‘My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Noodles.’
8 lines using the letters M,V,E,M,J,S,U, and N to start the lines. These letters are taken from the order of planets as they are from the Sun.
The line above is an example (not by me) of a saying to this effect, but can you pen a poem using these letters in this order?
M
V
E
M
J
S
U
N
Here is a silly example:
‘Planet Poetry (You do the Maths)’
Mathematically,
Velociraptors
Eat
More
Judiciously
Seven
Under
Nine.
I had a leaving do,
nobody came but you;
and then you left –
that’s the sort of thing you do,
and I was left …
bereft.
I want to live in a poet’s house,
like a little field mouse
living in a…
field.
.
I want to have an ‘upstairs’
and a reciprocal ‘downstairs’
connected by an Escher staircase,
which might
(or might not*)
take me from the one
to the other.
.
I want to live in a poet’s head
the wide-open spaces,
the crazy, made up places,
and the inmates…
oh, the inmates.
.
I want to live where secrets are spread,
where skies uphold dragons’ wings,
and seas can turn from blue to red;
where things are created by the thought of them
and stories lead to adventures and wonder
under those skies.
And there will always be something new
to be said
about the imminent pandemonium
of a poet’s head.
.
.
*It won’t
In red we march
towards the foe
how do we not know
that red is so—
why not be a shade unseen
in livery of forest green?
.
Red we wear,
in red, beware!
It’s red! Beware of the red! They said, they said,
they said, beware the red –
and then ‘they’ saw,
and I was dead,
and I was dead.
.
In red we march
towards the foe;
to death we go,
to death we go.
On the A303
just Stonehenge and me
on the longest day of the year,
and slow-mo me
makes me feels like I’m forever stuck in second gear.
My mother was a Poodle,
my dad a Labrador…
My grandfather a Seagull,
his mum an Albatross…
Just how I turned out as I am,
has left me at a loss.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Albatross, #familytree, #Labradoodle, #Labrador, #Memoir, #poetry. #poem, #Poodle, #Seagull, Ancestry
On Fathers’ Day
I’d rather stay
out of the limelight.
I’ll admit to being a bit
naff as one, and my own
was surely hard done
by my being the type of son
he never always wanted.
The sky
goes by
at an alarming rate of knots –
or it barely moves.
It seems to be running with flame-clad hooves,
or hooves of lead encased in clay.
The sky might be in a hurry one blowy day,
then loitering upon a corner the next.
It leaves me vexed to see it changeable so:
should it stay?
or should it go?
The sky is full of many things:
clouds, and the Sun, birds and planes
that spread their wings
and fly away;
midges that cluster around me,
for an anytime feast.
And the sky is all around,
in every single direction, to say the least,
wrapping us in its frail cocoon.
And best of all, up in the sky,
is the character of our own sweet Moon.
A crime scene
once seen
can never be unscene,
or unseen.
Where have all the butterflies gone?
“Where are ya? Where are ya?
Have you gone off for a nap or a scone?”
.
‘That seems unlikely;
but, when thought upon,
is as likely as not.’
said a lone Oxford don.
 | Words from a Lentil… on Poetry property |
 | cagedunn on Poetry property |
| cagedunn on Huarizo |
| Words from a Lentil… on Huarizo |
| cagedunn on Huarizo |
