Tag Archives: @NaPoWriMo2013

32nd April – 32-04-2013 by Graeme Sandford


Okay, I hear what you say

“Move away from the laptop –

Put April away, please stop!!”


Your wish is my command –

So I’ll acquiesce to your demand.


All passengers ‘off’ the April-go-round

Do you hear what I say –

It’s May, already!


Part Two – 31st April, 2013 by Graeme Sandford



Where were we?

Ah, yes.

When my poem for today is, ultimately, unfinished and on-going…

How would it be if I set you free

From the fate that is your destiny?

If there never was any other month… but April;

If April had but three-hundred and sixty-five days clear,

Excepting when there’s a leap year that does appear,

And then, my dear, to make things re-orientate okay,

April has one more day; and there never is another May.

How would that be?

Would take a little adjustment, I agree,

But wouldn’t life be simpler, for you and me,

If we never had to worry about what month it was,

We could be pretty sure that it was… April!!! Because,

It would always April be. Seems a solution of simpleness to me.

Obviously the years would have to change, but April the three-hundred and sixty-fifth

In two thousand and thirteen, would be seceded with, or by,

April the first, two thousand and fourteen, so I

Think that it would be pretty cool if it was always my

Birthday this month, and Christmas this month, and why…

Wait to next month to do something, when you can do it this one.

What fun! My Birthday, I have calculated is on April the

Forty-sixth; so, don’t forget to buy or bake me a cake;

And I will bake you one too, later in the month; that I ‘will’ do.


Does this make sense to you all;

Now that I have explained what will befall?

Just have to get it passed by law and statutes legal,

And Royal proclamation – that would be regal.

Should be soon, maybe by this month’s ending,

And I think that by this time next year we’ll be spending

A lot less time worrying what month we’re in;

And just knowing that April is the ‘only’ month – shall I begin?


My Penultimate Poem – 30-04-2013 by Graeme Sandford


The Penultimate Poem

The Penultimate Poem as written by me

With my ultimate pen – but there’s a problem that I just didn’t see;

And it’s this: It’s the last day of April, I feel such a fool,

I lost the sense of timing, forgot the golden rule,

That April hath but thirty days… ooops!

So, this is still my Penultimate Poem, my last but one…

Before my next poem, the Ultimate One!

But, deary me, what is the one after that to be?

Is there such a thing as an Ante-ultimate poem, I ask?

Or a Post-Ultimate one? Or some literary term that fits a name to the task?

I think I have made an error in calculation;

Missed the elation that the last day of our journey will sing

Now our poetical month is nearly up. One thing

More… What next? What will tomorrow bring?

April the thirty-first will see my thirst to write a poem

About thirty-one sheiks, or invertebrate breaks,

Or whatever takes my fancy. Chancy topics from the sub-tropics;

Odes from abodes or lyrics about clerics…

What will I do? What will you?

Perhaps make a brew…

Fancy a cuppa?

And a biscuit or two?

And then there’s April thirty-two…

29 Questions – 29-04-2013 by Graeme sandford


“A Beautiful Desert Oasis”



Climbing up on Donnell Hill


‘I can see the city lights’


In San Bernardino.



‘A fool in love –


A crazy situation’


In loco parentis – apropos of something…


Or nothing.



‘And if you want…’


To be dreaming of a certain place


‘It’s Californication!’



Why, on day twenty-nine of @NaPoWriMe

Do I sit here considering the relative merits

Of my poetry; how it’s written, and where it’s…

Going? I, have no way of knowing!

Are my poems just a strange way of telling and showing?

Would a psychiatrist, having looked me up,

Then looked me up and down, lock me up,

Or run me out of town?


Are all the leaves brown?


Questions; I have many.

Answers; few and varied,

Do the truths lay (or lie) buried?

Who is to say?

And who is to listen?

Is it true that all that is gold does not glisten?

