I feel, that the certain sound of an uncertain keen would melt a heart of steel; and, I know that steel melts at approximately 395,000°F*, but I’m sure that the sound of that keening would definitely melt a heart of steel.
*actually steel melts at about 2,500°F – but, poetic licence always has priority over dumb facts.
And you thought I wouldn’t go there…
again.
As I was going to…
St. Ive
I thought,
perhaps,
when I get there
I’ll never leave;
but, who’s to say
whether I’ll stay,
I change my mind
most every day –
as is my wont –
so who’d be surprised,
if maybe I don’t.
As I was going to…
Steve’s,
I took a wrong turning,
and went to St. Ives,
where I met a man
who had had many many wives
(None of them his own –
the naughty man)
and each wife
had a bone to pick,
and each bone was
a quarter inch thick,
and each quarter inch
wasn’t really that thick…
Man, wives, bones, thicks…
How many people we’re going to Steve’s?
Lockdown shockdown
Breakdown shakedown
Fake crown – hat!
Lookdown shookdown
Makefrown takedown
Wakedown – cat!
Boreddown nowfrown
lookdown sockdown
clowndown – that!
Undercover,
I rehearse the lines
that will take me to the stage;
character assassination
is not my thing,
but under the duvet
I will know
if it is Christmas
or not.
My fingers type
the words;
no hype,
just honest
to goodness
feelings.
Unlike,
in my fingers,
where I have none.
My brain
also
struggles
to keep the warmth
of creative thought alive;
but, there is a glimmer
from an unquenchable ember
that I have
deep in the heart of my being.
I was after a soft landing,
when I fell from on high;
I didn’t want to die,
in a painful way.
I prayed for a soft landing,
as I fell through the air;
I prayed for twenty mattresses,
arranged… just there.
Hamish was squeamish
about going to Dawlish
via Beamish;
he didn’t relish
the thought
at all…
so much so,
that he didn’t go,
he stayed at home in
little Fenwick Stead.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Beamish, #Dawlish, #FenwickStead, #Places, #poetry. #poem, #Scottish, Poem
I had an idea
for a poem,
a wonderful poem,
better than all that I have ever written
before…
then I saw a hypothetical squirrel…
… and that poem was no more.
Who knows
what lies beneath,
lives on top,
or dwells within…
… Who is a very intelligent being…
Who knows so much.
 | Lokesh Umak on We counted them out |
| Lokesh Umak on We counted them out |
 | Words from a Lentil… on We counted them out |
| Lokesh Umak on We counted them out |
| Words from a Lentil… on Down the Looe! |
