Tag Archives: #poetry. #poem

Job Interview – A further instalment in the Adlestrop Sequence.

See here for my original Adlestrop Sequence

I want a job as a passenger.

A passenger?

Yes, a passenger, preferably upon a train. I don’t mind doing a full day’s passengering, but I’d like to miss the rush hours, and I’m not too keen on the Underground. So, a leisurely, all-stops-stopping route where I could start near to my home, and finish… near to my home would be just the job.

Do you live near to a railway station?

Oh, yes. I live very close to Adlestrop.


Yes. It’s a brisk walk. Most convivial to the health.

Okay. I shall process your application, and I expect we shall be in touch.


I wouldn’t hold your breath.

Okay, thank you.

Good day!

Ticket’s please!



Pictorian Poetry

The Picts lived in Scotland

back when it was called something else – before becoming Albanese, and then Scottishland –

as you do,

or, at least, as they did,

in Victorian times,

or slightly before

(my history knowledge being sketchy at best,

they are blue and hairy,

with naer’ee a vest

between them)

and please excuse my accent,

as I am from just south of the border

by a few hundred miles,

and my accents are a bit hit and miss

I’ll admit it, with smiles,

and I don’t mean to diss

respect the Scotch nation,

I’ve even been there

and seen their elation

at the weather, and the cold;

it makes them of brave heart,

or so I’ve been told;

and porage with salt

is what they all eat,

with extra salt on Sundays,

as a “special” auld treat.

And there’s haggis and the caber,

bagpipes and neeps,

tartan and custard,

heather and sheeps;

and Nessy in a loch

whom you never will see,

and there’s one other thing you won’t see in Scotland,

which is a sassenach like me.

Telyn, the Harp.

“I’m Telyn, the Harp.”

“Telling the harp what?”

“No. My name is Telyn, and I am a harp. The Harp.”


“And what, may I ask, are you?”

“May you well ask. I am… fanfare of drums… a piece of metal that has been twisted into a shape.”

“A triangle.”

“That’s it. I have been twisted into a triangular shape… but, I don’t know what I am called.”

“Perhaps, ‘Tingy’ might be a good name for you.”

“Ooh! That would be lovely. Tingy the thing made into a triangular shape. How happy I am!”

And with that, he struck himself on the head with a small rod of metal.


Telyn sighed, a lovely glissando of a sigh, but, a sigh nevertheless.

delyow omhweles

delyow omhweles

my a yll aga gweles

onen hag oll.

leaves fall down

I can see them

one and all.

Thor the Thoughtful Seagull – #1

Thor looked down

upon the town

at all the milling people.

Thor thought deeply,

about all manner of things,

and today he thought about… hats.

‘Some people wear hats,’

he mused to himself,

‘whilst others do not.’

thus thought Thor the Thoughtful Seagull.

Then he went on to think of other things.


When Beige was all the rage.

When beige was all the rage,

bright colours were kept in a cage,

where people could occasionally visit

and stare at their gaudy hue,

it was called, as you might think,

a Dangerous Colours Zoo.

The Oranges and Purples

were kept under wraps,

they were too vicious to be seen

by the ladies and chaps.

The mad and dangerous Heliotrope

was kept under lock and key,

and not even the keepers

were allowed to see he.

Anything fluorescent

or sparkling was kept,

in a darkened corner,

fed at night,

where they wept,

being in a state of inertia –

it was all for safety, you see.

they could never be seen

by a dull and dim humanity.

The Bird and The Cloud – Rabindranath Tagore

“The bird wishes it were a cloud. The cloud wishes it were a bird.”
— Rabindranath Tagore, Bengali polymath (1861-1941). Number “35” from Stray Birds (The Macmillan Co., 1916).


“You should always credit

the poet or the writer –

not only is it reapectful,

it is also politer.”

Graeme Sandford (1962-20—), Responses to Posts, 2020.

Was Donald Pleasance a Vegan? – a song.

Donald Pleasence

won’t eat pheasants

now he’s dead;

and, when alive, he was a Vegan,

so he ate beans instead –

I may have made that up,

it’s the sort of thing I do,

I’m a writer, and a poet,

and a singer,

‘How d’you do?’

‘The Writing Show’

“Come right in,

sit yerself down,

we’re just about to start;

Jim’s got a story ‘bout kindling,

and Madge has a poem ‘bout art;

there’s others here,

with stories that we’re

hoping that you’ll soon warm to;

and a poem or two,

about a woman, her shoe,

and the children that did live there;

what that poem’s about,

I haven’t a doubt,

it’s a dig at modern-day housing;

but it’s pretty in verse,

and it could have been worse,

if said in 24 stories

of carousing.

George has a sonnet,

about a lady, her bonnet,

and a 1952 MG TD Roadster;

the bonnet was red,

‘Can I respray?’ she said,

‘I’d much prefer blue,

if it’s okay with you,

or I’ll swap it

for a four-slice pop-up toaster’.

Which ‘was’ rather silly;

but I think she’d got chilly,

and thought that some toast would revive her;

and cars are dangerous,

as I’m sure you’ll agree,

and she wanted a slice,

with some jam for her tea,

and not for her parents to survive her.

Anyway, there’s plenty to hear,

the start time is near,

and all of our writers have written;

and once you’ve heard

every scintillating word,

by the writing bug,

you, too, will be bitten.

First up, none too soon, is Dominic, with his ‘Ode to an Unwanted Letter, that dropped on my mat, when I lived in a flat, in Penpillick, on a Thursday in June’.


The Cakery Bakery

The Cakery Bakery

was considered a fakery,

by those in the know,

who knew.

But, it was nowt but a sham,

water for a dram,

and it’s frontage was slightly askew –

having been hung by a man named Hugh,

whose ladder was missing a rung.

It lasted a year

and one single day;

but, it was excessively clear

that the end it was near,

the time was nigh,

to leave.

And, by and by,

it did –

as there were none there left

to grieve.