Tag Archives: #silly

With Socks

‘With Socks’

With my socks on –

even if they are not on show –

I know

that no harm can come to me:

They give me superhuman powers.

They also stay fresh for hours,

and help cushion my feet from the pound of the road.

Ancient Britons, all painted in woad, wore socks.

The Testament Shepherds tending their sheep wore them, too.

People have worn socks from Aberdeen to Crewe

with never a toe

Peeking through.

Socks with holes in can be darned:

but, wearing them like that can be uncomfortable – you have been warned.

It’s debatable

as to whether they should match

or mismatch;

through choice or perchance;

the populace lends it’s voice

to the swelling debate

of ‘wear what you find!’,

or ‘find one sock’s mate!’

It is said that socks are monogamous,

they pair up for life:

but, this theory has been disproved,

a sock can have many a husband

or many a wife;

and outrage at a mixed-sock marriage

is rather passé, you see;

anyway, it makes no difference

to a non-socksist, like me.

Advertisements

A Silly Poem Just For You.

I was discovered

in a cupboard

nearly forty years later;

I had hidden:

nobody had sought.

I thought

that that

would be the end of it;

but, no;

it caused so much of a fuss

that they had to fill a bus

with melted snow,

just so they could say they had;

times were bad,

though, at times, times

we’re not so bad

as they had been,

or we’re going to be –

although, sometimes, they were.

We, as a community,

do not have total immunity

from sharing a sense of déjà vu;

you, on the other hand,

have no toes,

and a nose

which never glows.

The Skunk’s Junk


A skunk’s junk

Won’t fit in a trunk;

Because the elephant,

Who owns the trunk,

Remembers a time

When the skunk was a punk;

And how he stunk.
The skunk’s stripe he had died pink;

I think, to rage against the Man.

He had no plan;

And, now, he just wanted to slam-dunk his junk.
“No!” said the Ellie

“You are still a bit smelly;

And ‘I’ need my trunk,

You silly young skunk;

Why don’t you put your junk into storage?”
The skunk was shocked;

His little world was rocked;

He’d never seen a talking elephant before.

He turned his tail

And encountered a whale

That had storage

For sale,

In a shed,

In a tent,

By the shore.

The Ning!

image

The Ning – 11-10-2015

I saw a ‘Ning’
The other day
Upon the moor
It was a moor Ning
‘Haha!’ I hear you say
But, that may be just my imagination
Gone astray.

In some other reality
Some other universe
Where, when it comes to poetry
The worse the verse the better
Which is quite perverse
Or, even, just the ‘reverse’
Of here.
There, there may be some hope for me
(Do you see?)
A parallel dimension
Where I could be the king
Of their poetry thing –
Now wouldn’t that be nice…
Sorry? You’re going to buy me a one-way ticket there… whatever the price!
Goodness!

In the queue (I was not)

image

I saw you in the queue;
In fact I saw two of you –
How strange!

You were second in the queue;
And you were also fourth in the queue –
How strange!

After the one in front of you
You would be next –
But, you would look strange
If you were at the start of the queue –
Uqueue!

And if a Uqueue had three of you
I don’t really know what I would do
But, thinking about it
I wasn’t in the queue.

Was e?

I am Just a Silent Bee

Listen... can you hear me?

Listen… can you hear me?

I am just a silent bee
In a hive mind of like mentality
You cannot hear them or me
We are as silent as we can be.

And here’s the rub
“Buzz! Buzz!” Is not uz
No “Rub-a-dub-dub!”
We are as quiet as the quietest church mouze
We wouldn’t want to cause a fuzz.

And if you ever did hear uz
We wouldn’t be going “Buzzety Buzz!”
While we were a tooing and a froing;
We’d be singing
(ever so quietly)
“Honey, honey, honey…
Must be funny…”
Which
Strangely enough
Was written by a bee
Bee a…

Ode to a Pen (is this an…)

A pen

A pen

Ode to a pen

Oh, Pen
All hours you await my grip
And your ink
Is there for my words
Your life’s blood
Which you shed for the portrayal of my thoughts
Your every drop of essence
I put there upon the page of my creative output.

Oh, Pen
Without you…
I would seek another…
There is no fidelity in penmanship
And though I desire you when you are near
If you should splutter
Or run dry
Or incur a scratchy nib
Then I
The most malodorous of owners and users
Become a betrayer
To our trust

Oh, Pen
Up your heart
To see that this is how it is
Am I trite
To choose another
Implement to write
With?

Oh, Pen
With out you
There is only one course of action
For a pen is for but a season
Is that unreasonable
Unseasonable
Untenable
To you?

Oh, Pen
Is this poem that I have writ
A barely concealed euphemism
With such imagery within it
That your essence is not of ink, but..