‘Rib’ #SoCS @LindaGHill

‘RiB’ #SoCS &LindaGHill

See here for Linda’s #SoCS

‘I was dribbling when I wrote this

forgive me if it goes astray.’

The boys ribbed me over my accent. “I’m from Cornwall!” I cried, then I cried.

“Who’s an Nansum boy, then! Pretty Pasty, Pretty Pasty!” called Joe Parroti.

I bribed them not to take the Michael out of me; it worked for a while – then my money ran out.

“The trouble with Tribbles…” was as far as I got – the Nerds didn’t like me either – new nerd on the block!

It’s not easy getting into a tribe – we had just read Lord of the Flies – and I was a bit of a Piggy; but from my POV not enough of one. – and I was no Jack or Ralph, that’s for sure.

I left school at 27 and became a scribe; well, I scribbled; and dribbled as I did so.

Rib of Adam, son of Eve

maybe it is

time to leave.

Aribberderci!

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April The Nineteenth – a Two-Minute Write

April The Nineteenth – a Two-Minute Write

Oh, April, when will you be gone?

You seem to go on and on, and on;

Endless days, all in a row;

is your time not up,

should you not just go?

Or am I wishing my time away?

Will I be happy between the first

and thirty-first of May;

or will I be frittering those days away, and away?

April the Nineteenth;

but, a speck of sand in my beach of life –

or a tiny grain in my newt egg-timer, which seems a little more

apt for this kind of rhymer.

Ode To A Type O

Ode To A Type O

Oh! Type O?

Is that normal;

I don’t mean to be formal;

but, is that alright?

It’s still red? Isn’t it?

It doesn’t glow at night,

or cause my brain to fluctuate

at an unnecessary rate

Oh? Type O!

Obvious, really.

Type Obvious, I am.

Ode to a Typo

Ode to a Typo

Oh, Typo,

I see you knot

and yet I know

that another will.

Oh, Typo,

alter my wurds

and change my jist

to something else.

Oh, Typo,

not a Typin –

a pin for ties –

unless you are from a Typin era.

Oh, Typo,

my editor has Fitz

when you she espies,

she has another size.

As I was going to…

As I was going to…

As I was going to St. Ives

I met a man who picked up leaves;

he picked up nine and seven more,

he then dropped four,

and picked up five;

with how many leaves did I arrive?

April The Eighteenth #SoC write.

April The Eighteenth #SoC write.

April The Eighteenth

I feel an April Fool;

all my ideas have run out,

and there are still many days to go.

No. There is nothing left in the pot

of mind;

leastways nothing that I can find.

Why doesn’t the Eighteenth

signify something… anything?

No. There is nothing.

Not one single, solitary crumb

left upon the plate.

How I hate

to be bereft,

with everything gone,

and nothing left.

April The Seventeenth

April The Seventeenth

‘Twas the seventeenth day

of the month before May;

some say that it is called ‘April’.

The Sun was out

shining all about

as it does on a sunny day.

Where be the rain?

Where be the wind?

Where be the third thing in this list?

Anyway, it is much too nice a day

to be sat writing poems –

unless the twinkling of an idea beckons.