I know
I know nothing;
which means…
I know something
and not nothing,
as I had, until recently, thought.
But, I know not what
A wasp
And a butterfly
really ought.
By the Book (sic)
By the Book (sic)
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Tag Archives: #silly
The Chelicopter ©
I had an idea,
and, before I could write down more
than the bare title, the idea had flown –
just like the Red Admiral
that had recently landed
upon my fence, and had soon departed to rejoin his ship –
now, I’m sure that, if left alone,
my idea might return
from whence it has flown.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Chelicopter, #nonsense, #poetry. #poem, #RedAdmiral, #silly
Verisimilitude Haiku attempt
I’ve said it before,
and I will say it again,
verisimili—
.
Well, that didn’t work,
as verisimilitude
has too many syll—
.
Once more unto the—
.
Right! Start off slowly,
then… verisimilitude!
Easy when you know—
.
Bother. One last try:
and… verisimilitude!
I think that’s enough.
Shostakovich was a Russian
Shostakovich was a Russian,
a piano player, too;
he played his piano loudly
from Timbukone to Timbuktu.
.
He wrote a lot of tunes,
played a lot of notes,
using all the black and white keys,
whilst thinking up rude quotes.
.
He still gets played at concerts,
his music lingers on;
his symphonies are quite the best,
for this fool to dwell upon.
.
Shostakovich was a pianist,
and a Russian by the way,
he wrote a lot of tunes
but he never wrote a play.
She gave me funny looks – revisited and extended
She gave me funny looks,
crochet hooks,
second-hand books,
and a map of denial.
.
So, I travelled to Egypt,
by camel, by foot,
where I smiled at the Sphinx,
and called out, ‘Hapsut!’
A proper poem – well, let’s see how this goes
The morning arrives
upon many lives
upon this random planet;
lots of people
have the same name –
there’s over a million called Janet.
.
Sun rises above,
all extremities between hare and love,
rich and poor, open and shut…
door.
And I just sit here
and write my trite verse;
well, it could have been worse.
Talking Cats
Talking of talking cats –
which I wasn’t;
but can do –
or should that be,
‘talking of cats’?
I know one makes more sense,
but the other is more likely
to be what I was after.
Dafter by the minute,
as somebody once did about me,
and laughter is the best medicine
(for maybe one or two Illnesses –
melancholia, and the like, perhaps).
Anyway, chaps, perhaps cats
might come into this discussion
at some point.
Do this: point at a cat;
say: ‘Look! there is a cat!’
And then start a conversation with it.
Talking Catonese, possibly.
It’s cool for cats.
Not coal, cool.
And everybody wants to cat a bee.
Literally everybody.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #nonsense, #poetry. #poem, #silly, #soc, #Talking, #TalkingCats, cats
Horse Drawn Vehicles
The pictures themselves
are not the best;
but, give the horses a break,
I can’t draw,
and I have hands.
Ode to a fountain pen
‘Oh, pen!’
says me.
‘I shall always remember that day,
the seventeenth Thursday in May,
nineteen seventeen oh five,
when I found you
drowning in the fountain
in Rome,
in Italy,
where Rome is usually,
but not always, found.
You were plucked from an inky depth,
and retrieved from the promise of death
by my writing hand.
Upon dry land,
you came back to your senses,
gasped of the air,
and nibbled past tenses
like a pro.
Oh, pen,
now, when your fluids are almost dry,
why
do I find the thought
and action difficult,
of keeping you
when your purpose has flown by?
It is hard
to keep a pen
that one should discard.
But, my memoirs
shall not be writ
by you,
nor am I a hypocrite;
having said, my friend,
that I wouldst keep you
until the end.’
.
NB title was taken from ‘A Murder is Announced’ by Agatha Christie.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #AgathaChristie, #FountainPen, #nonsense, #ode, #poetry. #poem, #silly
St*mp
Stampede,
stumped,
distemper,
stomped
stimpani
stymple.
.
It started off okay,
then started to decay,
finally ending upon a note of desperation.
A simple premise turned sour,
written in seconds,
destined to last less than an hour
of three minute’s length.
Odd give me strength.
What is all this?
I apologise for disturbing your eyes,
but realise, I find,
that I have failed
to breach your senses
and to dwell in your mind.
Graeme Sandford 