Tag Archives: #Madness

Scarecrows in Fields

If I ‘start’ talking to scarecrows in fields,

then I may have just lost it;

however, if I just ‘continue’ talking to the scarecrows in fields…

… as I have done for many years…

who’s to say that I have become mad?

Poetry for the weak (for the week)

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Poetry for the weak (for the week)

The sun shone benignly
Warming bones and spirits
Alleviating ailments and
Adding a little je n’ai sais quoi to the occasion
(Which is always handy).

The cool breeze was empathetic
As it was largely innocuous in its bearing
And it soon curtailed it’s efforts
As the people neither needed
Nor wanted it anyway.

They say, that if you look directly into the sun
Through some smoked salmon and cream cheese
You will be considered mad
I know this to be so.

That was prose.
I was being kind to you
Though, no-one ever
Took such kindness to ‘my’ brain
As my brain well knows.

‘Poetry’ is a curse
And, much worse,
It is often written
In contulambraic verse
Or some suchlike nonsense.

I have, sadly, been bitten; nay, smitten
By the ‘lack of commonsensical,
Whimsical, tra-la-la mimsical’
Muse
There is no hope of release
For one with this pernicious disease
“Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?”
By which ‘priest’ I mean ‘poetry.’

So, my advice
For what it is worth
To you
Who are seeking a poetry dearth
Is to stick to fiction
Avoid an addiction
Or a pesky predilection
To rhyming in your diction
And your reading habits
For the evil curse
Of the open poetry purse
Will cause the verse
To breed like rabbits.
And you wouldn’t want that now,
Would you?

A Word (Or Several) to the Wise.

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I want to find
A raspberry in February
That the moon ‘is’ made of cheese
Beggars can be choosers
And that up is down once in a while.

The ‘norm’ is not definitive;
Expect the expected
To unexpectedly not happen;
Cast your pearls behind swine
Fail to do that stitch
Not in the nick of time.

When all is said and done
Nothing left to chance
And we have all been led a merry dance
Let us honour our forbears
And look to the future
And the past? it shall come to pass.

So, at the going down of the Sun
Remember them. They might not remember us; but, that’s not the point

Of a broken pencil.
And there is no use crying
Even over spilt milk, spilt ink
Or split peas.

Hope this helps.