You’re not a Vegan,
and I don’t want to hear
the excuses you have;
the way you wheedle makes me cringe;
and the carnivorous greed,
that fuels your need
sickens me to the core
of my apple.
And, what’s more,
you must surely be aware by now
that you are killing them and yourself
by eating
that pig,
that chicken,
that cow.
I’m too old
for T-shirts.
It hurts me
to say it,
but I don’t want
to look like a hypocrite
or sound like one, too;
but, I am,
and there’s not a lot
that I can do
about the fact.
So, please show tact
when you laugh at my slogan,
and the size of my paunch;
launch into laughter
if you must,
but I’m getting the feeling
that my T-shirt days
are bust.
THIS HAIKU IS NOT
quaquaversally correct;
BUT, I THINK IT IS.
After many days
I have to write this nonsense
to keep it going.
Posted in Poetry
All ingredients
should now be placed carefully
in the Melting Pot.
.
This is sufficient;
if more info. is needed,
please don’t ask the cook.
.
Well, the end result
is likely to be a flop
disguised as a flan.
There may be times
when you have very little,
not even two ha’pennies
to rub together;
but, you will still have each other –
and that is what counts.
Do you have a wise guide?
A voice of steadiness in the storm?’
—//—
We had been adrift for many a day, huddled together for warmth in the cruel sanctuary of the lifeboat. The ice-rimed water that lapped about our feet was also what kept us alive, and threatened to end our travails, for the rains had been heavy for some three nights in a row. Luckily, the days had been the opposite, dry, if not warm, and allowing us to keep on top of the fine line between surviving, and diving forsakenly into the unforgiving ocean.
We had, it should be written, lost a few souls from our ensemble – they tended to leap at night when the fear became its worst – and had now, seemingly, settled upon a fixed number, with a fixed routine, and a fixed determination to at least try to survive our ‘peril upon the sea’.
But, in the darkness there was a light.
The light that shone for us was Pastor Tom, he spoke with a sage wiseness that filled our hearts with a glad warmth, and our minds with the hope of an attainable salvation. The trouble was, when he stopped speaking the darkness slowly began to creep back into our beings. The longer our trial lasted, the harder it must have been for him to stir us, for us to be stirred; and the easier it was for the feral black sea-dogs to bark mockingly at our weakenings.
When the real storm hit us, our fears at its powerful effects were realised. We had truly hoped that we should miss it, or it us; but, that scenario was not to be. Ee were adrift in an open lifeboat, hungry, sodden from exposure to the elements, and not knowing if this task was to be one task too many.
Pastor Tom raised his voice and fiercely abraded the storm with commands that it should abate, cease, desist.
He encouraged us to hold tight to our convictions, our dreams of reaching the safety of dry land, and to hold on even more tightly to the ropes that kept us in place upon this week and fragile vessel.
His voice kept us alive.
When the storm passed, an event barely noted, we, as one, said a prayer to whatever god we served, and let out a combined sigh of relief. Pastor Tom had got us through the storm, we would be saved, all would end well.
But, Pastor Tom, was no longer standing at the bow of the craft. He wasn’t within the lifeboat at all. He wasn’t with us in the shape of a person, but we could still feel his care and his love for us.
We did make land. Our bodies and our minds unalterably changed from our experiences. Our lives continuing, free to follow paths unthought of. But all of us carried Pastor Tom with us, for without him we would have perished.
No trace was ever found of Pastor Tom’s body. Perhaps the sea had claims upon it, or perhaps it washed up on a shore in some far off land. Maybe the fishes nibbled gently at his essence until he swam the oceans in the guise of a thousand true seafarers.
No trace of Pastor Tom was found in the records of the parish where he said that he preached. Only ‘I’ found this out.
‘When he was needed he was there; when he needed others, most turned away.’
Ted was a Temp. Temp being short for ‘temporary’, and Ted was short for Edward. Ted was also short if and when compared to people taller than himself – five feet tall. Ted only had two feet both of which were perfectly in proportion to the rest of his body – being neither too small, nor too large.
Ted was working in Woking in the office of a multi-notional think tank. Or, at least, he thought he was.
He was tempted to leave there; but, he was not a tall self-confident.
It might not be all that good.
You might not even read it;
but, when you throw it away,
please dispose of it responsibly.
.
In the middle of the Pacific
there is a ‘Poetry Island’
seventeen syllables long,
that is made up
entirely from discarded Haiku.
.
And, that’s just the Haiku –
Sonnet Island is now being lived upon
by a small Metaphorian tribe.
“Keep Britain Tidy!
Throw all poetry away!
But, responsibly!”
Graeme Sandford 