My mother was a Poodle,
my dad a Labrador…
My grandfather a Seagull,
his mum an Albatross…
Just how I turned out as I am,
has left me at a loss.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Albatross, #familytree, #Labradoodle, #Labrador, #Memoir, #poetry. #poem, #Poodle, #Seagull, Ancestry
On Fathers’ Day
I’d rather stay
out of the limelight.
I’ll admit to being a bit
naff as one, and my own
was surely hard done
by my being the type of son
he never always wanted.
The sky
goes by
at an alarming rate of knots –
or it barely moves.
It seems to be running with flame-clad hooves,
or hooves of lead encased in clay.
The sky might be in a hurry one blowy day,
then loitering upon a corner the next.
It leaves me vexed to see it changeable so:
should it stay?
or should it go?
The sky is full of many things:
clouds, and the Sun, birds and planes
that spread their wings
and fly away;
midges that cluster around me,
for an anytime feast.
And the sky is all around,
in every single direction, to say the least,
wrapping us in its frail cocoon.
And best of all, up in the sky,
is the character of our own sweet Moon.
A crime scene
once seen
can never be unscene,
or unseen.
Where have all the butterflies gone?
“Where are ya? Where are ya?
Have you gone off for a nap or a scone?”
.
‘That seems unlikely;
but, when thought upon,
is as likely as not.’
said a lone Oxford don.
This is an old children’s rhyme –
written by some old children back in the day.
And it goes something or nothing like this:
.
‘Nobody loves me,
everybody hates me,
Just because…
I am a poet.’
.
Those were such simple times then;
when a poet could be stoned to silence
for the purveying of their awful rhymes.
I asked a friend
for the loan of a scone,
I said he could have it back
when I had done;
he refused my request,
and not even my behest and assurances that I would replace it with a familiar or similar,
it it were damaged beyond repair,
would make him change his mind;
he did not care.
They do say Scone Love is blind.
.
He looked at me, then,
as a wise man looks at a stopped clock
trying to pinpoint exactly
when is Pimm’s O’Clock.
I’d never heard
of this strange, strange word;
until I had –
and then it blew my mind.
.
“Blew your mind?!” you ask,
as you unscrewed your flask
of cold, cold tea.
.
“Yes!” I replied,
as I considered the tide –
coming in? Or going out?
“Is it coming in?!”
I shout.
.
Your tea imbibed,
upon a piece of parchment you scribed
the word, ‘Idiot’.
.
At least I tried.
“Big plonk,
Little plonk,
Cardboard box
Looks like a goose,
And smells like a fox.”
.
“What?!”
What is a Huarizo?
What indeed?
Is it a Tapas dish?
Maybe it’s a make of car.
Maybe not.
Anyway, before we stretch our imaginations too far,
let me take out of your misery,
it is the cross between a Llama and an Alpaca.
Who’d have thought it?
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