Tag Archives: prose

It’s a Monday (prose, I suppose) – Revisited 5 years on.

“It’s Mañanaday!”

It’s a Monday.
Did you know, that of all the poems written on a Monday…
…this is one of them?
Not, that this does seem to be a poem… yet!
I bet you can’t see one single rhyme in this that makes it feel anything like a poem… give it time.
It could just be prose.
Who knows the difference?
I don’t – which is not to say that you won’t either.
Neither has distinguishing features; and, poets, being such fussy creatures, usually write in short lines and blocks of lines that they call ‘stanzas’.
“Bananas!” I say

To that.

I’m not the sort

Who writes of a cat

Sat upon a mat –

No, I talk like a toff in a cummerbund and cravat

Nothing else

What do you think of that?
My story is sad

My story is long

My storey is three buildings high

(I don’t know why)

And that just seems wrong.
Anyway, don’t let Monday get you down, and cause you to wear a frown.

Tuesday will be along soon

And we all know what that means.

The Alpaca maraca and cracker packers

In the warehouse

the alpaca maraca and cracker packers

were working their little socks off.

Well, something like that.

Upon St. Patrick’s Day

St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin was always one big party. In fact, it was the one day of the year when Dublin ceased to function as a normal city, and became a toddler in a green romper suit eating Alphabetti Spaghetti Letters for the very first time – and the tomato sauce was running down the toddler’s face in a torrent.

“It’s all for the craic!” was the cry upon the streets. And it was true – they were all ‘craicers!’

Yesterday’s Idea

I had an idea

yesterday

for a poem

upon a subject,

that I thought

was a good idea.

I remembered it late yesterday,

having forgotten it earlier

in the day,

then I forgot it again –

not having acted upon it –

and, now,

today,

I have remembered

that

I had an idea;

but,

I can’t remember

what

that idea

was.

I’m sure

that

it was a great idea;

but,

we may never know.

100% of a Dandelion

It has been written

that ‘100% of a Dandelion

can be used in cooking’.

This includes the making

of such things as:

Dandelion Wine,

Dandelion Syrup,

Dandelion Tea,

the list goes on…

In fact,

the only part of a Dandelion

that can’t be used

to provide such delicacies,

is its squeak.

PS this is a poor attempt at a Dandelion Poem – it is more Dandelion Prose,

as any discerning reader knows.

The Comment heading towards the planet Earth at upwards of a thousand miles per second

The Comment, similar in size and shape to the one that ended the era of the Dinosaurs, headed towards the planet Earth at a considerable speed; and, even though sound can’t actually travel through space – as it’s a void – you must just suspend your disbelief for a moment and consider that science has got it wrong (even though it hasn’t) and this concept is a possibility.

What the actual Comment consists of is not known – largely due to the absence of detail available – and so it will inevitably disappoint.

Isn’t Science wonderful?

Tickled onions and tickled beetroot

I like tickling onions,

and also tickling beetroot –

perhaps it’s just me

Day 2: Wise Guide? Voice?

Do you have a wise guide?

A voice of steadiness in the storm?’

—//—

We had been adrift for many a day, huddled together for warmth in the cruel sanctuary of the lifeboat. The ice-rimed water that lapped about our feet was also what kept us alive, and threatened to end our travails, for the rains had been heavy for some three nights in a row. Luckily, the days had been the opposite, dry, if not warm, and allowing us to keep on top of the fine line between surviving, and diving forsakenly into the unforgiving ocean.

We had, it should be written, lost a few souls from our ensemble – they tended to leap at night when the fear became its worst – and had now, seemingly, settled upon a fixed number, with a fixed routine, and a fixed determination to at least try to survive our ‘peril upon the sea’.

But, in the darkness there was a light.

The light that shone for us was Pastor Tom, he spoke with a sage wiseness that filled our hearts with a glad warmth, and our minds with the hope of an attainable salvation. The trouble was, when he stopped speaking the darkness slowly began to creep back into our beings. The longer our trial lasted, the harder it must have been for him to stir us, for us to be stirred; and the easier it was for the feral black sea-dogs to bark mockingly at our weakenings.

When the real storm hit us, our fears at its powerful effects were realised. We had truly hoped that we should miss it, or it us; but, that scenario was not to be. Ee were adrift in an open lifeboat, hungry, sodden from exposure to the elements, and not knowing if this task was to be one task too many.

Pastor Tom raised his voice and fiercely abraded the storm with commands that it should abate, cease, desist.

He encouraged us to hold tight to our convictions, our dreams of reaching the safety of dry land, and to hold on even more tightly to the ropes that kept us in place upon this week and fragile vessel.

His voice kept us alive.

When the storm passed, an event barely noted, we, as one, said a prayer to whatever god we served, and let out a combined sigh of relief. Pastor Tom had got us through the storm, we would be saved, all would end well.

But, Pastor Tom, was no longer standing at the bow of the craft. He wasn’t within the lifeboat at all. He wasn’t with us in the shape of a person, but we could still feel his care and his love for us.

We did make land. Our bodies and our minds unalterably changed from our experiences. Our lives continuing, free to follow paths unthought of. But all of us carried Pastor Tom with us, for without him we would have perished.

No trace was ever found of Pastor Tom’s body. Perhaps the sea had claims upon it, or perhaps it washed up on a shore in some far off land. Maybe the fishes nibbled gently at his essence until he swam the oceans in the guise of a thousand true seafarers.

No trace of Pastor Tom was found in the records of the parish where he said that he preached. Only ‘I’ found this out.

‘When he was needed he was there; when he needed others, most turned away.’

Temp Ted

Ted was a Temp. Temp being short for ‘temporary’, and Ted was short for Edward. Ted was also short if and when compared to people taller than himself – five feet tall. Ted only had two feet both of which were perfectly in proportion to the rest of his body – being neither too small, nor too large.

Ted was working in Woking in the office of a multi-notional think tank. Or, at least, he thought he was.

He was tempted to leave there; but, he was not a tall self-confident.

Oblique House

Charles Dickens was once said to have said,

‘Thank you for my meal, Catherine.’

However, this was not

what

he is remembered for.

Bleak House, one of his finest novels,

originally serialised in 1852/3,

tells a tale – as do all the rest

of his works –

and is of matters that matter.

There is a lot of legal jargon and

Inspector Bucket is brought in to investigate.

There may be more; but, perhaps,

you should read it and find out if that is the case.