Tag Archives: May

February is the longest month


is longer than


(by one letter),


is the longest month of all,



the shortest.

I thought

that you might like to know –


‘January is the longest month’

‘January is the longest month’

said somebody.

It wasn’t me.


I know that,

‘May is the shortest month’,

‘April the cruelest!’

And all the others

must have their own talents.


But, to keep things in balance,

I shall stir controversy,

by proposing, that,

‘June is the kindest’,

or so it seems to me.

A Zing in May (amazing)

A zing in May

is what we really need

but, when it’s in November

Its best by far indeed.

“Hello, June!”

Hello, June;

and not a moment too soon,

for May was becoming passé.

Be that as it may…

Be that as it may…

there are thirty days in April,

the same in June,

neither has a middle day.

But, May, having thirty-one,


What does all the above


to do with the price of bananas?

Not a lot really;

but, as I often say,

If I stop talking,

I start thinking…

and then where would I be?

The May of the Triffids

I’ve just worked out why

all my poems are so;

they all seem to be about Triffids,

you know, those man-eating plants

that won’t give us a chance

if we’re blind to the threat that they pose.

I suppose they must live, as must we;

but, it’s not really fair,

if only the Triffids can see.

Well, we’ve had a good run,

some bits were fun,

but, now that the end is in sight,

we should wave our goodbyes,

to a final Sunrise;

and give thanks to those lights in the night. J

The Zing in May

The Zing in May

The Zing

in May

is a wonderful thing;

quite literally

it is

a May Zing!

May I…

May I

as the writer

of this

take this opportunity

to wish you

the reader of this

a happy day?

I May?

Thank you –

“Happy day!”

(Poem 25 – The Last One) 25 Poems in 24 Hours

Poem 25: 24:00 16-05-2017

The End

Of the day

Of the Sixteenth of May

Of my Birthing Day

Of a Tuesday.

(Though I was born on a Wednesday Morn

In the very merry month of May…)
It actually goes like this:
I was born

On a Wednesday morn

In the very merry month of May

Many years ago.

And, luckily, for me, 

I survived the snows 

Of Christmas 1962/1963,

That deep and even lay.
And, as a child, I went to school

Once or maybe twice

I didn’t stay

To learn the rules

It wasn’t very nice;
And so I just remained at home

and read a million books;

Of my knowledge they were the fount;

And, as a bonus, to a million I had learned to count;
But, that was ‘many’ years ago

And I haven’t enough fingers, and I haven’t enough toes,

To count all of ‘their’ number

(I’d have to borrow seven more feet or hands

To make the total tally

But, that’s just silly


And, yes, I am doolally.)
And, now…

I write and write and write

Even though I know it’s wrong

To write so much;

When my words lack even a ‘measure’ of treasure,

And the spaces between them are the only real and certain distinct pleasure.

So, I say, amidst the hype,

“Oh, I’ll eat my cake!

And have it said

That I am not for turning

This writer and so-called ‘poetic typo’

Will have street cred

And not need to still be learning.”
For Britvic 55

Is now my drink

As I write on themes

Upon the brink

And publish books

That are prone to sink

Because my poems sometime overuse a rhyme

(Really, do you think).
And now I’ve reached this great ‘old age’

And mental faculties are set to shrink

Should I start to wear purple

Or a daring shade of pink?
No, I think that I shall remain A hazy shade of Grae

And write upon the nonsense Until the close of play.