Tag Archives: #FF

The A to Z Prompts

The A to Zeds,

that were in my heads,

were all written

with little thought.

I ought to have seen

that they lacked for nought;

like the finest wine

from the vineyard bought(

or the rarest word

so fanatically sought;

but, they just wrote themselves

with the words from my brainial shelves,

so that what you got

was not a lot.

Would that I could—

Would that I could

write pure, unadulterated poetry;

but, it is beyond me.

Far, far, beyond;

over the hills

and far, far away;

and, also, not something

that I care to do.

But, I could…

if I wanted to,

but, I do not want

to float like a cloud,

compare thee to a bee,

or charge happily

into the valley of death,

That’s so old hat,

and I am not one for old hats,

and that’s the truth –

I have the attributes of youth—

okay, so I make stuff up,

that is my cup.

Where did you think that was going?

I write this, and I had no way of knowing.

Over the hills, and…

“Over the Hills?”

“No, I’ll never get over them.”

.

This is the sort of thing that I write –

and it’s perfectly alright.

To my mind, anyway.

Stream-of-Consciousness like –

an Orange Tip butterfly

has just checked me out,

I doubt he (for it was a male)

could work out

quite what he did see.

One of the ‘Hoomans’

tapping at a small box.

BTW if you translate.

‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’

into another language,

it doesn’t work in the way it was intended.

‘Léim an sionnach donn mear thar an madra leisciúil’

for instance.

See, it no longer works.

And if you translated that into Turkish…

‘Hızlı kahverengi tilki tembel köpeğin üzerinden atladı’

the Turks would tell you

that that doesn’t work either.

And if we translate ‘that’ back into English…

‘The fast brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’

This will tell you

that there is something fundamentally wrong

with the world.

Or me.

Or both.

Now, where was I…?

Now, what’s going on here?

What is occurring?

Happening?

What thing?

Wild thing?

There should be a law against it!

There is?

Oh! Well, that’s alright then.

When did that happen?

Oh! A long time ago…

and far away…

sounds like a story’s coming on.

Is there a pot of gold,

and a rainbow,

Unicorns, water nymphs?

Have I strayed from the point?

Well, it’s what I do –

don’t you?

Now… what ‘is’ going on here?

In the little Village of St. Well – Revisited.

St. Well’s Well was, well, it just was – what more could be said about it?

This. It had always been there. Well, that is for just about as long as anybody knew of the village of St. Well, there had been a St. Well’s Well – it’s almost as if the village had been named after the well itself; although some did say that there had been an ‘actual’ St. Well, who had lived in the village a long, long, long time ago – he was rumoured to be a saint, and, some do say, a man of the church.

Not that any sane person would consider taking a drink from the St. Well’s Well, it was barely of a standard to be used for washing clean the narrow lanes of Cornwall after the silage tractor had passed by.

But, as ancient monuments go, St. Well’s Well ticked all the boxes; barely accessible, situated well away from any parking, and a bit of a disappointment when you did eventually find somewhere to park, climb down to the hidden wellhead, and take the obligatory ‘selfie’.

At least St. Well had an ancient monument; some Cornish villages have to make do with a George VI postbox.

“Oh, no, it’s the Exercise Men!” Revisited (if you can call changing two words ‘revisiting’!)

One day, at about three of the clock in the morning, as the smugglers were offloading their latest cargo of tax-avoidance items at a small inlet upon the island of Looe (aka St. George’s Island, Looe Island, or, way back in time, St. Michael’s Island), there was a voice heard from the lookout, old George Penwithit, his voice still loud and doughty even after seventy-three winters and almost as many summers. ‘Boat approaching!’

‘Oh, no, it’s the Exercise Men!’ exclaimed William Telmother, the youngest of the gang.

Twenty minutes later they were all doing press-ups, star jumps, and crunches, before they were set to run two laps of the island.

Vello the Velociraptor

Vello, the Velociraptor, lived a very long time ago – even before your parents were born. Vello lived in a place that we now know as France; but, then, it was just another place in the world that didn’t have a name or a set of boundaries upon a map – the people there didn’t even speak French, or any language, or exist – this was a time before people, and so it was largely a peaceful place with only the occasional squabble over whether eating another dinosaur, or being eaten by another dinosaur, was okay. It usually wasn’t a long disagreement, and normally ended in a game of fisticuffs, where one or the other won by being the fiercest, strongest, most cunning, and, usually, by being the biggest. Vello wasn’t the biggest dinosaur, but he was capable of being the most cunning, and fiercest of the dinosaurs. Capable, but Vello was a pacifist. He didn’t believe in fighting, or bullying – in fact, he was the only Velociraptor that he knew (and he knew thirteen) that didn’t have a temper. This made him disliked by his own group of Velociraptors, as well as by dinosaurs in general – who would usually run away and ask questions later.

All in all, Vello was a bit of an oddball – but, seeing as a big comet was heading towards the planet, and all the dinosaurs (to a greater extent) would soon become extinct…

Well, at least Vello had had some decent values in his short life.

The Alpaca maraca and cracker packers

In the warehouse

the alpaca maraca and cracker packers

were working their little socks off.

Well, something like that.

Upon St. Patrick’s Day

St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin was always one big party. In fact, it was the one day of the year when Dublin ceased to function as a normal city, and became a toddler in a green romper suit eating Alphabetti Spaghetti Letters for the very first time – and the tomato sauce was running down the toddler’s face in a torrent.

“It’s all for the craic!” was the cry upon the streets. And it was true – they were all ‘craicers!’

Another ‘68er (and another)

Writing like this, with a strict word count, is something that only people of a ceramic mind should do.

I meant to right ‘certain disposition’ in that last paragraph, but my device corrected my words incorrectly. I left it there as a memorial to the good old days of pen, paper, and ink; quill, ink, and parchment; or, stick, wall, and the need to record the days feats.

—//—

NB I have, since creating this new form, realised that it has a certain amount of problems inherent within it – one of which is the lack of space to expand ideas; the other is

the need to have multiple paragraphs, when, in fact, you could just write it all in one paragraph, or even just a very long sentence.

However, there is no use crying over spilt—