The leaves are falling
everywhere around me,
so, ‘Merry Christmas!’
——
or, not an Autumnal Haiku (7,5,5)
Everywhere around me
leaves are falling,
so, ‘Merry Christmas!’
Posted in Poetry
See here for my original Adlestrop Sequence
I want a job as a passenger.
A passenger?
Yes, a passenger, preferably upon a train. I don’t mind doing a full day’s passengering, but I’d like to miss the rush hours, and I’m not too keen on the Underground. So, a leisurely, all-stops-stopping route where I could start near to my home, and finish… near to my home would be just the job.
Do you live near to a railway station?
Oh, yes. I live very close to Adlestrop.
Adlestrop?
Yes. It’s a brisk walk. Most convivial to the health.
Okay. I shall process your application, and I expect we shall be in touch.
Soon?
I wouldn’t hold your breath.
Okay, thank you.
Good day!
Ticket’s please!
Sorry?
Nothing.
The Picts lived in Scotland
back when it was called something else – before becoming Albanese, and then Scottishland –
as you do,
or, at least, as they did,
in Victorian times,
or slightly before
(my history knowledge being sketchy at best,
they are blue and hairy,
with naer’ee a vest
between them)
and please excuse my accent,
as I am from just south of the border
by a few hundred miles,
and my accents are a bit hit and miss
I’ll admit it, with smiles,
and I don’t mean to diss
respect the Scotch nation,
I’ve even been there
and seen their elation
at the weather, and the cold;
it makes them of brave heart,
or so I’ve been told;
and porage with salt
is what they all eat,
with extra salt on Sundays,
as a “special” auld treat.
And there’s haggis and the caber,
bagpipes and neeps,
tartan and custard,
heather and sheeps;
and Nessy in a loch
whom you never will see,
and there’s one other thing you won’t see in Scotland,
which is a sassenach like me.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Pictorian, #Picts, #poetry. #poem, #Scotch, #Scottish, #Victorian
“I’m Telyn, the Harp.”
“Telling the harp what?”
“No. My name is Telyn, and I am a harp. The Harp.”
“Oh.”
“And what, may I ask, are you?”
“May you well ask. I am… fanfare of drums… a piece of metal that has been twisted into a shape.”
“A triangle.”
“That’s it. I have been twisted into a triangular shape… but, I don’t know what I am called.”
“Perhaps, ‘Tingy’ might be a good name for you.”
“Ooh! That would be lovely. Tingy the thing made into a triangular shape. How happy I am!”
And with that, he struck himself on the head with a small rod of metal.
“Ting!!!!”
Telyn sighed, a lovely glissando of a sigh, but, a sigh nevertheless.
delyow omhweles
my a yll aga gweles
onen hag oll.
leaves fall down
I can see them
one and all.
Thor looked down
upon the town
at all the milling people.
Thor thought deeply,
about all manner of things,
and today he thought about… hats.
‘Some people wear hats,’
he mused to himself,
‘whilst others do not.’
thus thought Thor the Thoughtful Seagull.
Then he went on to think of other things.
©️graemesandford.com
When beige was all the rage,
bright colours were kept in a cage,
where people could occasionally visit
and stare at their gaudy hue,
it was called, as you might think,
a Dangerous Colours Zoo.
The Oranges and Purples
were kept under wraps,
they were too vicious to be seen
by the ladies and chaps.
The mad and dangerous Heliotrope
was kept under lock and key,
and not even the keepers
were allowed to see he.
Anything fluorescent
or sparkling was kept,
in a darkened corner,
fed at night,
where they wept,
being in a state of inertia –
it was all for safety, you see.
they could never be seen
by a dull and dim humanity.
(LWG prompt for 15/09/2020)
‘It is going to be another one of those days’, thought Pooh, as he decided what outfit he was going to wear today – he eventually went for the red shirt and trouser-less look, as it was all he had to choose from.
‘It must be a Thursday.’ reasoned Pooh. ‘Or one of the other ones; but, it does feel like a Thursday.
It was, in fact, a Wednesday, which ‘is’ a Thursday, in all but name.
Pooh left his home in the Hundred Acre Wood and went to see if Piglet was up for a game of squash.
At Piglet’s house, in answer to Pooh’s knocking on the doorbell, the door was answered by a tall man in a flying outfit from the Great War (Pooh had read about, and seen pictures, of this, in one of Christopher Robin’s picture books) and the man had a dapper moustache to boot.
