Alarmingly, Zöe,
Began yachting
Classes (extra-curricular)
During Wednesday’s
End-of-term visit
From UCLA students;
Gaining techniques
Hardly seemly,
In retrospect.
Just quite
Knowing parents
Lassitudes obviously
Make nonsence
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When Words Collide (in an Acrostic Stew)
When
One
Reads
Disaster
Stories
Collide
It’s
Very
Important;
Life
Is
Sacred,
And
That
Is
Often
Not
Seen-
Consequently
Realisation
Unleashes
Mankind’s
Belief-
Losing
Entropy
And
P
O
C
A
L
Y
P
S
E
Ends
V
E
R
Y
T
H
I
N
G
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In a parallel universe Tatty Teddy is really rather smart! A cake for Jane to celebrate her 34th Birthday. G:) x
Spirited birthday
Candle bigger than the cake
Birthday sprite cometh
With big, big thanks to Graeme Sandford for my Tatty Teddy cake (amongst other lovely gifts) and for not burning the house down. Love you x
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Let me know if you have any thoughts upon this as I tend to get very few constructive criticisms or critiques upon my words – and I can’t believe they are all perfect! G;) thank you.
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Interview with a Poet
The Interviewer introduces the interview with a leading question.
Poet: What is my motivation for writing poetry?
I don’t really know
I suppose that it’s so
I get my thoughts out there
In the wide world
Where they can make a difference.
The Interviewer talks here
Poet: Of ‘course’ my poems ‘make a difference!’ Without my words, the World would be a whole lot worse.
Imagine the planet Earth with little or no mirth – it doesn’t bear thinking about…
… and, I doubt the scenario where poets don’t exist on any of the other mythical lumps of rock like ours.
Here the Interviewer pours scorn upon poetry in general as being shallow and booooooo(dull as ditchwater)ring!
Poet: Well, that’s rich coming from you!
I know you’ve got a job to do…
But, hey, let’s have a little bit of civility, please
Your inability to hold a cultured conversation
Without a smarmy, semi-witty observation
Upon the ‘nerdishness of poets’
Is just a childishness which is symptomatic of you all-know-its
Really! Do you think…
That’s it! Do you?
It doesn’t seem like you have a clue
Get yourself a new attitude
And don’t just sit there being rude
About hard-working types;
That really takes the biscuit
Abuse us more
If you want to risk it
But, remember, without us
The wheels have no bus
And the mat loses its cat.
Think upon that, my friend!
Interviewer: Right-oh! That’s about it: The End.
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As nobody saw this back in September long ago, I thought that it might be worth posting it again – as it ‘is’ the length and brevity and levity that a Sunday read deserves! G:)
Black is the shadow of my night
Blue is the colour of my sadness
And as the colour of virginity is white
On my page it is the monument to my Madness
And also to my flag of surrender
Red I forgo, and thus is my danger
Yellow for my cowardice shows
Grey is the dawn and the sunset
And purple is maybe a colour for my prose
Green is the shade of my envy
Pink is… just for the girliest of girls
Orange will not rhyme for me – it rhymes with… nobody
Unless written in Mandarin’s curls.
(Singing)
The colours of my life are all different now.
I’ve lived a long time and they’ve changed somehow;
White and Purple,
Pink and Green,
Think about what ‘could have been!’
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If you thought ‘one’ nutter on the bus was too many – we’ve got ‘two’ on ours! G:)
There’s a moose let loose in the hoose.
He’s elking ‘imself to dessert (mousse, of course).
He’s such a deer, despite being rather bullish.
His predilect poetic form is streaming his unconsciousness;
enematic rhyme schemes spawning circular symbolism.
He’s the shape of grey; a jelliful mass of contractions –
a joyful jiggle in the jungle (if you get my drift) –
‘not to mention’ a gregarious giggler (you didn’t read that).
He’s a masterful mosher of metaphor –
a minister of mimicry, an all-round all rounder.
And occassionaly, his style rubs off on me.
(Not a euphonium)…
*run away*
“I see what you did there!”
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So, all of you here tonight
Want to be poets
Am I right?
I said ‘am I right?’
I can hear a few heart murmurs of agreement
But, in the main,
You greet that with a
Stunned silence.
At least there was no outward show of violence
Or booing and hissing
But, without the boos and the hissing
There is something missing
A little Je n’ai sais quoi, perhaps
Or maybe not.
What? You may ask
Am I blathering on about?
You may ask.
But, I shall not be forthcoming
Upon the strumming
Of the lyric poetical
Which, in its theoretical form
Is ‘not’ the norm.
To Be Continuumed
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Today is a Thursday
It should have been a Friday
But it isn’t
I’m not saying that it’s not a good Thursday…
But, it would have been a better Friday.
Tomorrow ‘will’ be Friday
It remains to be seen
As to whether ‘good’ will be
An epithet for it
Or a memory of one from the ‘yesterday’ that ‘today’ will be
On the morrow.
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“Down wiv all that weedy poetry!”
“Haiku are for fules!
Nigel Molesworth says that’s so;
And he is the tops!
Down with poetry!
All this ‘Hello, birds, sky, trees;’
Is not for us oiks.”
