Excited, we are,
by the fact
that we are toodling
off to Looe, today.
So excited, that I
am word-doodling
about it.
We shall see gulls,
boats, the Banjo Pier,
because all of those things,
when in Looe,
are here.
Walking the lanes,
popping in shops,
stop for a coffee,
Looe is the tops.
And, when all’s said and done,
our day out in Looe
is guaranteed fun.
It’s about time
that I wrote
this poem.
Not that this poem
is aboutTime;
or about Tim,even.
In fact, is at is about
very little indeed –
and, so, I am just
wasting your Tim
and mine.
Strobed and strafed
by the light of the Sun
as we travel past trees
that hold nests for the birds;
and, by the way,
‘strafe’ and ‘strobe’
being both six-letter words,
can be equally divided in half
and by thirds.
“I’m not from round here;
you can tell by my accent.
I’m not from round here;
you can tell by the way I talk.
I’m not from round here;
I’m from somewhere else.
I’m not from round here;
but, I live here, so get over it.
“A Poetry Competition?
There’s no Conpetition
like a Poetry Competition –
go find a rhyme
in your own sweet time
and enter it before
or after
the submission date.
Then, await the fate
of your words so fine…
but, be careful
to write every line
just right –
then you could win;
leastways, you might.”
“Unexpected poem in the bagging area!
Please wait for assistance.”
I hesitate.
Then wait.
Debate whether to grab it and go,
or await my fate.
Too late, I realise that I tried to scan it through as a carrot.
“Who’s a naughty poetry boy, then!”
commented a passing parrot.
Me.
Myself.
I am.
It’s not as if I couldn’t afford it,
and I don’t really need it;
I just wanted to read it,
and applaud it.
Now I’m off to jail;
“For poetry shop-lifting!”
I wail.
That will teach me.
This poem woke up in a doorway this morning;
it had little in the way of a plan,
so it just sat there yawning;
until a passing poetry critic
hurled some abuse – non analytic –
along the lines of: ‘You smell!’
and not ‘All is well
that ends well.’
as a man once said;
I remember that
as I am not stupid,
though I may whiff a bit.
A kindly word
in deed
is what I need;
but, I am either invisible
or derisible.
This poem woke up in a doorway
this morning.
