April The Twenty-Fifth
A dull day,
then a bright day;
with both accompanied by a fresh breeze;
fresh enough to freeze
the bones from a dull man,
or a bright one.
Every day is like this,
or unlike this.
Differing in various ways,
it’s a daze.
April The Twenty-Fifth
a day just like the rest,
now, where did I put my old string vest?
April The Twenty-Fourth – A Travel Guide
April The Twenty-Fourth
“Set forth!”
And so we did.
With no idea where to.
we went North – wrong;
South, East, West;
all were the same,
none were the best;
so we tried all the points of the compass in-between;
directions we had;
you should have seen us,
lost at the scene of the crime;
four idiots in search of a rhyme.
April the Twenty-Fourth,
was not the day for us to set forth,
it showed us our worth,
as we trudged the earth;
at least we still had our mirth.
April The Twenty-Third:
Shakespeare was born;
Shakespeare died;
people laughed,
people cried;
some came in,
others went outside;
many went to seek,
whilst a few did hide;
Haven’t you heard
that April Twenty-Third
is, was, and shall be…
or not –
depending on how you look at things.
The 22nd day of April –
I knew there would be a catch,
there is always a catch:
catch, match, hatch, dispatch:
a batch of rhyming things – how weird;
but, then again, quite the norm.
although I don’t have to inform
that
I am in form.
Formed from the clay of prehistoric pre-hysteric swamps,
I am only just a man
who can
(when the mood takes him)
rhyme a frying pan
with a partisan.
Then again, most people can
do that –
it’s just that they choose not to.
April The Twentieth?
20p for a cup of tea?
It was a long time ago,
four shillings to me;
four bob;
and before that it was cheaper still –
2d, tuppence for a cuppa,
6d, sixpence for a fish supper,
a farthing for a pint of grog,
And April wasn’t called April then,
it was ‘Springe!’
but it had to be changed;
it broke a hinge
and was soon rearranged.
So, what can today teach us?
Answers. Postcard. Please.
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.
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.
