceive the thoughts that I write.
Cool.
Indeed. With my writing I can, and do, do anything.
You sure can.
Apropos of nothing…
Yes?
I used to have the nickname ‘Spray Can’ once.
Just the once?
Ah! Touché my poemical * conscience.
Touché!
Lostwithiel
should be
Foundwithiel;
do you see?
The story is:
We put up posters here
We put up posters there
“Has anybody seen our Lostwithiel?
Is that it over there?
No.”
We did the rounds.
Upon the grounds
that as it was quite big
finding it should be easy
like the finding of a twig
in a forest – oh! That’s not good,
it’s like trying to find a specific tree within an unknown wood.
But, to cut
a long story short,
as a practical poet really ought:
Lostwithiel was where it should have been all along
the direction that we had been looking in,
that was what was wrong.
“We found Lostwithiel,
Lostwithiel was found!
Foundwithiel!”
Black Sheep and Rotten Apple went for a walk.
“It’s not easy being the black sheep of the family.” said Black Sheep, who, unusually for a sheep, could talk.
“It’s not that great being a rotten apple.” said Rotten Apple, who, unusually for any kind of apple, could talk, and walk.
“It’s not that I’m the only “black sheep’ there are others. But, Rotten Apple, on a percentage basis, how many percent of sheep do you think are black sheep?”
“I don’t do percentages.” said Rotten Apple. But, I bet lots of white sheep and not lots of black.”
“Right!” Said Black Sheep.
“Then again…” said Rotten Apple “All apples become rotten apples in the end.”
“Unless they are eaten first.” pointed out Black Sheep.
“True.” admitted Rotten Apple. “Even I used to be a normal apple. Mum and Dad were proud of me.”
“Didn’t you grow on a tree?” queried Black Sheep.
“Well, technically, yes.” Rotten Apple thought about that.
After a while Black Sheep and Rotten Apple stopped to admire the view.
“I wish I had been a cloud.” Said Black Sheep. “But, I’d probably have been a rain cloud.”
“At least you’d have been in the majority. states Bad Apple. “I always wanted to be a tree.”
Black Sheep and Bad Apple discussed this and finally came up with a way whereby Bad Apple might become a tree.
They put this plan into action; but only time would tell if Bad Apple became a tree.
Black Sheep missed Bad Apple, but never forgot that Rotten Apple might become a tree one day and often visited the spot where they had parted their ways.
Posted in Poetry
