Tag Archives: NaPoWriMo2014

Iffy by Graeme Sandford

When you are tired
And near expired
When your brain is a fuddle
And your thoughts all a muddle
When left and right are barely known
And the means to speak you do not own
When your eyes are closing with a snap!
When your want is for bed and a little nap
When you have lots to do but you can’t think what
When you are making coffee with an extra extra extra shot
When you spill the water, the milk, the lot
When you wished that you’d gone early to bed
When the toast you burnt is more charcoal than bread…
You’ll be nearly awake, my son.


April the 28th – ‘Lifted’ by Graeme Sandford

I press a button lightly…
It’s not for a place that I want to go
But, I’d love to press it firmly
And to be taken where know not I do not know.

I press a button firmly…
The one I always press, it is just so
Always the game, always the same choice
The decision made, not lightly, I listen to the voice inside of me
And choose to keep the choice the same.

One day, I will press the other button
And see where It takes me
One day I will travel to a distant land…
But, for now, I shall keep to the known path
That takes me to my present destination…

But, one day…

Numerically Speaking by Graeme Sandford

To quench my thirst
Took more than I reckoned
But, a thought occurred –
If I travelled North

And learned a few obscure guitar licks
It would be heaven.
But, as a downright reprobate
I should be fine
– if… And when.

Book Lovers’ Lament by Graeme Sandford

Poets die in hot cars;

While doggerels lay exhausted in the heat of the midnight sun

Lacking fluid and needing the shadow

Of Autum-te-dum leaves.

The sweat of a writer’s brow trickles between lashes

And splashes of colour lighten up an otherwise dull shade of grey.

Old tomes lie, unread, unnoticed and largely unwanted
when minute devices carry their weight lightly
Politely giving up their words at the press of a button
Although some would think of Shakespeare as Lamb dressed up like Milton.
Or Brie compared to Stilton.

Poems die in a bright non-blaze of apathy
Lounging in cupboards and drawers; spouting off about charges and wars
When all the people want is a quick laugh

Then another

Without too much bother
“Brother, can you spare the time to read a book?”
“A what?”
And so it goes
Where it will end
Nobody knows.
The written word is fading and blurred
And will be long forgotten
When all things have occurred
That are happening now.
Learning to read?
What is the need?

April the 20th- Lemons (poem 2) by Graeme Sandford

You can’t make lemonade
Without cracking a few lemons
Or squeezing a few eggs
Or something like that.
The truth begs for me to tell it
From the rooftops to yell it
From the eggshell to shell it
To be precise, to to be exact
I have absolutely no idea how to make lemons.


Washian Roulette

April the19th – Black Swan

At the lake of the black swan
There was one inhabitant all pale and wan
Cast adrift upon the water’s tide
This one lone swan did seek to hide.
Not like the rest, so set apart
With a feeling of difference inside her heart.

Not the black sheep or the Albino child
Just a colour variation made meek and mild
By Nature’s Fault to not fit in
The freak of Nature not there within
But forced upon by society’s failing
Alone on the water, a lone sailor sailing.


April the 18th – a Friday (by all accounts) by Graeme Sandford

A Friday, it was
I knew it because
Somebody told me
It was.

They also said that it was
As if that should make me any the wiser –
I didn’t realise I’d signed up to ‘Day-Adviser’
But, ‘Good’ as per the weather?
Or the price of ‘forever?’
The mood of the populace?
Or the spots on my face?

I took on board the information
Perhaps it would lead to my salvation
Or the thought process of new creation…

Who knows, who is likely to care
Unless, something I do is so impressive
That the whole world just stops to stare.

And is ‘that’ likely?

So, it’s a Friday – a ‘Good’ one by all accounts
And what it all amounts to


It’s ‘Good Friday!’ I get it!

But, will it be a good one?

April 16th – Aussie Soap Blather #1

Bruce looked spruce
With his ‘up-to-the-minute’ style of a ‘hermit cut loose’
And his seven-year-old mongoose, Luc
y in tow.

Sheila polished her plush one-owner, two-tone, three-wheeler
Purchased from a dude – a dodgy-dealer –
Then she slipped on a chilled banana-skin tequila
And put out a feminine feeler
For a fit and fun feller!

Bruce and Sheila were miles apart
But love (it is said) has a heart and (if it also has a mind)
It will find a way
To save the day.

Bruce and Luce (his faithful mongoose, remember?)
Left home and out they went
The wooing wilderness for Bruce to roam,

Sheila sat on her tri-tyred machine
(That from recent cloth-rubbing was shiny and clean)
And revved up the engine and selected her gear
A Mary Quant number from old yesteryear!

Bruce, Luce (I’ll keep giving their names, so as not to confuce.. Sorry, confuse) headed out to the big city
In hope that this time! it would take pity
On poor Bruce the hermit-like recluse.

Sheila sat astride her tri-stallion of the road
Heading for somewhere, as she did please, whilst her shining hair
Flowed out behind her in the bountiful breeze
Yes, her hair, it shone, and her eyes they sparkled with infinite fire
And her urge for a ‘man’ grew red hot with desire
The trike flew – one moment here the next moment… gone!
A vision that had passed – before you even knew…
…she was there… to look upon!

Bruce hit the limits of the city with hope
He’d like to make a lass “ooh!” with his lassoing rope! (That’s a euphemism – just letting you know –
I don’t work hard on my words for all tell and no show!)

Sheila arrived in the city with a glimmer of hope and a squealing of brakes
Dismounted her steed; gave her healthy hair a few flippant shakes;

Bruce left Luce at the mall for to graze –
She’d be happy window-shopping ‘there’ for a couple of days –
And headed off to the bright lights to see if the ‘one’
Was there for to meet him –
Or would he just be shun-

They walked into the bar from two different entries
Then stood there looking hither and thither like two wary sentries
They, then, saw each other, and at first sight were struck
By the realisation of their fortune and their fortunate luck
Because here in this poem (half full not half empty was their bounteous cup – as never happens in true life)
They teamed up
And Sheila and Bruce
Entered into a relationship
As partners to each other and step-parents to a mongoose named Luce

They lived happily ever after…

Have you ever heard anything dafter?

PS That was based upon a true story that I made up – honest!


April the Fifteenth (Hong Kong) Poet Jet-Lag

ImageToday, my poetry is tired
It’s not steam-driven
Or awe-inspired
I can’t take it as a given
That it will be even ‘oil-fired’

It may not rhyme at either end
It may have no intrinsic value
It may contain nuts
And the bolts of a poem
Or it may not do that
In fact
For all that this poem has lacked…
At least it’s short.