Category Archives: NaPoWriMo2013

Part Two – 31st April, 2013 by Graeme Sandford



Where were we?

Ah, yes.

When my poem for today is, ultimately, unfinished and on-going…

How would it be if I set you free

From the fate that is your destiny?

If there never was any other month… but April;

If April had but three-hundred and sixty-five days clear,

Excepting when there’s a leap year that does appear,

And then, my dear, to make things re-orientate okay,

April has one more day; and there never is another May.

How would that be?

Would take a little adjustment, I agree,

But wouldn’t life be simpler, for you and me,

If we never had to worry about what month it was,

We could be pretty sure that it was… April!!! Because,

It would always April be. Seems a solution of simpleness to me.

Obviously the years would have to change, but April the three-hundred and sixty-fifth

In two thousand and thirteen, would be seceded with, or by,

April the first, two thousand and fourteen, so I

Think that it would be pretty cool if it was always my

Birthday this month, and Christmas this month, and why…

Wait to next month to do something, when you can do it this one.

What fun! My Birthday, I have calculated is on April the

Forty-sixth; so, don’t forget to buy or bake me a cake;

And I will bake you one too, later in the month; that I ‘will’ do.


Does this make sense to you all;

Now that I have explained what will befall?

Just have to get it passed by law and statutes legal,

And Royal proclamation – that would be regal.

Should be soon, maybe by this month’s ending,

And I think that by this time next year we’ll be spending

A lot less time worrying what month we’re in;

And just knowing that April is the ‘only’ month – shall I begin?


31st April, 2013 by Graeme Sandford

Woke up this morning…

Well, would have done so if I’d been asleep;

But it was the excitement of the last day of @NaPoWriMO2013 (FYI that’s pronounced ‘at,nah,poe,wree,moe,twen-ty, thir-teen’ which gives credence to the next rhyme)

And I was excited; oh, yessum – visibly so (excuse my French), you know what I mean.

But, strangely, everyone else was suffering an anti-climax!

I poised my instrument over the screen

And… hesitated…

‘The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.’
(verse 51 of Edward FitzGerald‘s translation of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám)

Pounced into my mind and tore at it.

What if my Ultimate poem was just a load of doggy-doos

Or something I’d written when worse for wear with booze?

What if…? My friends. ‘What if?’ and ‘If Only…’ are the mottoes of the lonely

And only I can be a man who when tasked to it can ban

ish the blues and bring the sunshine into your lives.

As I was walking to St. Ives I met a man with seven wives:

And punched him! (Serves him right for being so greedy;

And not giving away one to the needy – me!)

‘So, here I am once more in the playground of the broken hearts…’

(Marillion – Script for a Jester’s Tear, 1983)

When all my words are fuelled by moment and observation;

When my every idea is just pulled from comment and inclination.

When my poem for today is, ultimately, unfinished and ongoing…

This is the end of Part One

Call back later, if you please, to read about the Uke-Playing Nun.



My Penultimate Poem – 30-04-2013 by Graeme Sandford


The Penultimate Poem

The Penultimate Poem as written by me

With my ultimate pen – but there’s a problem that I just didn’t see;

And it’s this: It’s the last day of April, I feel such a fool,

I lost the sense of timing, forgot the golden rule,

That April hath but thirty days… ooops!

So, this is still my Penultimate Poem, my last but one…

Before my next poem, the Ultimate One!

But, deary me, what is the one after that to be?

Is there such a thing as an Ante-ultimate poem, I ask?

Or a Post-Ultimate one? Or some literary term that fits a name to the task?

I think I have made an error in calculation;

Missed the elation that the last day of our journey will sing

Now our poetical month is nearly up. One thing

More… What next? What will tomorrow bring?

April the thirty-first will see my thirst to write a poem

About thirty-one sheiks, or invertebrate breaks,

Or whatever takes my fancy. Chancy topics from the sub-tropics;

Odes from abodes or lyrics about clerics…

What will I do? What will you?

Perhaps make a brew…

Fancy a cuppa?

And a biscuit or two?

And then there’s April thirty-two…

29 Questions – 29-04-2013 by Graeme sandford


“A Beautiful Desert Oasis”



Climbing up on Donnell Hill


‘I can see the city lights’


In San Bernardino.



‘A fool in love –


A crazy situation’


In loco parentis – apropos of something…


Or nothing.



‘And if you want…’


To be dreaming of a certain place


‘It’s Californication!’



Why, on day twenty-nine of @NaPoWriMe

Do I sit here considering the relative merits

Of my poetry; how it’s written, and where it’s…

Going? I, have no way of knowing!

Are my poems just a strange way of telling and showing?

Would a psychiatrist, having looked me up,

Then looked me up and down, lock me up,

Or run me out of town?


