Tag Archives: #nonsense

I know…

I know

I know nothing;

which means…

I know something

and not nothing,

as I had, until recently, thought.

But, I know not what

A wasp

And a butterfly

really ought.

The Chelicopter ©

I had an idea,

and, before I could write down more

than the bare title, the idea had flown –

just like the Red Admiral

that had recently landed

upon my fence, and had soon departed to rejoin his ship –

now, I’m sure that, if left alone,

my idea might return

from whence it has flown.

Verisimilitude Haiku attempt

I’ve said it before,

and I will say it again,

verisimili—

.

Well, that didn’t work,

as verisimilitude

has too many syll—

.

Once more unto the—

.

Right! Start off slowly,

then… verisimilitude!

Easy when you know—

.

Bother. One last try:

and… verisimilitude!

I think that’s enough.

Shostakovich was a Russian

Shostakovich was a Russian,

a piano player, too;

he played his piano loudly

from Timbukone to Timbuktu.

.

He wrote a lot of tunes,

played a lot of notes,

using all the black and white keys,

whilst thinking up rude quotes.

.

He still gets played at concerts,

his music lingers on;

his symphonies are quite the best,

for this fool to dwell upon.

.

Shostakovich was a pianist,

and a Russian by the way,

he wrote a lot of tunes

but he never wrote a play.

She gave me funny looks – revisited and extended

She gave me funny looks,

crochet hooks,

second-hand books,

and a map of denial.

.

So, I travelled to Egypt,

by camel, by foot,

where I smiled at the Sphinx,

and called out, ‘Hapsut!’

A proper poem – well, let’s see how this goes

The morning arrives

upon many lives

upon this random planet;

lots of people

have the same name –

there’s over a million called Janet.

.

Sun rises above,

all extremities between hare and love,

rich and poor, open and shut…

door.

And I just sit here

and write my trite verse;

well, it could have been worse.

Talking Cats

Talking of talking cats –

which I wasn’t;

but can do –

or should that be,

‘talking of cats’?

I know one makes more sense,

but the other is more likely

to be what I was after.

Dafter by the minute,

as somebody once did about me,

and laughter is the best medicine

(for maybe one or two Illnesses –

melancholia, and the like, perhaps).

Anyway, chaps, perhaps cats

might come into this discussion

at some point.

Do this: point at a cat;

say: ‘Look! there is a cat!’

And then start a conversation with it.

Talking Catonese, possibly.

It’s cool for cats.

Not coal, cool.

And everybody wants to cat a bee.

Literally everybody.

Horse Drawn Vehicles

The pictures themselves

are not the best;

but, give the horses a break,

I can’t draw,

and I have hands.

Ode to a fountain pen

‘Oh, pen!’

says me.

‘I shall always remember that day,

the seventeenth Thursday in May,

nineteen seventeen oh five,

when I found you

drowning in the fountain

in Rome,

in Italy,

where Rome is usually,

but not always, found.

You were plucked from an inky depth,

and retrieved from the promise of death

by my writing hand.

Upon dry land,

you came back to your senses,

gasped of the air,

and nibbled past tenses

like a pro.

Oh, pen,

now, when your fluids are almost dry,

why

do I find the thought

and action difficult,

of keeping you

when your purpose has flown by?

It is hard

to keep a pen

that one should discard.

But, my memoirs

shall not be writ

by you,

nor am I a hypocrite;

having said, my friend,

that I wouldst keep you

until the end.’

.

NB title was taken from ‘A Murder is Announced’ by Agatha Christie.

St*mp

Stampede,

stumped,

distemper,

stomped

stimpani

stymple.

.

It started off okay,

then started to decay,

finally ending upon a note of desperation.

A simple premise turned sour,

written in seconds,

destined to last less than an hour

of three minute’s length.

Odd give me strength.

What is all this?

I apologise for disturbing your eyes,

but realise, I find,

that I have failed

to breach your senses

and to dwell in your mind.