“Seize the games!”
Is what I’d shout
if ancient Romans
were in any doubt
as to my madness.
.
I’m sorry to say
that I missed the day
when the Romans ruled the world
(well, an awful lot of it);
but, if I had been there
I might not be here now
telling you how
I’d have made myself look
an absolute fool
by shouting loudly
‘A shatterproof rule!’
Our local church is haunted,
and there are cats in the belfry,
the font has a leek,
and the cleaner managed
(with some difficulty)
to get the stain…
out of the windows –
it only took a week.
.
On Sunday, when it’s raining,
the congregation sing,
about the whiskers of kittens
of the cats in the belfry,
all creatures great
and small mercies
that appear like birds,
suddenly, and without priory invitation.
.
Our local church is full of ghosts
holy, and unholy,
and one who boasts
about having had a conversation
upon the road to Damascus
with the separated head of Anne Boleyn –
.
if you have any questions,
about the above;
kindly go
in peace and love,
and if in doubt please ask us.
A Labradoodle
at Durdle Dor
spoke, ‘Abracadabra!’
then spoke no more.
.
A small Chihuahua
who saw this feat,
also spoke the once,
‘I want food – to eat!’
.
And all the dogs
who were there that day,
had something of nothing
of which to say.
.
And so was heard
(so the stories tell)
a thousand dog-phrases,
before Midnight’s toll bell.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Canine, #dogs, #Dorset, #DurdleDor, #Labradoodle, #Legend, #Myth, #nonsense, #poetry. #poem, #silly, #tale
A Labradoodle
at Durdle Dor
spoke, ‘Abracadabra!’
then spoke no more.
“I don’t play ‘Crow-K’
between the month of June
and the month of May,
and only then
if there’s a Saturday
following hard on the heels
of a Tuesday.
.
The pitch has to be flat,
but slanted at a seventeen degree angle;
and nobody should have a mallet
just a fandangle;
blindfolds would be compulsory,
legs tied together,
and matches only held
in the most inclement weather.
.
If ‘Crow-K’ ‘is’ played
outside of the bounds
of these rules and regulations,
I would esteem the occurrence
to be of no more than sounds
in a void,
and something to avoid;
.
saying this, I would like to repeat
a thing I have never uttered before,
that, ‘There is time for ‘Crow-K’
upon the Judgement Day,
and, what is more,
not a day before!’
A happy chappie
in a chapel
was eating of an apple
whilst with a logical problem
he did grapple.
.
“It’s ‘Friday’,
which is my day;
and in my heyday
it was a Friday in Mayday!”
he exclaimed.
.
We think it may have been a cry for help.,
as he was also tryng
to purchase kelp
from a stray black dog
that was trying to whelp.
I’d never heard
of this strange, strange word;
until I had –
and then it blew my mind.
.
“Blew your mind?!” you ask,
as you unscrewed your flask
of cold, cold tea.
.
“Yes!” I replied,
as I considered the tide –
coming in? Or going out?
“Is it coming in?!”
I shout.
.
Your tea imbibed,
upon a piece of parchment you scribed
the word, ‘Idiot’.
.
At least I tried.
“Big plonk,
Little plonk,
Cardboard box
Looks like a goose,
And smells like a fox.”
.
“What?!”
Ink
should sink,
I think,
and you shouldn’t drink
the ink – not even Quink (a brand)
that is purposed for putting
on a pristine page.
As to ink sinking,
I am thinking
that heavy words written down
would head
straight to the sea bed;
whilst light and fluffy words,
would float instead,
perhaps taking off into the sky.
Why I would think this
I haven’t a clue;
but, what else is a poet to do?
I wish I was a poet
a-swimming in the sea;
or do I mean a fish –
it’s all gone wrong for me.
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