Are all the leaves brown?


Questions; I have many.

Answers; few and varied,

Do the truths lay (or lie) buried?

Who is to say?

And who is to listen?

Is it true that all that is gold does not glisten?

I have soaked up words from far and wide

I store them in an untidy vault somewhere well deep inside,

But, even so, they are readily available for use and, lo,

I spiel them off for you to hear and know

That I am so full of titter and tat, that

I spout forth with lyrics and verse,

That are randomly chosen, no chance to rehearse,

And they fall: splat. Splat! Splat!! Upon the page,

Ad hoc, al fresco, whatever is a la mode, a la rage.


Which leads me on to the point of this treatise in print:

Is there a soupcon of worthiness in’t?

Or am I just a WikiGoogleMan with a plan

Or a faulty auto-correctional facility,

Or is trying to make head or tail of all this leading to an institutional futility?

You tell me. Please! I wish for my non-understanding to seize –

And that should have been ‘cease’ but I was not, with that rhyme, pleased!


And so it goes…




Nobody knows.

Twenty-Eight – 28-04-2013 by Graeme Sandford







And let’s get this right

If not, the fingers will point at you.






(First to forth, alphabetically, is that made clear)





Lord Foster

(Sounds like the Dramatis Personae from Shakespeare’s, King Lear)




(Do we know people of fame by a single name?

e.g. Bono, Cher, Ringo, Madonna)




Sir Nicholas

(a knight, a Sir, how do you do? It’s an honour)






(three Dicks, a Ray, a Nick

Do names shortened thus, make you sick?)




Sir Terence

(come, and see the system’s inherence)




(twenty-eight digitally enhanced personages

To signify the talent that through their bodies rages)





TWENTY EIGHT FINGERS is a collection of casts of the index fingers of creative people including visual artists, musicians, writers, animators, architects and poets; highlighting the diversity of creative thinking and practice. The piece includes the cast index fingers of Alan Bennett, Richard Billingham, Raymond Briggs, Sir Terence Conran, Richard Deacon, Tacita Dean, Ludovico Einaudi, Tracey Emin, Lord Foster, Antony Gormley, Sir Nicholas Grimshaw, Mona Hatoum, Susan Hiller, Anish Kapoor, Richard Long, Hugh Masekela, Roger McGough, Morten Morland, Alice Oswald, Nick Park, Cornelia Parker, Tom Phillips, Mary Quant, Ed Ruscha, Michael Sandle, Edmund de Waal, Vivienne Westwood and Benjamin Zephaniah.

27 Forever! 27-04-2013 by Graeme Sandford


In the land of the Delta Blues

At the Crossroads where the Devil

Took the soul and lit the fuse.


Formed the Stones, Left the stones,

left the rolling for others to do,

Couldn’t get No Satisfaction; so had to Paint it Black for you.


‘Purple Haze all through my brain…’

I listen to his cool refrain;

We’ll never see his like again, excuse me, while I…


‘Me and Bobby McGee’

Both miss the girl that sang for me,

It was no sweet voice that set her free. 


Mr. Mojo Risin’, the sunset fell on you

As you broke on through to the other side,

And the doors closed, as they do.


Play as you go; too soon, you know,

And never hear into what you’d grow

So, Mute, you go; Mute you go.


A tale of a Knight, that felt so right,

Oh, what might have been; when Knight met queen –

Acting the part, so sorely felt, did you depart.


Come on over, Valerie wants a chat,

But, life was not to be your crack,

And you are not coming back in black


You learnt the truth at… twenty-seven

That life was not for you, but Heaven…

Or Hell! But, you live on; that, I can tell.

2-6 (an extra poem for today) 26-04-2013 by Graeme Sandford



An author:

He dreams

Of wishes;

He writes

As Summer,

Or Winter,

Is Coming.


On Monday,

At market,

We wander

In places –

So broken

Or silent

Of regard.



He viewed

Us relics

As artist

In Utopia.

Twenty-Six – 26-04-2013 by Graeme Sandford



Twenty-six, two and six, half-a-crown

Throw stones - feel free; pick up sticks;
All fall down!
As my ego tricks my id into thinking my Twitter User Name is @ME

Brutal hot licks, modern-day picks, guitar heroes Styx- that's really really free;
Plectrum flicks, audience mix, in a mosh-pit society.

Needle pricks, no drugs fix, giving blood, giving it duty-free;
It doesn't cost an arm or a leg, but it takes it out of me.

Relics, acrobatics,  Chichester chicks, Horlicks
Instead of a cup of tea
Aerodynamics, night at the flicks, partly digested politics -
It's party-time, you see!
Nix nix, throw mud, some sticks,
Fairly successful Summer Olympics,
Vicks Nasal Spray, 

Is there anything more to say?