I have soaked up words from far and wide

I store them in an untidy vault somewhere well deep inside,

But, even so, they are readily available for use and, lo,

I spiel them off for you to hear and know

That I am so full of titter and tat, that

I spout forth with lyrics and verse,

That are randomly chosen, no chance to rehearse,

And they fall: splat. Splat! Splat!! Upon the page,

Ad hoc, al fresco, whatever is a la mode, a la rage.


Which leads me on to the point of this treatise in print:

Is there a soupcon of worthiness in’t?

Or am I just a WikiGoogleMan with a plan

Or a faulty auto-correctional facility,

Or is trying to make head or tail of all this leading to an institutional futility?

You tell me. Please! I wish for my non-understanding to seize –

And that should have been ‘cease’ but I was not, with that rhyme, pleased!


And so it goes…




Nobody knows.

27 Forever! 27-04-2013 by Graeme Sandford


In the land of the Delta Blues

At the Crossroads where the Devil

Took the soul and lit the fuse.


Formed the Stones, Left the stones,

left the rolling for others to do,

Couldn’t get No Satisfaction; so had to Paint it Black for you.


‘Purple Haze all through my brain…’

I listen to his cool refrain;

We’ll never see his like again, excuse me, while I…


‘Me and Bobby McGee’

Both miss the girl that sang for me,

It was no sweet voice that set her free. 


Mr. Mojo Risin’, the sunset fell on you

As you broke on through to the other side,

And the doors closed, as they do.


Play as you go; too soon, you know,

And never hear into what you’d grow

So, Mute, you go; Mute you go.


A tale of a Knight, that felt so right,

Oh, what might have been; when Knight met queen –

Acting the part, so sorely felt, did you depart.


Come on over, Valerie wants a chat,

But, life was not to be your crack,

And you are not coming back in black


You learnt the truth at… twenty-seven

That life was not for you, but Heaven…

Or Hell! But, you live on; that, I can tell.

pɹoɟpuɐs ǝɯǝɐɹƃ ʎq 3102-40-52 – ǝʌıɟ-ʎʇuǝʍʇ


˙ʞɔnl ɹoɟ 'ǝɹoɯ ǝɔuo ʇı pıp uǝɥʇ ˙uıɐƃɐ ʞɔɐq uǝɥʇ
 ˙dnɔ ɹǝdɐd ɐ oʇuı pǝuɹnʇ ƃǝl ɹǝɥ puɐ
 "˙dn uʍoɹƃ llɐ puɐ plo ǝq llɐɥs ı"
 'ǝɔılɐɯ ɹo ʎʇıʌǝl ɟo ʇuıɥ ɐ ʇnoɥʇıʍ
  ˙ǝɔılɐ pıɐs "'ǝʌıɟ-ʎʇuǝʍʇ ɯ,ı uǝɥʍ"
  ɹɐǝddɐsıp 'ʎlqɐʇunoɔɔɐun 'sǝop noʎ ɟo ʇsǝɹ ǝɥʇ ʇslıɥʍ
 ɹɐǝ oʇ ɹɐǝ ɯoɹɟ ǝɔɐɟ ɹnoʎ ssoɹɔ plnoɥs uıɹƃ ɐ ʇsǝl
  'ʞool ɐ ǝʞɐʇ ʇou ʎɥʍ
 'ɹǝsnoıɹnɔ puɐ ɹǝsnoıɹnɔ ǝɹɐ noʎ ɟı puɐ
 ˙ʞooq sıɥʇ uı ʇou 'ʇnq 'ppo ʎllɐnsn sı ɥɔıɥʍ
 'ǝʌıɟ-ʎʇuǝʍʇ, ʞɔnɹʇs ʞɔolɔ ǝɥʇ 

ǝʌıɟ-ʎʇuǝʍʇ ɯ,ı uǝɥʍ

Twenty-Four – A Stream of Consciousness Poem 24-04-2013 by Graeme Sandford


Bonjour, c’est le vingt-quatre d’Aprille

With its sweet showers

Still, it could be worse.

And maybe it will be.


Twenty-four hours from Tulsa –

Wherever that is.

24/7 – all of the time, basically

Every second of every minute of every day – for ever.


