Tag Archives: #ode

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.

Ode to a Potato

Oh, potato;

how much could I love thee?

Let me count the ways:

chipped, sautéed, mashed;

bashed, hashed, or ketchup dashed;

baked, faked, wedgied, caked;

au gratin, replacing the lemons in tarte tatin;

fried, roasted, boiled, or raw;

croquetted, saladed, dropped upon the floor;

swimming strongly with leeks in soup,

bubbled and squeaked

in an inedible gloop;

jacketed, still packeted,

grated, unplated,

(a style, I think, that is so overrated);

curried, unhurried,

waffled, omeletted, loaded,

sweet, sour, by tomatoes goaded;

weekly, daily, by the hour,

my potato love thou hast such power.

.

No, I shall not eat

my potato love;

as long as there are

stars to see in sky’s above;

I shall always keep you near to me;

your earthy ways do so endear to me;

by my side your hide will stay;

for ever and a lifelong day –

or at least, perhaps, maybe, until,

thou too muchly hast decay,

and the whiff of you

dost make me ill.

Ode to my Pen

Oh, pen!

Says who?

Says me,

that’s who!

No pen,

so touch-typed

upon my phone.

My pen is

out of ink

and, I think,

worse the wear

for its lack of drink.

Oh, pen!

says me,

once again.

Ode to O.O.O.

I’m sorry if you needed a prompt reply,

but I wasn’t here,

and that is why

no one spoke.

.

I left a notice upon the door,

but the door fell down,

and, now, upon the floor,

it reads, O.O.O.

not a smiley face,

but a frown.

.

So, if you want

a fast response,

a quick reply,

feedback at once,

you might be out of luck,

because I’m O.O. the O.

doesn’t life suck?

Ode to an Elevator (written between floors 7 and Q)

You, you lift me up…

then you bring me back down again…

with a bump!

I suppose it’s all that you can do,

within the confines of your remit,

and your aperture.

But, once, at least,

couldn’t you just transport me

to another, better, dimension,

where nice things happen a propos of nothing?

Ode to a Bark (aka a Bark Ode)

Oh, I think that, perhaps,

I read once,

somewhere,

under the rainbow,

that a dog will bark at many things –

bad poetry being one of them –

and it ‘has’ been found

that a hound

will utter a higher-pitched sound

when the fear they feel is real.

A deep growl and short bark combination

is likely to be less worry

and more fascination

with the interesting odour

that has recently crossed their neural radar,

‘Hark, hark, the dogs do bark,

beggars are coming to town…’

or some such nursery rhyme;

but, we mustn’t put the beggars down,

when they are out of luck

and no one gives a darn.

Oh, dogs, why do you bark

when all is quiet,

when I’m on a diet,

when there is a Thursday in the week?

Oh, why bark at the meek,

who seek solitude, safety,

and another word beginning with ‘s’.

Yes, I know that another dog has just barked

some forty miles away,

but that doesn’t mean to say

that you should reply.

Why?

Oh, why?

YOY!?

Ode to our Postcode

Ode to our Postcode

(PL14 3LP)

Our postcode ties us to Plymouth,

though we are firmly in CornwalL;

in wonderful Merrymeet

near to Fer Liskeryss town.

Free the Cornish!”, “This isn’t England!””

Narrow Lanes and trees on hedgerows;

a Proud people, living fields of glory.

Ode To A Type O

Ode To A Type O

Oh! Type O?

Is that normal;

I don’t mean to be formal;

but, is that alright?

It’s still red? Isn’t it?

It doesn’t glow at night,

or cause my brain to fluctuate

at an unnecessary rate

Oh? Type O!

Obvious, really.

Type Obvious, I am.

Ode to a Typo

Ode to a Typo

Oh, Typo,

I see you knot

and yet I know

that another will.

Oh, Typo,

alter my wurds

and change my jist

to something else.

Oh, Typo,

not a Typin –

a pin for ties –

unless you are from a Typin era.

Oh, Typo,

my editor has Fitz

when you she espies,

she has another size.

Ode to Tea

Ode to Tea

Oh, Tea!

I was informed

(and not by me)

that I haven’t done an Ode to Tea!

The reason, in all simplicity,

is Tea

has not done one

for me.