As much as we’d like to…
As much as we could…
As it’s raining so much,
I don’t think that we should.
How can I rejoice,
when I have never even joiced?
Did I have a choice
that I missed
and never made?
Did I fail
to make the grade?
And, if not mine,
at whose door can the fault be laid?
How can I rejoice,
when I’ve never even joiced?
I’ve spent many hours
in an ivory tower,
looking out at the sky,
and the brave knights passing by;
dreaming of where they were going,
never knowing if they would return
to their families and homes.
There was a big storm they named Dennis,
Which made it quite hard to play tennis:
When blowing a gale,
With wind, rain and hail,
it resembled a street walk in Venice.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #limerick, #poetry. #poem, #StormDennis, #Storms, #Venice, Rain
‘A walk to the Hurlers,
is just what you need.’ they said.
So, I set off straight away,
with my sturdy boots,
my rambling stick,
and my curlers still warm on my head.
‘It will leave you feeling awed and inspired’,
they told me -it was possibly true;
but, it was blowing a hoolie,
and cats and dogs
were falling from a sky,
that was the blackest shade of blue.
I watched, as the mizzle soaked me to the skin,
and the West wind knocked my socks off,
it was just the sort of weather
that would knock the steeples and their steeplecocks off.
I may have been hasty,
with my skin tone so pasty,
and my allergic reaction to rain;
so, when I came out in a rush,
I was soon out in a rash;
and made a mad dash for the tea-rooms.
Where I dripped a lot,
and thawed,
then expired.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #CornishWeather, #Hurlers, #Minions, #poetry. #poem, #StormDennis, #Storms, Cornwall, Kernow
A.C.R.O.N.Y.M.
A clever little way with letters instead of words,
Cunningly disguised by using the first letter of each word in the title,
Riddling the meaning into an easily memorable (or forgettable) one;
Obviously, those in the know understand what the letters stand for,
Nullifying those that haven’t the foggiest what it is all about,
Yet, the ego-stokers continue to roll them out, A.S.A.P.,
Mindless of the petty annoyance to U.N.Me.
I don’t read my poems
from a scrap of paper;
and I just don’t possess
a cast-iron alibi,
or an old-boot scraper:
I was there at the time,
when this rhyme was writ;
but I took no efforts
and so my rhyme is rubbish.
I don’t read my words
from the back of a packet;
even though I know that
that is what some call style –
‘Style’, I lack it.
I read my poems
from off the top of my head;
and I’d keep that fact
under my hat,
if it wasn’t for the lack
of tact
that I attract,
or have.
I don’t read my poems,
just to get to the end,
sometimes, I stop in the midst of—
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| The Febrile Imaginin… on The Chain Saw |
