Tag Archives: prose

Maud came into the garden, where…

Maud came into the garden, where there were only a few remaining black bats to see.

‘Oh, I do so hate arriving into the garden before the black bats have all gone – I should have awaited the call.’ Maud mulled over her errorsome ways for a while.

Unseen, a fellow walked into the garden from the far side – it was a man in a black hat. He stopped and awaited the departure of the last black bat, and called out, ‘Come into the garden, Maud, the black bats have flown.’

Maud considered leaving then coming back into the garden, but she just couldn’t be bothered with all that nonsense. She waited a few moments, then walked forwards, towards where the man in the black hat was standing.

‘Here I am!’ she called gently.

The man in the black hat turned, swooped his hat from his head, and bowed as low as low could be. ‘Welcome, Maud.’ he announced her presence with such gusto that her smile gained some authenticity. ‘Well, welcome to you, too, sir’. Maud gestured for the man with the black hat to regain an upright stance.

‘All black bats have departed, your safety is assured, my lady Maud.’ he announced with a flourish of hat that saw it returned to its perch atop his head.

It was going to be one of ‘those’ days, though Maud.

The gull and the magpie

The gull and the magpie were deep in conversation

Magpie: Well, there is a song about Magpies.

Gull: indeed. Someone once wrote a book with a gull as the title character.

Magpie: And there is another song about Magpies.

Gull: Two songs! Wow! But… every song there is, that ever was, that has ‘girl’ in the title can be sung using the word ‘gull’ instead. Lots of songs.

Magpie: Really. I think most birds have a song or two written about them: Nightingales, Robins, Eagles, Albatrosses (or Albatrossi), Blackbirds, Magpies, so, it’s nothing special.

Gull. True. But the numbers do favour gulls: ‘Gulls just want to have fun’, ‘It’s different for gulls’, ‘Some gulls’, ‘Gulls, gulls, gulls’, and so on.

Magpie: But Magpies are ‘pies’ and everybody loves pies.

Gull: Maggoty Pie? I think not. Everybody loves gulls.

Magpie: I don’t think that ‘everybody’ does love gulls – have you seen all the signs at the seasides and the quaysides? ‘Don’t feed the Seagulls – they are vicious!’

Gull: No such thing as a seagull. We are all just gulls of the sea. Anyway, we’ve just had a bad press. It’s not as if ‘we’ can put up signs saying, ‘Watch out for the people – they are liable to be vicious if you take their ice-creams or pasties!’

They are holding those things aloft for us, and then they get all upset when we accept their offerings. People are so very stupid.

Magpie: You are very persuasive, gull; and, yet, I do believe that Magpies have had (and do have) more poems written about them: ‘Magpie in a Rainbow’, ‘Magpie up a tree’, ‘The Magpie’, and hundreds more!

Gull; Maybe even a dozen.

Magpie: ‘A gull a day keeps the tourist away’:

Gull: You made that up!

Magpie: some of it. But, I dare say there are many more in that vein.

Gull: Probably. I must say that I do ike you, Magpie.

Magpie: Magpies are very likeable birds, once you get to know them.

Gull: As are gulls.

Magpies: unless you’ve ever lost your ice-cream or pasty to one.

Gull: True, very true.

Long story, short (as in LOTR)

They travelled far, reached their destination, carried out their task, returned.

I am the most interesting person (in the room)

I

am the most interesting person

in this room;

and, yet, I am still lonely.

185 days in a row – a Haibun

Over half a year

of my poetry and prose,?

That’s good, I suppose.

.

Posting on WordPress for one hundred and eighty-five days in a row, probably posting over three hundred posts (if not nearly four hundred), must mean something. To someone – probably just me.

It means that I write every day, with the very occasional day off for bad behaviour. Not that I don’t have something over nothing on most days.

Whether there is constant quality is not to be taken for granted – some of the poems, much of the prose, is less than excellent, below acceptable, and oftentimes verging on the inane (or insane, if you like).

Anyway, over half a year of ticking the WordPress box doesn’t make me a writer. But, I do feel the need to continue, gaining pleasure from the times when I consider my best appears.

So, here is to the future, with thanks to the past,

May my profundity continue, unto the last.

Pouring Ginger Beer over my head

I ran out of the old shampoo today;

and had to “borrow”

some of Jane’s.

‘Wow!’

It was like I was pouring

Old Jamaica Ginger Beer

over my head!

Sensible as I am,

I decided not to drink the shampoo,

but, I shall now

without a doubt,

have to set out

and get myself some cans,

and perhaps order up

another shampoo

or two.

I found an old story of mine

I found an old story –

Jack an Ory –

it seemed to me

quite

good;

but there were spelling mistakes,

and the oceans were lakes,

and it wasn’t like Robin Hood.

I copied it out,

without a doubt

that I could mend the faults

make it good –

if not quite great –

a masterpiece – almost –

from the vaults.

When I die

When I die…

I want to be wrapped in Thyme,

and placed into a large freezer.

Give it a day or so…

… and I will be frozen in Thyme.

The queue for the poetry book signing.

“Is this the queue for the poetry book signing?”

“What do you think?” came the obligatory rhetorical question that the Raynor Winn fan gave as an answer.

I moved my gaze around the bookshop.

Ah, there, in the far corner, a lonesome figure surrounded by hordes of illusionary readers clamouring for a signature, a dedication, a spare copy, and a life each. Poetry was not the draw that it had been in the time of Chaucer, or even Shelley.

I moved towards the lonely outpost, determined to bring at least a moment’s happiness to a poor,lost soul.

“Is this the queue for the poetry book signing?” I asked him.

“What do you think?” he replied, a dazed look haunting his poetical eyes. “The queue was long, but it did shrink. Now, it is no more, a faint remembrance of the queue before.”

“I see it is. I said “My senses and knowledge aligning, I find my place, in this papery place – are you up fir a signing?”

The poet looked up at me from his position of sanctuary. “Ytho! Ty a wor redya Kernewek?”

“A little.” I replied lamely. “Dydh da.”

“Careful, sunshine, you’ll cause yourself an injury, take it easy, life is breezy, if you care to toe the line.” the poet threw off rhymes like a sparrow in a sandbath.

My estimation of the poet was being revised by the moment, he was now just a lowly wordsmith barely conjuring similes in the face of proper literary conjunctions.

He signed ‘To Greg. in a copy of his book, even though that wasn’t my name.

I left, and immediately visited the charity shop next door.

“Thank you, sir; that will help fill up our ‘reduced to go’ bin.

“You’re welcome. Have you got any Agatha Christies in?”

They had. My day would not be a complete loss.

And then there were…

There were 10 Werewolves,

9 Werefoxes,

8 Werecats

7 Werebats

6 Werepaperboys,

5 Werebakers,

4 Werewasheruppers,

3 Werebishops,

2 Werereverends,

1 Wereabbess,

And then the werenun