Keep your furniture at a distance,
I cannot cope with their persistence,
I cannot keep my sanity
when your mirrors test my fragile vanity;
and chairs, chaise longs, foot stalls,
all want to hound me to my grave,
please keep your sofas away from me,
my delicate mind I want to save.
Where have all the people gone?
I walked through the town
where eating is spare,
there wasn’t a single person there!
I sat on the beach with no cool ‘99,
the sun shone brightly,
the sand was so fine;
but, ne’er did I hear the cry of:
‘Watch out, he’ll have your food!”
No, not a person to be seen,
how very rude.
I wish the people would return,
I would dive-bomb a snack;
oh, where, where are the people?
I do hope they will soon venture back.
Where have all the people gone?
I’d love a fresh pasty, a lolly, a scone;
I need the people to take their share,
my diet is ruining me beyond repair.
Oh, where, oh, where, have all the people gone?
©️graemesandford.com
It was approaching a quarter past seven o’clock when the young men left their childhood’s behind and signed upon the dotted line for the reward of the King’s shilling and a muddy grave.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #NineteenFourteen, #prose, #TheGreatWar, #vss, #WorldWarOne, story
The crime scene was set,
the usual suspects had all RSVPd,
upon the dining table the petit fours were gathered in pairs,
at a side table the pears were floating in a strangely
poisonous concoction that defies description,
all else was as normal as a white elephant
stalling the Black London Cab that they had recently stolen.
Add in some detail.
Give everyone a motive – and an alibi.
Draw the chalk outline in expectation of the victim’s fall – similar to ‘pin-the-tail-upon-the-donkey’ and cut the telephone wires.
Sack the butler – it gives him more of a possibility of having done ‘it’.
Cable distant relatives, mentioning the huge inheritance, and the missing will.
Provide Cluedo ‘Detective Sheets’ for the guests, making sure that there is already a body in the library and sparkling cyanide on tap.
Sit back.
Enjoy.
As a wise woman
recently said,
‘It’s always Lunchtime ‘somewhere’ in the World.’
and she wasn’t wrong.
I wrote those words upon a till receipt,
sang them in a song, translated them into Swahili,
Ni wakati wa chakula cha mchana mahali pengine Ulimwenguni.
and then had that translation tattooed onto my little pinky.
where it reads – in Swahili –
‘It is one of the top eateries in the World.’
Such is life.
In the shade of the old garage,
alone, with no possibility of marriage,
stood Rose, by another name.
A story could be told
of her past,
her future,
but words do not exist,
as neither does she.
I’d like to say
that
I
beat the Midnight Munchies…
but, I have to say
that
The Midnight Munches
beat
me.