“Is Piglet in?” asked Pooh.
‘“Piglet? No. He’s gone upstairs with Ginger. He’s always wanted to go up in one of the old balloons.”
“Upstairs?” queried Pooh, his face taking on his default ‘confused’ look. “Piglet hasn’t got an ‘upstairs’ “
“No. Up into the blue, skywards, through the atmosphere, up where the air is clear.” replied the dapper chappie. ‘Come to think of it, Piglet doesn’t seem to have much ‘upstairs’ either, does he?’ the man laughed.
Pooh didn’t think that was funny, but he didn’t know why.
“Are you a pillock?” asked Pooh, innocently.
“A ‘pillock?’ “ the airman seemed a little taken aback.
“Yes.” continued Pooh. “Going ‘up-tiddly-up-up’ and then ‘down-tiddly down-down?”
Enlightenment crossed the airman’s expression.
“Yup! Group Captain James Bigglesworth at your service!” replied Group Captain James Bigglesworth. “But you can call me ‘Biggles’.”
“Thank you.” said Pooh, remembering his manners. “I am Pooh.”
“Oh, don’t be too hard on yourself, my little rotund fellow, I’m sure you have many fine qualities – you are quite polite, for instance.”
“My name is Pooh, Winnie the Pooh. Like in Bond, James Bond.”
“Who, Pooh?” Biggles looked affectionately down upon the little bear. “You creatures of the Hundred Acre Wood are all rather special. Are there any more of your friends that I can meet?”
“Well, there’s Kanga and Roo, Eeyore, Tigger, and… others.” Pooh’s mind thought of the Heffalumps and Woozles. “Others.” he repeated lamely.
“Kanga and Roo? Aussies? Well, they should be up for a laugh. What about Eeyore and Tigger – are they good fellows both?”
“Not quite. Eeyore does get a bit low sometimes… often; but, Tigger is the opposite – bouncier than Kanga, I would say – possibly he’s got ADHD.”
Biggles thought on this. “Never mind. I’m sure that they’ll make a fine crew for a sortie over the briny.
“And there’s Christopher Robin.” said Pooh.
“Ah! A talking red-breasted bird – how tickety-boo!” Biggles was often perceived as being annoying, but Pooh was a kindly chap and didn’t find Biggles ‘too’ much of a handful.
“No. Christopher Robin is a boy, like you, but much smaller. He is the brains in our little rag-tag group.” Pooh certainly knew where the brains were in their community. “He can spell proper and everything.” finished Pooh, now quite puffed out.
“Well, I look forward to meeting the rest of the gang—“
It was at that moment that the sound of a low-flying aircraft was heard by the both of them.
“Ah! Ginger and The Pigster are heading back. I do hope they get the old string bag down in one piece – such a pain when you have to rebuild the beauties.”
The plane came into view, flying low over the treetops, rocking slightly as she came.
“I think Piglet is flying her in.” declared Biggles. “I can just see his pink ears poking out from the cockpit.”
“Piglet is?” asked Pooh. “But he’s never even been in an aeroplane before, how can he be flying it?”
“Piglet may be small of stature; but he is large of courage when it comes to bravery!” exclaimed Biggles.
A little while later Piglet and Ginger walked in to Piglet’s house; Piglet jumping from foot to foot, and beaming from ear to ear, Ginger filling in his pilot’s log.
“All good up top, Ginger?” asked Biggles.
“Top notch, Biggles, old man. We soared above the clouds and Piglet even looped-the-loop.” Ginger was obviously impressed with Piglet’s performance.
Pooh looked at Biggles, Ginger, and Piglet. “If you’d have asked me if any of this was possible…” said Pooh, “I’d have said that ‘Pigs might fly!’ “
They all laughed at this for quite a while.
There was never a dull day in the Hundred Acre Wood.
.
“The bird wishes it were a cloud. The cloud wishes it were a bird.”
— Rabindranath Tagore, Bengali polymath (1861-1941). Number “35” from Stray Birds (The Macmillan Co., 1916).
—//—
“You should always credit
the poet or the writer –
not only is it reapectful,
it is also politer.”
Graeme Sandford (1962-20—), Responses to Posts, 2020.
Donald Pleasence
won’t eat pheasants
now he’s dead;
and, when alive, he was a Vegan,
so he ate beans instead –
I may have made that up,
it’s the sort of thing I do,
I’m a writer, and a poet,
and a singer,
‘How d’you do?’
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