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.
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.
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.”
I wrote.
Then looked around for my towel.
“Bother!” I reasoned.
“Where has my towel got to now?”
And on it went.
“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.
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,
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!
This is my Triffid,
he’s house-trained and ev’rything;
but he spits a lot.
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
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.
 | Aaysid on Cherish |
 | Words from a Lentil… on Cherish |
| Aaysid on Cherish |
| Words from a Lentil… on Looking at Clouds |
 | cagedunn on Looking at Clouds |
