Category Archives: Poetry

I don’t wanna be a poet no more.

I don’t wanna be a poet no more,

I ain’t ever worked out

what a poet was,

and what a poem was for,

I ain’t got the time

to rustle up a rhyme,

and a poet’s life

is not one I adore.

I don’t wanna be a poet

no more.

I wanna be a poet

I wanna be a poet

just like my daddy wasn’t,

and write some beautiful poems;

but, like him, I’m not very good

at rhyming.

I want to be a poet

I want to be a poet

I want to make the grade

I want to write a rhyme

that will never, ever fade…

never ever fade…

never ever fade…

never…

ever…

fade…

My Potato-Salad Days

When I was green and young, in, as I call them, my ‘potato-salad days’ – I never dreamed— (well, actually, all I did was dream, spending my time reading fantasy and sci-fi novels, writing songs about the ‘Curse of Imhotep’, counting clouds, and the like), I never ‘thought’, shall we say, that all the lacks in my youth would help to furnish me with all of the lacks in my adulthood.

Hot buttered toast with cold potato-salad upon it was not a rounded meal – bread ‘and’ potatoes!!!

But, it was quick, simple, cheap, nourishing? Well, maybe it wasn’t that nourishing, I can admit to that now.

It just ‘was’.

I’m not sure if I remember ever having folded the toast upon the potato-salad, but, I may have done. A toasted potato-salad sandwich? Potato-salad toasties?

Who can say if it was things like that that decided I was doomed from such an early age to be what I now am?

One More Moor

One moor

is like any other moor,

only more so.

When the Bad Bee bothered the Beautiful Butterfly.

‘When the Bad Bee bothered the Beautiful Butterfly.’

There were buzzy bees, beautiful butterflies, stingy wasps – sorry sting-y wasps, and all manner of other bugs and beasties…

but…

… it was the bad bee that bothered the beautiful butterfly,

by bombarding her with… alliteration,

“Buzz, buzz be gone!” bade the bee.

Meanwhile, an army of caterpillars marched by, unnoticed by all but me.

The Madge Hatter Tearooms

Now, you might think that operating a tearoom going by the name of ‘The Madge Hatter Tearooms’ there would be something of an ‘Alice in Wonderland’ theme involved – yet, you would be so wrong.

There was nothing ‘curious’ or ‘curiouser’ about the Madge Hatter Tearooms, nor about Madge, herself, come to that.

Madge Hatter was Madge Hatter’s one and only name – her parents, Peter and Greta Hatter, being oblivious to any literary connotations that they might have created by their choice of the – even then – outdated, Madge.

Those who came to the Madge Hatter Tearooms seeking a cornucopic wonderland of Lewis Carroll’s creation in a convivial tea and cake setting inevitably left disappointed, and, usually, a little non-plussed, and, here must be mentioned, that the cakes were dry, the sandwiches usually curled up at the edges, and the tea… well, weak tea is not everybody’s cup of – well, tea.

Madge, and her tearooms, existed; neither bringing in huge profits, nor huge losses, it was more of a hand-to-mouth existence for Madge – usually with a slice of ‘even-beyond-giving-away’ cake.

TBC?

Ada

Ada was an aibohphobiac

she avoided Mum, Dad, and Nan;

she never phoned up Hannah,

and asked to be called Amy,

Caroline, or Fran.

Friday (I don’t mind)

I’m neither happy

nor unhappy

that it is Friday –

I don’t mind at all;

but, I know,

that there are some

who have been waiting

for this day to arrive

since last Sunday night –

which is alright…

if you like Friday;

which I neither do,

nor don’t –

or so I say.

At 01:42

At 01:42

I am writing a poem.

For me?

For you?

I don’t really know

who I am writing it to,

or for.

Then I stopped.

As it was 01:42

no more.