Author Archives: Words from a Lentil Institution

As I am (slowly) going to St. Ives …

As I ‘am’


going to St. Ives

the fear and trepidation within me thrives,

for waiting there

for me to come

is a creature fierce

that will strike me dumb.

I cannot name that fearsome beast,

nor describes its features, least-

-ways, I could,

but doing so

would do no good,

for then the fear

would within ‘you’ rise,

and terror seep into your eyes.

Needless to say,

I just might not survive

this terminous day.

Linda G Hill’s #SoCS

SoCS – Puzzle

See here for Linda’s SoCS page.

Okay, let’s go. Puzzle? Well, I am sorely vexed as what I am to write upon this subject.

I have not tried one of these SoCS for a while, and my 10-minute writing skills may be a tadpole rusty. I have written much since last I tried this, and much of that has been a puzzle to the world at large (in miniature) – my words leave them wanting less, it seems. And another thing, my puns seem to be going out of nuclear fashion. It always confused me when somebody said that they liked my words, but not the order that I put them in. They called me a ‘wordsmith’ or some such phrase, and I was inwardly happy and outwardly ‘Hey, thank you! But, they are just random words that I put into a random order!’ I then found myself the poorer by my reversal to the inwardly-seeking introvertive and introspective writer of poems and doggerel.

I have, upon occasion, tried using strange words to mix it up – but that just confuses me (and any prospective reader) Badriomaku is a word (look it up) and it’s one that I made up. It puzzles people (periodically) that you can still make something from nothing – but, Latin scholars would tear my new word apart due to its lack of… anything like a derivation.

So, I sit here upon my Gervular (just made that up, too) and dwell upon how long 10-minutes actually is. By all accounts my timer should go off now, but sometimes my calculation of time is out by a few seconds or minutes, so I am now writing Freestyle, with little or no purpose.

I suppose I could now fath*om out the world’s problems, but alas …

*10-minute timer went off here

‘As I walked around with a sprig of Buddleia in my hat’

As I walked around

with a sprig of Buddleia in my hat

a bee hopped on board,

then a butterfly,

then more

and more

and more,

until I had become a veritable charabanc

for the flying fraternity –

and a sight to see I was at that.

If I haven’t got …

If I haven’t got

a poem

upon the subject in hand,

I hope you’ll understand

if I give you a poem

upon an entirely differing subject altogether.


Rather than tails of black cats,

chasing butterflies, bees, and belfry bats,

my poem could be about the presence of ghosts,

the absence of Dodos,

or the burnings of toasts

that I had known.

But, you can be sure,

that the poem’s mine own,

for whom so else

would write such tosh?

It has to be me,

with my pigs will slosh.

The cat who loved Abba

ABBA, the cat, who loved,

never knew about punctuation,

or the proper use of colons and commas;

but, she didn’t have to,

it wasn’t important in the scheme of things –

unlike tummy rubs

and wriggling strings.

I Cry

I cry,

with tears to each sad eye,

when I read the words;

the words that make me feel

that the World

has a need to heal,

and all its inhabitants

-all –

need a better life.

My human …

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!

A Poem is Born

A Poem is Born.

Not that anybody notices,

or stakes a claim

to have been My Human

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!

‘there at the birth’

or to have inspired its name.

No, it casually slipped into the world

without a cry of birthing,

or the taint of original sin.

I chose to call it ‘Arthur’

after the mythical leader of the Britons,

although, I’m not that sure

if it actually has a gender,

or an agenda –

it might be a Brenda,

the mythical leader of kittens,

mittens, and once shy,

twice bittens.

Anyway, a poem was born,

and that is all you need to know.

“Happy Birthday, Arthur / Brenda!”

Whilst leaning against a 7-bar gate

I look over

(for I am tall enough)

the gate,

and see what there is beyond:

fields, distant woods, lone trees,

cloud-occluded skies;

a part of South East Cornwall

that has melded with my heart;

I am happy to have come here;

and I love the silent Sun

that beams down upon

these little acres.

A Haiku?

Who needs a Haiku?

I know that I don’t need one,

and that is a fact!