Tag Archives: Questions

Man Goes … (a song)

Vox: There are more songs about questions than there are songs about answers. For example: How deep is your love? Where is the love? Is this love? What’s love got to do with it? Why am I in love with a German Film Star (I once saw in a film)?

And the answers to those question songs: Baker Street; Our House; Gimme Gimme Gimme (A Man After Midnight); Sweet Home Alabama; and Wild Thing, or the like.

Anyway, here is a question song for you.

Cmaj7

Man goes in a fruit shop …

Gmaj

… what does he do then?

Cmaj7.

“How Big is the Moon?”

“How Big is the Moon?”

.

The sky was so big,

the moon so small,

yellow and ridged

like a lone tennis ball

“It’s made of cheese!”

I heard someone say,

and that made my night

as it sometimes makes my day.

The Moon in May –

though not in June,

as old songs would say –

its light shining down

and showing the way.

“How big is the Moon?”

‘Quite big.’ I’d say.

How High (Can a Butterfly Fly?)

How high?

Quite high?

Not very high at all?

Really high (higher than our garden wall)?

As high as in the film The Aeronauts’?

How high?

As high as an elephant’s eye?

High enough to watch the clouds go by?

Higher than a leaping building?

Higher than an all time low?

As high as an outfielder on grass, fielding?

Higher than a geographical lake – obviously an ox-bow?

How high can a butterfly

fly?

I ask, because,

I’ve just seen a butterfly

flutter by –

three feet off the ground.

When is a poem not a poem?

When is a poem not a poem?

“When is a poem not a poem?”

Good question.

Yet, I have no good answer.

“When you read something

and it doesn’t aid digestion…?”

Possibly.

“When you don’t have the earworm swimming around your head like a serpentine simile…?”

That’s a fine image – maybe it’s then.

“On a Tuesday, at half-past three – that’s when it never happens for me…?”

That’s pretty precise – sounds quite concise.

“Anytime!”

I should say ‘yes!’ or ‘no!’ Truth is, I just don’t know.

“So what was the point of asking?”

What indeed, my friend, what indeed.

Sky

Sky

The sky is high –

“Why?” I ask myself.

I’ve asked it before,

because I just wasn’t sure,

why the sky was that high.

This time I ask,

in my rhyme,

“Why am I…

awaiting a reply?”

“What do I want?”

“What do I want?”

“What do we want?”

“A prompt!”

“When do we want it?”

“Now!”

“What will the prompt be?”

“Don’t know!”

“Why not?”

“Because that is how life is when you are having a conversation with yourself!”

“Oh.”

“What do I want… what do I really want?

hello? Anybody out there?”

A tumbleweed rolls sedately across my mind, then is gone.

The Day That I Didn’t Win A Poetry Competition.

The Day That I Didn’t Win A Poetry Competition.

The big day arrived;

the day I’d waited for

for a long, long time.

I’d sent off my rhyme,

to the address that was given;

and awaited the kudos,

the cheque…

I waited,

and I’m waiting still.

Still I wait,

as a waiter should;

and here’s a tip –

waiting is good.

How long should I wait,

and for who,

what and why?

Where should I draw the line?

When to do so, I can’t define.

Perhaps now

would be the moment

to.