It’s about time
that I wrote
this poem.
Not that this poem
is aboutTime;
or about Tim,even.
In fact, is at is about
very little indeed –
and, so, I am just
wasting your Tim
and mine.
“A Poetry Competition?
There’s no Conpetition
like a Poetry Competition –
go find a rhyme
in your own sweet time
and enter it before
or after
the submission date.
Then, await the fate
of your words so fine…
but, be careful
to write every line
just right –
then you could win;
leastways, you might.”
“Unexpected poem in the bagging area!
Please wait for assistance.”
I hesitate.
Then wait.
Debate whether to grab it and go,
or await my fate.
Too late, I realise that I tried to scan it through as a carrot.
“Who’s a naughty poetry boy, then!”
commented a passing parrot.
Me.
Myself.
I am.
It’s not as if I couldn’t afford it,
and I don’t really need it;
I just wanted to read it,
and applaud it.
Now I’m off to jail;
“For poetry shop-lifting!”
I wail.
That will teach me.
East Cornwall is East Cornwall
and West Devon is West Devon
and never the Twain shall meet,
apart from along the length of the Tamar;
and that bit up near Bude
(which isn’t technically East Cornwall);
but, you know where I mean,
that bit where the road takes you through about a mile of Devon:
take my word, when I say
that my cry of: ‘I was only going to the garden centre!’ is often heard
whenever we choose to go that way.
As for Plymouth…
well, it is its own special place,
kingdom, province, municipality,
and in all probability
is twinned with an enclave
of Plymovians in Inner Mongolia or Outer Space.
Plympton, on the other hand,
Is a different kettle of fish;
the people there are very nice
they have happy, smiling faces,
freely give concise advice
donate generously to charity,
take many courses on crochet and pottery;
and they are especially keen
on supporting local poetry.
In fact, I have heard, that once
they even applauded a visitor from Cornwall at their poetry recital
when his poem was done.
There was an old lady from Fowey*
Who wished that she’d been born a boy;
Ken as her name;
Playing the rough-tumble game;
But, as Barbie she was purely a toy.
*Fowey in Cornwall is pronounced ’Foy’.
“Hit me with your best poem – fire away!”
Well, what could I say?
“Umm?
Ooh?
Err?”
Not a great start,
I have to admit;
but, soon I warmed up –
just a little bit.
“This is my best poem;
because it is short
and it is fun,
It is called ‘Recycle Poets’,
and I shall start upon the count of…
one-
‘Recycle poets!
They’re biodegradable;
bury one and see.’
It’s a Haiku,
or a Senryu –
if you think it’s funny;
it cost me lots of thinking,
and has brought in little money.
I have other poems that are not quite as short;
less funny;
and with typos fraught;
they are mainly about gulls
and that sort of thing.
Okay, don’t call you,
you’ll call me…
but, if there is even the slightest possibility
of an opening
in your department
of mirth…
I would be ever so grateful
and it would mean the world –
or even the Earth.”
Sweaty Betty was upon the settee;
and that Sweaty Betty was me.
I’m not a yeti –
at least not yetty;
can sometimes be profound
upon a jetty;
like eating pasta –
if I can spaghetti any;
and am not at all rich in money
like the man they called Getty.
Never in the navy
so not an officer, petty
or otherwise;
and I have never named one of my caress Hetty – why would I?
I don’t know, I forgetty!
I long to duetty with a fine opera singer,
as long as she is the cousin of Mario Andretti – is that likely?
You betty!
I shall stop now,
all this rhyming
is making me weak
C’est la vie – nil regretty!
