I read a poem about a darkling thrush,
I read it quickly – I was in a rush;
I read it the once, then I read it the twice,
I very nearly read it the thrice;
but, what, I ask, is a darkling thrush?
Does it exist? I suppose it must;
because Hardy wrote about one once,
and knowing that
makes me no dunce;
but, what, I here will ask again,
is a darkling thrush?
Hidden, out of sight,
out of mind,
you might find
a Snow Leopard;
or the feline
might evade your eyes;
the surprise if you see one
might depend on whether
or not
you are to be
its tea.
It was a Thursday, at a half past three,
when the Triffid came to tea;
I’d baked a cake, and made some scones.
It wasn’t all that hungry,
as it had already eaten,
and sucked on some bones;
so it just had a – single – scone.
.
‘Jam first, and ‘then’ the cream!’
I softly admonished.
.
‘Sorry.’ clacked the Triffid,
somewhat astonished;
‘I’ve just come from Devon;
and there they put the cream on first;
your rules they really make me numb.’
Then, it downed a barrel of cider,
to quench a thirst.
.
‘Not to worry.’ I calmly replied,
‘Anything else to eat?
There must be a little room left inside.’
..
‘I do eat meat.’ the Triffid clacked,
‘That’s something that your table lacked.’
.
‘Sorry, no, we have not meat,
no piggy’s oink,
no baa lamb’s bleat;
no meat at all,
for Vegans are we.’
.
And so
the Triffid
ate us,
for its tea.
It’s a title,
of a book,
when asleep,
I took a look,
I committed a crime
in slumbers deep;
and now I have
a rhyme to keep.
.
In the dead of night,
a shot was heard;
birds took flight
at, ‘Bang!’ the word,
and ‘Thud!’ the body
as it hit the ground.
.
And there was where
the detective found
a chalk outline upon the floor,
but no sign of a body,
just an open door.
.
And an ‘open door mystery’
Is not the same
as a ‘locked-room’ one;
and without a body,
who needs a smoking gun?
I woke up Wednesday –
it had been snoring
in the corner
for quite a few days now –
and set it to task.
.
“What do I do?”
asked Wednesday.
.
After all these centuries
Wednesday was still a little lacking
in the intelligence department.
.
“Just be.” I replied,
“Make the weekdays
seem like they are nearly done,
and nod your head
towards the oncoming weekend.”
.
“Oh, is that it?
I could have stayed in bed.”
Wednesday really was a washout
when it came to geeing up things –
a ‘hump day’ indeed.
Who are you?
Do I know you?
Have we met before?
.
What is it that you bring to the table?
Or do you have an agenda?
.
Fill your bags with freebies;
leave your courtesies at the door;
assume a manner that is less about others
and more about yourself;
take, then take again,
and give no thing in return.
.
Who are you?
I know so little about you;
and, yet, I know so much.
Oh, me! Oh, my!
I think I can fly;
no I can’t,
and so I’m dead.
Enough, spoken Sentence;
forego chatter,
consign natter binwards;
refrain nonsense,
obtain conscience,
exist within avoid.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Dissyllable, #Disyllable, #nonsense, #poetry. #poem, #silly
#WorldPoetryDay
Today is the day, Teddy Bears,
that the World needs more Poetry,
just like every other day
that there is,
or was,
or will be.
So, write a Poem,
wear a trilby,
create some verse,
or whatever will be
will be.
Spring has now arrived,
snowdrops all accounted for,
let loose the sunshine.
.
“Where’s the afternoon?
The title says ‘Afternoon’?
This is about ‘Spring!’ “
.
“Ah, yes.” I reply;
“I wrote this this afternoon.
and so that is why.”
.
“Bloomin’ cheek!” you cry.
“All you ever do is this;
it’s not good enough!”
.
“I am a Poet,
that lives by his wits, no more.”
.
.
.
.
.
(The critic had left).
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| Cynthia Praski on SoCS – Tape – #4… |
| Words from a Lentil… on SoCS – Tape – #4… |
| Cynthia Praski on SoCS – Tape – #4… |
Graeme Sandford 