.
“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.
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?’
“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’.
Marvellous!”
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.
Just the other dydh ,
I saw a Kammneves in the sky,
after the glaw,
and when the howl was passing by.
Rudh, rudh-velyn, velyn, gwyrdh, glas,
and then the Cornish words
for Indigo and Violet
which I have not yet learnt.
It was a teg Kammneves.
We counted them out,
and we counted them in,
there were fewer came back,
and they cried ‘Did we win?’
‘Not today.’ we said,
with a degree of sorrow;
‘But, we are bound to win tomorrow’.
So, we counted them out,
and we counted them in,
still fewer came back,
and they asked ‘Did we win?’
‘Not today.’ we said,
with a soupçon of sorrow,
‘But, we’ll probably win tomorrow.’
So, we counted them out,
and we counted them in,
just a handful came back,
and they asked, Did we win?’
‘Not today.’ we said,
with a small pinch of sorrow,
Though we’re quite likely to win on the morrow.’
Then we counted them out,
and we counted him in,
a dusty young lad from the Farthings,
and he asked, ‘Did I win?’
‘Not today’. we admitted,
with a tear in one eye,
‘But tomorrow is another day,
in which you can try’.
We counted him out…
The sky is bright,
The Moon is blue;
cue, the pictures of Looe.
The weather’s warm,
there’s been a storm;
cue, the pictures of Looe.
The tide is high,
a boat sails by;
cue, the pictures of Looe.
The Banjo fair,
is always there,
cue, the pictures of Looe.
We like to see,
the beach and sea;
cue, the pictures of Looe.
Cornwall’s pride?
I’ll let you decide;
cue, the pictures of Polperro,
St. Ives, Mousehole, and Bude;
Perranporth, Sennen,
and all the others
that are viewed
as a favourite place;
but, when ‘I’m’ in Looe
there’s a smile on ‘my’ face;
cue, the pictures of me, smiling,
when I’m visiting Looe.
In other words
Not these,
other ones;
please replace all of these,
with those of your own choosing,
then decide
whether
your poem is any good.
You know that you want to.
Pizza and Vodka
is not what you need for tea;
you need meatless balls in a chargrilled wrap,
eaten from a tray on your knee;
and all washed down with a herbal tea.
I have listened to
Riddle Fifty-Seven, and…
I am no wiser.
 | Lokesh Umak on We counted them out |
| Lokesh Umak on We counted them out |
 | Words from a Lentil… on We counted them out |
| Lokesh Umak on We counted them out |
| Words from a Lentil… on Down the Looe! |
