One morning, at an undisclosed RAF base located somewhere in Southern England, around about the year 1941
“Scrambled eggs at eleven o’clock!”
“Oh, Cookie, you are a one!”
“With toasty bandits?”
“Of course!” smiled Cookie. “No eggy soldiers for the boys in blue.”
“Isn’t that the police?” queried Corky.
“Okay, the boys in RAF blue!” corrected Cookie. “The boys that treasure correctness of detail over actual literal fluidity.”
“That’ll be us!” we all agreed.
The Body in the Library
(Yet another poem that tries to fit the title of an Agatha Christie novel in to it)
The Bodleian Library,
in Oxford,
has quite a few books
in crannies
and nooks;
when
I
went there
I was
the
Odd body in the library.
Silently, I set the fire aglow;
catch up on the washing-up;
fetch a brew for my beloved
(who still sleeps);
and pander to the dogs’ needs
(Rosie the cat has already had her ears scratched).
The chill air gains a hint of warmth,
and all seems calm.
Soon, there are walks to be taken,
and pottering to be done;
but, that is soon,
not now;
and for this minute
I breathe in
and my heart is content.
I have to stand up…
“recite” poetry…
and try and make that poetry…
‘funny!’
Well, that’s my task…
and all I can ask
is: that ‘you – the audience –
try to do your best
and invest
applause and laughter
soon after my words
(even if they don’t make much sense).
It’s all reciprocal.
You scratch my scratch-card;
and I’ll scratch your scratch-card –
how hard can it be?
You see,
it’s not rocket science –
but, poetry, is not a white-goods appliance.
And… furthermore…
what on Earth is a BYOB?
It’s an acronym
of that I’m sure;
but, my interpretation,
is possibly not the same as yours…
Big Yellow Oranges – Beware!!
Begin Yawning? – Out! Begone!
Bring Yachts – Overboard Banter!
Beware Yetis – Ours Barks!
Or even Bring Your Own…
Boudoir…?
Baguette…?
Balalaika…?
Bikini…?
And, perhaps, there
is as good a point as any, to
B.M.O.P.
(Bring My Own Poem)
to an end.
A seagull knocked upon my door the other day,
“How did he do that?”
I hear you say,
“With his beak.” I reply, “He had no other way – not having knuckles.”
At this, the seagull chuckles;
I didn’t say,
that he went away.
The rain fell
from sky
to leaf
to me,
as I walked
through
the woods.
I can’t remember
any Wednesday,
in November,
better than this one;
which is not saying
that they were any wetter
or any drier;
but, this one is more recent,
half decent,
and I’m snuggled
in front of the fire.
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