Looking at Clouds

I look at the clouds;

but, I’m not so sure

that they look back at me;

and, if they did,

when looking down,

what would they think

of my observing them?

Some are shaped like running dogs,

leaping frogs, turning cogs;

most are cloud-shaped,

caped with a variety of smaller clouds

of varying hues,

traversing the skies

of cerulean blues.

Hiker Haiku

Walk a long, long way,

across continents and seas;

before a good rest.

.

Later, write ‘HIKER!’

in letters fifteen feet tall

upon your garden wall.

.

And if it’s too short

for fifteen feet tall letters

get a taller wall.

.

Walk off hangovers;

walk further for the bad ones,

and keep hydrated.

Cherish

Never before

have I written a poem

with the title, ‘Cherish’,

neither have I written

upon that subject.

Until today,

when I wrote this,

whilst sat upon something

that could be said to be

chairish.

“It’s just another ‘Don’t Panic!’ Thursday.”

“It’s just another ‘Don’t Panic!’ Thursday.”

I wrote.

Then looked around for my towel.

“Bother!” I reasoned.

“Where has my towel got to now?”

And on it went.

T-Shirt Slogans

“Dreamer!”

“Peanut Butter!”

my T-shirts shout

of my fondest desires;

“Funeral Pyres!”

“Brussels Sprouts!”

rarely – if ever – seen

imposed upon one’s clothing;

“Be Vegan!”

“Go Green!”

are now acceptable in such places

where once such slogans

we’re as popular as fiery dragons,

and life was twice as cheap

as the cows, chickens and sheep

that humans gave in droves

to the hungry lizard,

aflame, aloft,

to keep their little lives

warm, safe, and soft.

Monday Rebel (extended).

I’ve got my Monday socks on,

on a Friday:

I’m a rebel,

I’m a rebel.

I told you it was Friday,

when it’s really Saturday:

I’m a rebel,

I’m a rebel.

In actual fact

it’s a Monday

I’m a rebel,

I’m a rebel.

and I’m not wearing any socks –

I’m a rebel,

I’m a rebel,

I’m a fib-telling,

non-sock-wearing,

little rebel.

PS in case you are confused, it ‘is’ Monday, and I ‘am’ wearing socks – so, not too much of a rebel.

G:)

The Terror of a Dactyl

The terror of a Dactyl,

as it comes flying towards you,

is all yours, not theirs;

the hairs may stand up

on the back of your neck,

but a Dactyl just sees a meal

standing there, frozen,

but without the need to defrost it

before consuming –

best by—

e bye!

Triffid Haiku

This is my Triffid,

he’s house-trained and ev’rything;

but he spits a lot.

‘They won’t thank you’

Don’t didgeridoo in the morning,

or ‘do’ didgeridon’t.

Your neighbours, tired and yawning,

thank you they definitely won’t,

if you practice your skill

with consummate Ill

you’ll end up in an orchestral pit;

but your neighbours will grow to hate you

and your dog will leave home

in a bit.

Grae said (that Ovid said)

Grae said

that Ovid said

that Plutarch wrote

a note

to Diogenes of Sinope;

but, Plato disputed this,

and Heironymus Bosch

allegedly

painted a recreation of the event,

in crayon.

History shows the above to be largely untrue;

but, History is a thing of the past.