Tag Archives: Poems

A cloud about poems

Poetry is all well and good,

when all is said and done,

and where there’s muck there’s brass,,

and words don’t come easy,


Every poem has a silver lining,

and blue-sky thinking

can often provide

the basis for an airy poem.

When the sky is limiting,

and the birds fly through,

just to peck holes in your construction,

who is to say that a rhyme is a crime?

Who? said the owl of Oswestry.

As I was going to…

And you thought I wouldn’t go there…


As I was going to…

St. Ive

I thought,


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.

(Poem 8 – Numbers) 25 Poems in 24 Hours

Poem 8 – 07:00 16-05-2017

Seven is a licky number

Eight is a lucky one

One is also a number

As a large number

Of numbers are.
You can always count on a number

But, after a while

Counting affects your senses

And number will you become

They will encumber

Your every moment


The numberness

Stands still.



It’s time to SHOCK!

By saying




and liable to


you for SIX!


Numbers are, in fact,

A numerical Heaven.

(Poem 14 – Time) – 25 Poems in 24 Hours

Poem 14 – 13:00 16-05-2017


Arrived much too soon

And, before I knew it,

It had come and goon!
And, no, don’t be thinking

That here is where

I continue the debate betwixt

‘Scon’ and ‘Scoon’

This is neither the place

Nor the time

For that most importantest

Of discussions sublime.
No, here, we are to concentrate on the loss of time

(Which, if stolen, is a weighty crime)

And, what that loss entails.
Did that sound quite serious?

I must be becoming delirious

As I ‘do’ serious

About as much

As I trainspot snails. 

Washian Roulette

washing the cat

Washian Roulette

Spin, spin, spin;

Will I win?

Red or Black?

Lose or win?

Where and when will the whites within

Choose to land?

Round and round

The machine is sound

It will not play me false 

It dances back and forwards

Like a modern-day Dickensian waltz

The powders and the liquids 

Help to clear my mindings

If it all goes to plan

I shall be pleased with final findings

Spin, spin, spin;

Shall I win?

Or shall the chamber be filled

With a bulletin of promises

That leaves my tears so spilled

Watching and waiting

Waiting and wondering

If all this time I’m waiting for a joining

Or waiting for a sundering.

Spin, spin, spin… 

Wal-ku 34 – 35 (Shore & Unsure) by Vega & Haiku


Wal-ku 34 (Sure)


“Land, Beach, then Water?”


“And the boats float on the water?”


“Most of the time, yes.”


Wal-ku 35 (unsure)


“A mile up the road?”




“There’s a hidden cave?”




“What’s a ‘Cherokee?’ “







Wal-ku 11 (Fish & Ships – a riddle) by Vega



“The fish live in it?
And the ships sail upon it?
I think it is… ‘sea!’ “



Poets Die In Hot Cars

Poets die in hot cars;

While doggerels lay exhausted in the heat of the midday 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?