Twenty for – none against: carried unanimously;

With no animosity at any stage of proceedings.

Mis-leading is the word, haven’t you heard;

It’s not ‘Grease’ anymore.


’24’ with Kiefer Sutherland, a day in a day;

Though I preferred Donald, his dad, Cloudbusting his way

Through a Kate Bush video from the eighties;

When ‘Cloudbusting’ was incomparable to ‘Shipbuilding’.


Every month has twenty-four days! Discuss.

And if there are 50 ways to leave your lover,

I’d like Paul Simon to have listed at least 24 of them;

However, it was probably a ‘title before the content’ situation

– Still, it’s still a good song after all these years.


Twenty-four: the number of fingers and toes

Of an alleged Anne Boleyn after she received the chop!

And Jake the Peg had one more on top.

If that’s still a comment that I am free to make.


Twenty-four, an Earth day’s whore;

A matter of Planetary Law;

A time in which to be, and that is for sure;

Virtually a time-scheme for all, rich or poor.


Diddly-squat – a random replacement,

What the smile on my face meant –

Diddly-bit, Diddly-some, Diddly-few, Diddly-squat –

And so on, if that’s your wont, your unaccustomed bent.


Twenty-four, rather far-fetched in its outlook;

The last hour of the day, that is actually nothing

Nil, nada, rien, sip, zero, blap, prosh, menkif, elnse;

And a few other made-up words of little or no consequence.


And in a sequence, Wikipedia says it comes ‘after twenty-three’

And ‘before twenty-five’; though I am disinclined to believe that;

Maybe I am a disbelievist, maybe one of those exists;

Maybe I am a man, who likes to dissect lists, or maybe I’m not.


Maybe, there is no ‘maybe’ about it.

Maybe there is. Sometimes ‘quelquefois’ slips into my mind;

I find it there waiting for a moment when a French-type

Asks me if I ‘aimez le vie’ and I can reply with an apposite word,

But, don’t.


Contrary to opinion, I agree with the rest, until I reach a point

When I suggest that perhaps ‘for a change’ they could agree with me;

Then they pick up their football and go back to their maison dans la rue –

It’s true; it’s what they are programmed to do.


Twenty-four green bottles hanging on a wall.

Then the wall fell over, and there were no green bottles,

Just a lot of clearing up to do;

And so I did it, wouldn’t you?

A Man Walks Into a Bard – 23rd April, 2013



A Man Walks Into a Bard…

or Brave St. George versus the Sweet Swan of Avon…              

or Much a Diddly about Squat!


       Act 1, Scene 1 – a bar in downtown Stratford upon Avon, England.


George        Hello, William, I thought you were barred from here!


Will              No, George; and that’s not funny, do you hear?


George        Keep your hair on, Will.


Narrator       He smirked as he spoke


George        Written any good yarns lately?


Narrator       He was such an annoying bloke


Will              No, just enjoying my anniversary; thought I’d make an appearance.

                    I was born and I died on the same day, George.


Narrator       Said Will


Will              Perchance, to dream, Ay, there’s the rub, that-


George        Oh, give it a rest!


Narrator       Said George


George        You’re far too old to play Doublet now.


Will              Hamlet!


Narrator       Cried Will


Will              I would forget it fain, but, oh it presses my memory, like…


George        No ‘like!’ about it.


Narrator       George sighed


George        (sighing)


Will              Well, it’s not as if you’ve killed any dragons lately!


Narrator       Will had espied a spot to hit George’s lizard-killing pride


Will              What have you done today, to make you feel proud; living so sedately?


George        No dragons left; they have all been put to the sword and the lance.

                    There is now nothing left to do but sing, perchance to dance!

                    Where’s the grub?


Narrator       George was feeling peckish after reliving his heroic deeds

                    And was now in quest of vittles to satisfy his hungry-growing needs


George        Anyway, lots of babies are born and die on the same day. What makes you so special, cuz? It’s like as not that one in ten thousand tiny men born in England now a-bed are lost in this way to us.”


