Tag Archives: #poetry. #poem

Ugly Duckling

‘There once was an ugly duckling –

turned out to be a baby swan –

rookie error!’ said the crow.


The rook took offence to this.

‘Now listen here,’ he started,

‘You crows always diss

us rooks.

I know we haven’t got your looks,

or the brains that you were born with;

but we knows the difference

between a duckling and a cygnet,

a hawk and a handsaw,

and chalk and cheese.

‘So, please, will you stop

looking down upon my kind?’


The crow, looked below,

and asked the rook,

‘Why is a Raven like a writing desk?’

The rook didn’t know the answer,

and the crow wasn’t telling.


The rook flew off, yelling,

‘You think you’re a clever so-and-so,

but it isn’t just me that doesn’t know!’


This was true, but the crow

held the higher ground,

from which position

he’s always found

that a positive claim

would bring him fame –

whether he was correct or not.

Float like a bee, sing like a butterfly

I had to rescue the bee

from the bowl of water that he

had landed in for a drink;

at least he knew how to float –

or had forgotten how to sink.

He dried off and flew away,

a torrid tale to tell;

but at least his day was getting better –

it hadn’t been going well.


All this caused the singing butterflies

to entertain us with a chorus of ‘Que Sera Sera’,

and a verse of ‘Wannabee’

(in the key of B) were heard;

with accompanying harmonies

from every local bird –

except the crows;

who knows if they could have

added small delights

or sleepless nights –

I’m thinking probably the latter.


So, all in all,

it turned out okay,

with the beautiful singing,

and the rescued bee safely serenaded upon his way.

Sunday – acrostic?!







Moving Boxes

Wanted: Moving Boxes.

Sorry, all the boxes I have are stationery.

I’ll get my coat.

PS BTW if your boxes move under their own steam, please be aware of the dangers of the daemon alcohol.

Your plaice or mine?

Your plaice or mine?


The plaice is its own property,

and we should leave it alone,

to hover and hoover above the sea floor.

And, what’s more,

I side with all the fishes,

a-swimming in the sea.

Listening to the radio

Sat, still, listening intently

to the words and thoughts,

grabbing the odd idea,

or phrase, and running with it –

creating base metal out of gold.

Another throwaway poem

I found

my throwaway poem

in the bin.

What it was doing there

I have no idea.

And, here’s the thing,

it was such a fine poem

that I don’t know why


threw it away

in the first place.

It wasn’t this one;

it wasn’t half as much fun,

and it didn’t really make sense;


perhaps that’s why


did throw it away –

who can really say?

When your brain is having a bit of a day off

When the words that normally flow

have gone somewhere

that only they know,

a degree of silence

may be forthcoming.

Jiggery Pokery

Jiggery was a Pokery –

need I say more?

Well, usually I don’t;

but, this time,

I think that I had better.

‘Two lines make not a poem.’

As a mediocre poet recently wrote.

‘Unless it is a rhyming couplet.’

that self same poet added.

And, thus, a very short idea

is extended to give the reader

the impression

of VFM (Value For Money).

PS I don’t do impressions.

PPS Happy now?

PPPS That may be a rhetorical question.

Meanwhile, back in Ancient Greece

Meanwhile, back in Ancient Greece,

atop Mount Olympus,

the dogs were having a conversation:

‘Did he write, ‘dogs?’

‘He did.’

‘What a wassock!’

‘A what?’


‘What is a ‘Wassock?’ ‘

A ‘Wassock’ is a word used frequently in the Midlands to describe someone who is a bit dim, an idiot.’

‘The ‘Midlands?’

‘Indeed. He’s certainly no Euripides.