"What about a Twix?

Or Twenty-six!"

pɹoɟpuɐs ǝɯǝɐɹƃ ʎq 3102-40-52 – ǝʌıɟ-ʎʇuǝʍʇ


˙ʞɔnl ɹoɟ 'ǝɹoɯ ǝɔuo ʇı pıp uǝɥʇ ˙uıɐƃɐ ʞɔɐq uǝɥʇ
 ˙dnɔ ɹǝdɐd ɐ oʇuı pǝuɹnʇ ƃǝl ɹǝɥ puɐ
 "˙dn uʍoɹƃ llɐ puɐ plo ǝq llɐɥs ı"
 'ǝɔılɐɯ ɹo ʎʇıʌǝl ɟo ʇuıɥ ɐ ʇnoɥʇıʍ
  ˙ǝɔılɐ pıɐs "'ǝʌıɟ-ʎʇuǝʍʇ ɯ,ı uǝɥʍ"
  ɹɐǝddɐsıp 'ʎlqɐʇunoɔɔɐun 'sǝop noʎ ɟo ʇsǝɹ ǝɥʇ ʇslıɥʍ
 ɹɐǝ oʇ ɹɐǝ ɯoɹɟ ǝɔɐɟ ɹnoʎ ssoɹɔ plnoɥs uıɹƃ ɐ ʇsǝl
  'ʞool ɐ ǝʞɐʇ ʇou ʎɥʍ
 'ɹǝsnoıɹnɔ puɐ ɹǝsnoıɹnɔ ǝɹɐ noʎ ɟı puɐ
 ˙ʞooq sıɥʇ uı ʇou 'ʇnq 'ppo ʎllɐnsn sı ɥɔıɥʍ
 'ǝʌıɟ-ʎʇuǝʍʇ, ʞɔnɹʇs ʞɔolɔ ǝɥʇ 

ǝʌıɟ-ʎʇuǝʍʇ ɯ,ı uǝɥʍ

Twenty-Four – A Stream of Consciousness Poem 24-04-2013 by Graeme Sandford


Bonjour, c’est le vingt-quatre d’Aprille

With its sweet showers

Still, it could be worse.

And maybe it will be.


Twenty-four hours from Tulsa –

Wherever that is.

24/7 – all of the time, basically

Every second of every minute of every day – for ever.


Twenty for – none against: carried unanimously;

With no animosity at any stage of proceedings.

Mis-leading is the word, haven’t you heard;

It’s not ‘Grease’ anymore.


’24’ with Kiefer Sutherland, a day in a day;

Though I preferred Donald, his dad, Cloudbusting his way

Through a Kate Bush video from the eighties;

When ‘Cloudbusting’ was incomparable to ‘Shipbuilding’.


Every month has twenty-four days! Discuss.

And if there are 50 ways to leave your lover,

I’d like Paul Simon to have listed at least 24 of them;

However, it was probably a ‘title before the content’ situation

– Still, it’s still a good song after all these years.


Twenty-four: the number of fingers and toes

Of an alleged Anne Boleyn after she received the chop!

And Jake the Peg had one more on top.

If that’s still a comment that I am free to make.


Twenty-four, an Earth day’s whore;

A matter of Planetary Law;

A time in which to be, and that is for sure;

Virtually a time-scheme for all, rich or poor.


Diddly-squat – a random replacement,

What the smile on my face meant –

Diddly-bit, Diddly-some, Diddly-few, Diddly-squat –

And so on, if that’s your wont, your unaccustomed bent.


Twenty-four, rather far-fetched in its outlook;

The last hour of the day, that is actually nothing

Nil, nada, rien, sip, zero, blap, prosh, menkif, elnse;

And a few other made-up words of little or no consequence.


And in a sequence, Wikipedia says it comes ‘after twenty-three’

And ‘before twenty-five’; though I am disinclined to believe that;

Maybe I am a disbelievist, maybe one of those exists;

Maybe I am a man, who likes to dissect lists, or maybe I’m not.


Maybe, there is no ‘maybe’ about it.

Maybe there is. Sometimes ‘quelquefois’ slips into my mind;

I find it there waiting for a moment when a French-type

Asks me if I ‘aimez le vie’ and I can reply with an apposite word,

But, don’t.


Contrary to opinion, I agree with the rest, until I reach a point

When I suggest that perhaps ‘for a change’ they could agree with me;

Then they pick up their football and go back to their maison dans la rue –

It’s true; it’s what they are programmed to do.


Twenty-four green bottles hanging on a wall.

Then the wall fell over, and there were no green bottles,

Just a lot of clearing up to do;

And so I did it, wouldn’t you?