Tag Archives: #poetry. #poem

The Eye of the Little Yellow Caterpillar

There’s a very hungry caterpillar

to the north of Kathmandu,

he seems a little idle in the sun;

to his mates he’s known as Larry,

to his mum he’s Laurence 2,

after twinning, with his brother,

Laurence 1.

The Groom

The groom was nervously spacing

t o a n d f r o ,

b a c k a n d f o r t h,

looking South,

heading North –

in his pants and bridegroom’s vest

(he veered away from East and West),

until he stopped,

to his knees dropped,

and considered himself quite blessed.

‘The Butterfly and the Bee’

“You really are quite funny looking.”

said the Butterfly to the Bee,

“With your silly round body,

your stubby little wings,

and your penchant for honey.”

“Me?” said the Bee,

“Why not take a look at yourself, Mr Butterfly –

take it from me

I never did see

an uglier looking guy

flying by.

©️graemesandford.com

“Mind your head”

‘Mind your head!’

said Fred;

and then he didn’t,

and he was dead.

Poetry to Goetry

Some people like their poetry

to eat in,

they don’t want to take it away,

‘No way, José!’

they say,

‘If we can’t sit down and enjoy it,

we’ll leave it for another day!’

I wrote not a single thing

There was a day,

when I wrote not a single thing,

it may have been yesterday –

or, if not yesterday,

it was a yesterday, once, long ago –

when I was younger,

and life seemed likely to stretch on for ever.

Grey upon Grey.

Grey upon grey,

the next layer,

even greyer,

than the one before,

a mixture twixt mizzle and mist,

with heighth, and width, and depth,

all eager to show… nothing,

to hide all,

and live for the moment

in total concealment,

avoiding avidly prying eyes

and random inquisitive glances.

She used to sell seashells upon the seashore.

She used to sell seashells

upon the seashore;

but, now,

she sells seashells no more –

not since she saw a sea-saw, there.

Perhaps it was the cheap wine

that she drank,

or the downturn in demand

for seashells;

but, when she started hallucinating,

she knew,

that she,

had sold her last sea frippery.

Now, she lives in a hut on the hill,

centuries have passed,

but she lives there still;

if you should see her,

give her a wave,

she’s sure to wave back,

though her features be grave.

She gave me funny looks

She gave me funny looks,

crochet hooks,

second-hand books,

and a map of denial.

‘I didn’t want to die’

I didn’t want to die

Before I

had seen a blue butterfly –

when all of a sudden

an eight-foot tall

blue butterfly came along

and ate me up,

toes and all.