The Banana Bee
is a myth, you see;
or rather, it is a myth
that you do not see;
and it’s not a moth,
or a butterflea;
it only exists in the-o-ry.
the BananaBee
is a made up thing
from yellow fruit
and a buzz on the wing;
a wondrous sight to see
is the beautiful, bounteous BananaBee.
See here for Linda’s fabulous WordPress sited
The room was quite…
well, quiet.
Copious amounts of the absence of noise.
Consequently, when I heard a pin drop, I was startled to say the least,
“The least!”
Thank you.
Who had dropped the pin, I did not know.
I looked around – I was not a square.
Pin’s location and hurler, I knew not where. Nor did I care.
I picked up the pin, and remembered the rhyme:
‘See a pin, pick it up, all the day you’ll have a pin.’
which never made sense to me.
‘Cobalt is a colour: it could be brighter, it might be duller.’
which is something I’ve just made up – is there no beginning to my talents?
From an original idea by
Golden Sack Productions
Featuring a motley crew of scallywags and ne’er-do-wells
In the prequel to the sequel of…
Not the Monty Python’s Flying Nine-o’Clock News Circus’s…
Screen adaption of the book of the novel of the graffiti of the recipe of…
The stage musical of the freebie…
Of Mark Goldsack’s
Acclaimed inversion of a Chekhov (not from Star Trek) play, set in 18th century Venice (or Burnley)…
The reward-winning…
“Indigestion, My A**e!”
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #BHF, #Musical, #nonsense, #poetry. #poem, #prose, #Screenplay
Deborah the debutant
was debonair;
she loved Debussy in her hair;
scorned debauchery with a care;
debated Sartre with whomever there;
debased the currency
on her debut
at Maddison Square –
saving the debacle,
she was nonpareil (without compare);
debate all this – if you dare.
No poems today; because it is raining hard, and I have dried up.
My Garden Haiku needs weeding
as it has grown beyond what is
and what is not acceptable.
Victoria’s Punj
is a great title
for a silly idea –
what that idea may be,
I have not a clue,
do you?
Is it about cake?
Or the Victorian queen?
I mean, where do you go
(because, I certainly don’t know)
from ‘that’ starting point?
I can’t even anoint the head
of a decent poem
with the ink of assuréd certainty –
and is ‘assuréd’ a bit “pretentious’?
Who knows?
(which was a rhetorical question –
and we all know that ‘they’
do ‘not’ aid digestion).
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