Tag Archives: Questions

What is a book?

I asked myself, ‘Graeme, What is a book?’

I found a dictionary, took a look,

and under ‘b’ there were a plethora of words:

butterflies, broomsticks, bees, and birds,

and so on;

looking carefully, I found the word, ‘book’,

and in great detail it explained to me:

‘A book is more than life, you see;

without a book, what could you read?’

And, on this point, I most heartily agreed.

‘A book is stories old and new,

some made up, some almost true;

a book is there to make you think,

you read a book, and then you blink,

in wonder’s wide and amazements hue,

in such disbelief, and often fear.’

‘What is a book? I asked myself.

I picked up another book,

to took a look.

¿Partly Animal?

What am I?

Partly animal,

mostly something else;

who am I to say

what I am?

Too many questions

for a Sunday morning?

How many – what percentage –

questions are rhetorical?

was that one?

Do you have to answer that?

Do you care?

Is this poetry?

Would I dare?

Are there rhymes?

Is it written in any recognisable poetic form?

Is there a discernible rhythm?

Does it use assonance and dissonance

in the correct quantities?

Does it avoid the mention of Quantum Physics?

Then it probably is a poem?

Did that last line have an unnecessary question mark at the end.

¿Did that last line have a missing question mark?

¿Was that last line written in Spanish?


How much of the above is wrong?

Has this gone on Forfar too long?

Everything under the Sun

Everything under the sun,

must mean everything;

but, what about when the Sun goes off to bed?

Everything under the Moon?

But, the Moon isn’t always there

when the Sun is off getting some shut-eye

So, when the Sun and the Moon

are off wherever they go to at night,

is there anything left?

“Where were you…?”

“Where were you

when the lights went out?

I’ve written that before

without a doubt;

but, you never told me

When I asked you then,

and that is why

I’ve asked you again.”

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.


Man goes in a fruit shop …


… what does he do then?


“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


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…?”


“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.


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.



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?”


“What will the prompt be?”

“Don’t know!”

“Why not?”

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


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

hello? Anybody out there?”

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