She used to sell seashells upon the seashore.

She used to sell seashells

upon the seashore;

but, now,

she sells seashells no more –

not since she saw a sea-saw, there.

Perhaps it was the cheap wine

that she drank,

or the downturn in demand

for seashells;

but, when she started hallucinating,

she knew,

that she,

had sold her last sea frippery.

Now, she lives in a hut on the hill,

centuries have passed,

but she lives there still;

if you should see her,

give her a wave,

she’s sure to wave back,

though her features be grave.

She gave me funny looks

She gave me funny looks,

crochet hooks,

second-hand books,

and a map of denial.

‘I didn’t want to die’

I didn’t want to die

Before I

had seen a blue butterfly –

when all of a sudden

an eight-foot tall

blue butterfly came along

and ate me up,

toes and all.

Poems of Tragedy: XV. The Sea – The Three Fishers by Charles Kingsley (1819–1875)

THREE fishers went sailing out into the west,—

Out into the west as the sun went down;

Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,

And the children stood watching them out of the town;

For men must work, and women must weep;

And there ’s little to earn, and many to keep,

Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower,

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;

And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, 10

And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown;

But men must work, and women must weep,

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,

And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 15

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,

And the women are watching and wringing their hands,

For those who will never come back to the town;

For men must work, and women must weep,—

And the sooner it ’s over, the sooner to sleep,— 20

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

I stopped for breakfast

I stopped for breakfast

because breakfast would not stop for me;

and there I stood

and gazed around

in search of Emily.


1: I’ve got a Courgette 2-20 in the drive.

2: Hmmm. I’ve got a brand new Banango M5… in the garage.

1: Well, the Courgette, that’s just the wife’s runaround, there’s also my Aardvark Columbian Series 4 in the ‘double’ garage.

2: My ‘second’ wife uses the Banango to go to the gym – I have a Padre 3.6 or a 1947 Podcast Cabriolet for the school run (which I ‘never’ do) and a Camel Two-Seater open-top for my trips to the shop, the pub, or the golf club.

1: The Camel! So last year. I’m high on the list for the new Series 8 Poteen Exclusive – the 5-door, 7-seater, 6-wheeler.

2: The ‘Poteen!’ Isn’t that an Irish blended, post-modern version of the De Lorean without the gull-wings, but with gull-attitude?

1: Might be, but I had to get on the list – Cholmondeley-Brown has been on the list since April.

2: He’s the one with the Pravda Tempura, isn’t he?

1: Yes, the ‘Golden Chamber-Pot with the Red-Stripe’ we call it.

2: Ha! You’ll never see me behind the wheel of one of those.

1: No, but, I do believe they are making a driverless version for the American market.

2: Probably, and then they’ll come over here and drive you on the wrong side of the road.

1: As like as not.

2: Whatever happened to the good old fashioned family car?

1: it went out the window with the good old fashioned family.

2: Shame.

1: Yes, an absolute shame.

‘Local Election-Night Special’

‘Local Election-Night Special’

1: So, who are you going to be voting for in the up and coming, forthcoming local elections, then?

2: Oh, I don’t do politics, I was going to… abscond.

1: Abscond?

2: Absail? Abstem-i-ous? Absinthe? Aberystwyth? Abingdon? Oh, no, that’s a place. Abyssinia? (Fades out) Arbroath? Abba?

Online Meeting

Not an easy thing,

an online meeting;

a phone call


checking in

listening in

with voices soft

and voices


the rules say



the rules say


are allowed


not allowed –

this minutiae of detail

is a cure for insomnia,


… and then the heavy breathing starts!!

We’ve been hacked!

The excitement has arrived

that the meeting has lacked.

Almost cancelled,

(or postponed)

we have a heavy-breather

who into the meeting has phoned.

But, then, even he,

gets bored and decides to leave.

We miss his dulcet tones,

his loss we grieve.


And then he’s back!!

He has nothing better to do,

than heavy-breathe for us

for an hour or two.

It’s a sorry world…

It’s a sorry world…

when seventeen syllables

beats longer poems.

When a poet says, ‘Jump!’

When a poet says, ‘Jump!’

just walk on by –

walk, on by.

Walk on by,

and don’t look back,

in anger, Bangor,

or an aircraft hanger;

because looking back

is hard to do

whilst, simultaneously, looking forward, too.

Looking forward

to what?

I do not


but, you can think on that

as on you go.

Just don’t look back.