She used to sell seashells
upon the seashore;
but, now,
she sells seashells no more –
not since she saw a sea-saw, there.
Perhaps it was the cheap wine
that she drank,
or the downturn in demand
for seashells;
but, when she started hallucinating,
she knew,
that she,
had sold her last sea frippery.
Now, she lives in a hut on the hill,
centuries have passed,
but she lives there still;
if you should see her,
give her a wave,
she’s sure to wave back,
though her features be grave.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #NirseryRhyme, #poetry. #poem, #SheSellsSeaShells, #TongueTwister
She gave me funny looks,
crochet hooks,
second-hand books,
and a map of denial.
I didn’t want to die
Before I
had seen a blue butterfly –
when all of a sudden
an eight-foot tall
blue butterfly came along
and ate me up,
toes and all.
THREE fishers went sailing out into the west,—
Out into the west as the sun went down;
Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep;
And there ’s little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbor bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the light-house tower,
And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, 10
And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown;
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbor bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 15
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are watching and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come back to the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,—
And the sooner it ’s over, the sooner to sleep,— 20
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
I stopped for breakfast
because breakfast would not stop for me;
and there I stood
and gazed around
in search of Emily.
1: I’ve got a Courgette 2-20 in the drive.
2: Hmmm. I’ve got a brand new Banango M5… in the garage.
1: Well, the Courgette, that’s just the wife’s runaround, there’s also my Aardvark Columbian Series 4 in the ‘double’ garage.
2: My ‘second’ wife uses the Banango to go to the gym – I have a Padre 3.6 or a 1947 Podcast Cabriolet for the school run (which I ‘never’ do) and a Camel Two-Seater open-top for my trips to the shop, the pub, or the golf club.
1: The Camel! So last year. I’m high on the list for the new Series 8 Poteen Exclusive – the 5-door, 7-seater, 6-wheeler.
2: The ‘Poteen!’ Isn’t that an Irish blended, post-modern version of the De Lorean without the gull-wings, but with gull-attitude?
1: Might be, but I had to get on the list – Cholmondeley-Brown has been on the list since April.
2: He’s the one with the Pravda Tempura, isn’t he?
1: Yes, the ‘Golden Chamber-Pot with the Red-Stripe’ we call it.
2: Ha! You’ll never see me behind the wheel of one of those.
1: No, but, I do believe they are making a driverless version for the American market.
2: Probably, and then they’ll come over here and drive you on the wrong side of the road.
1: As like as not.
2: Whatever happened to the good old fashioned family car?
1: it went out the window with the good old fashioned family.
2: Shame.
1: Yes, an absolute shame.
‘Local Election-Night Special’
1: So, who are you going to be voting for in the up and coming, forthcoming local elections, then?
2: Oh, I don’t do politics, I was going to… abscond.
1: Abscond?
2: Absail? Abstem-i-ous? Absinthe? Aberystwyth? Abingdon? Oh, no, that’s a place. Abyssinia? (Fades out) Arbroath? Abba?
Not an easy thing,
an online meeting;
a phone call
ring
checking in
listening in
with voices soft
and voices
LOUD!
the rules say
this
and
the rules say
that
are allowed
or
not allowed –
this minutiae of detail
is a cure for insomnia,
zzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!!
… and then the heavy breathing starts!!
We’ve been hacked!
The excitement has arrived
that the meeting has lacked.
Almost cancelled,
(or postponed)
we have a heavy-breather
who into the meeting has phoned.
But, then, even he,
gets bored and decides to leave.
We miss his dulcet tones,
his loss we grieve.
😦
And then he’s back!!
He has nothing better to do,
than heavy-breathe for us
for an hour or two.
It’s a sorry world…
when seventeen syllables
beats longer poems.
When a poet says, ‘Jump!’
just walk on by –
walk, on by.
Walk on by,
and don’t look back,
in anger, Bangor,
or an aircraft hanger;
because looking back
is hard to do
whilst, simultaneously, looking forward, too.
Looking forward
to what?
I do not
know;
but, you can think on that
as on you go.
Just don’t look back.