Will              Yes, but between a star dancing, ‘under which I was born’

                    And my journey to ‘dusty death’, of which lack of an end was hope forlorn,

                    Did I but strut and fret in the course of an hour more than some do in a lifetime, Horatio!


George        George!


Will              Whatever!


Narrator       Will recovered his poise; emptied his flagon


Will              You only killed a dragon.


George        It was rather a large one; I’d like to see you try, sunshine.


Will              I would calm and soothe the savage beast-


George        Don’t make me laugh, kid! Your comedies never did. You wouldn’t last a minute against a fire-breathing dragon.


Narrator       Will looked at George for a moment


Will              You, sir, are a… a dunghill! More of your conversation would infect my brain. And with a hey-nonny-no, I go!


Narrator       William turned, left the bar, walked into the reign (of Elizabeth 2) and was never seen by you or St. George again.


                    St. George ordered a pint and a pie; upon receiving his drink he held up the glass and raised a toast…


George        “Cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint…


Narrator      A look of smugness crossed his face


George        …George!”


Narrator       …and then he faded back into legend, by and by.

Catch – 22-04-2013 by Graeme Sandford



Let me throw a few words up into the air;

See if they land; think about where

Their randomness will take me…

Or will that act of selection forsake me?


I have to have an idea before I write my poem;

I have to write my poem, but I haven’t got a clue;

The words don’t come easy, the number 22

Lands in my hand, as words will never do.


Who shall read what I will write

If I don’t write what they shall read?

What if I didn’t put pen to paper, finger to keyboard;

Would they still stand up and applaud? I don’t think so.


I only know that I have to make the attempt.

I’m not exempt from failure, but the poetry’s allure,

The muse’s call, says write one word, write all,

And put your pride before a fall.

I look up ‘inspiration’ in my dictionary;

Then look up at the blue sky, thinking

Thoughts of long ago, of far away, the here and now,

… and hope, somehow, something of worth will return from above to me, back down to this Earth.


What words will be, may be, shall be, and must be; to be,

Or not! To be written, I must be with an idea smitten;

My words must be born, or I stand forlorn, looking

Up to the Heaven for Divine Intervention – did I mention, I’m struggling to create?


And now it’s getting late, I may have reached the final uncertain,

And the end may be near on this poem; perhaps I’ll draw a line under it.


I know! I will write a 22-line poem – that will fit the bill!

Oh, too late. I’ve written this one….

21 = 3 x 7 – 21st April, 2013 by Graeme Sandford


Good Heavens! Three sevens tattooed upon my scalp;

Never noticed those before – I need some spiritual help!

Went to see my doctor, thought ‘Perhaps Hell have some pills!’

But – closed! – it’s Sunday today, a day of worship, a day to banish ills!

So I Poped off to the church, seeking their forbearance, their forgiveness;

But, went in to the pub, next door – apparently by mistake – and found a taste for Guinness. (Should have gone to SoulSavers!)

So when I came out, still with a spiritual drought (and a couple of bottles of stout) I gave a Heaven-bound shout!

“Lord, what hast Thou done to me? Hast Thou forsaken me? Hast Thou left me to the porpoises of the Devil?”


Phil stood behind me, grinning like a Cheshire, the sneaky little sod.

“Phil, you prat, what was that? When did you gain the voice of God?”





“Wow, Phil!” I cried; his halo espied, I bowed to his new saintly being.

“NOW WHO’S THE PRATT?” I looked up at that. There was Phil, Steve, Jake, Matt; Kev, Nige, Mike, Sue and Kat, Trace, Jo, Pete, Pat – in his massive cravat; Penny, Vince, and some people unseen since school – I didn’t feel cool – Ali and Annie and Linda and Paul.

I can almost laugh about it now, but then I was – how shall I put it – a little bit embarrassed, my face turned bright red.

I looked at every single smiling face, and wished that I was dead, or that the ground would open up and remove me from this place.

Or that I would wake up…

And I did….

And found three sevens tattooed upon my scalp.