Tag Archives: Poem

As I was going to…

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…

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 Rap – #PureNonsense

Lockdown shockdown

Breakdown shakedown

Fake crown – hat!

Lookdown shookdown

Makefrown takedown

Wakedown – cat!

Boreddown nowfrown

lookdown sockdown

clowndown – that!

Sleeper (Cryptic Messages)

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.

A poem for a cold and frosty (Friday) morning.

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.

Soft Landings

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’s Journey

Hamish’s Journey

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.

I had an idea

I had an idea

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

Who Knows

Who knows

what lies beneath,

lives on top,

or dwells within…

… Who is a very intelligent being…

Who knows so much.

Me Ol’ Bamboo

Me Ol’ Bamboo

Me ‘Ol Bamboo

Everything,

it seems,

can now be made

out of bamboo;

pants and socks,

ornamental clocks,

the things they pop on fence posts;

shoes and ties,

traditional mince pies,

a serving hot of French toasts,

and a gazillion other things;

new roof tiles, countryside stiles,

the sound when a telephone rings;

teacups, mugs, a smile and hugs;

there are so many things

I can make and do,

with a little bit of me ol’ bamboo.