Tag Archives: #soc

A poem about clouds

If you had to write

a poem about clouds,

how would you begin?

Would you go outside

and look at the clouds,

or would you stay in?

Could you imagine the clouds

floating above your head?

Or would you you have to espy them



“I espy with my little eye,

something beginning with C!”

Xylophones are for dummies!

Xylophones, the musical sort,

are purely for begonias.

I know, that makes little sense,

but, what does, these days?

Would that I could—

Would that I could

write pure, unadulterated poetry;

but, it is beyond me.

Far, far, beyond;

over the hills

and far, far away;

and, also, not something

that I care to do.

But, I could…

if I wanted to,

but, I do not want

to float like a cloud,

compare thee to a bee,

or charge happily

into the valley of death,

That’s so old hat,

and I am not one for old hats,

and that’s the truth –

I have the attributes of youth—

okay, so I make stuff up,

that is my cup.

Where did you think that was going?

I write this, and I had no way of knowing.

Variously attributed to—

I would just like to mention,

that some of my words

have been used by other writers

and other poets

in ‘their’ works.


Would also just like to mention

them here.

My thanks must go to Alfred, Lord Tennyson

for my use of his word, ‘green’’;

to Anon for the word, ‘Gubbins’,

and to Dorothy L. Sayers

for ‘bloodline’ and ‘chivalric’.

In fact, there are only two words

in my writing

that I can lay claim to –

and one of those is ‘Badriomaku’.

Under certain circumstances—

Under African skies…

under the doctor…

Under milk wood…

Underground, overground…

Under certain circumstances

any of the above

would probably be useful;

but, not in this one.

I shall choose the opening phrase

of this work of some delicacy,

to set the scene for what follows –

if I didn’t,

what sort of fool would you take me for?


PS I missed Underfloor heating.

Over the hills, and…

“Over the Hills?”

“No, I’ll never get over them.”


This is the sort of thing that I write –

and it’s perfectly alright.

To my mind, anyway.

Stream-of-Consciousness like –

an Orange Tip butterfly

has just checked me out,

I doubt he (for it was a male)

could work out

quite what he did see.

One of the ‘Hoomans’

tapping at a small box.

BTW if you translate.

‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’

into another language,

it doesn’t work in the way it was intended.

‘Léim an sionnach donn mear thar an madra leisciúil’

for instance.

See, it no longer works.

And if you translated that into Turkish…

‘Hızlı kahverengi tilki tembel köpeğin üzerinden atladı’

the Turks would tell you

that that doesn’t work either.

And if we translate ‘that’ back into English…

‘The fast brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’

This will tell you

that there is something fundamentally wrong

with the world.

Or me.

Or both.

Now, where was I…?

Given the recent coverage—

Given the recent coverage

of events,

I need not bring you up to date –

at any rate,

more than to state


‘It wasn’t anything that I did

or said

that caused the whole darn thing.

I didn’t sing,



blow harmonies upon a Scottish thistle,

or traipse anything at all musical

across your doorstep –

hep I ain’t!

Paint a picture? No.

At the attempt

I would faint.


Except for these—

Except for these words,

which are sacrosanct,

all of my other words

are of little or no value.

Take no heed,

when you read them,

as they are but poor and distant relatives

to the words written by the great writers.

The heroes of yesteryear

are mighty indeed;

and, let me not mislead you

when I say that I

am not worthy to lick their metrical feet,

and can no more compete with them

than a nail recite ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’.

Fade. To nothing. Leaving no trace.

Just a page of empty space.

And so it goes.

Dare I mention—

Dare I mention

that I’m in a different dimension

to most people;

not a parallel one,

but one that only briefly,

for a random second,

tangentially makes contact.

I reckoned that this is due

to me, more than to you;

and, to be perfectly honest,

who knows how to be honest perfectly?

See what I mean?

And another thing—

Furthermore, to what has gone before,

I would like to say,

in a roundabout sort of way,

that a ‘forced’ poem

upon my part,

does not work.

I shirk the effort

that is required

to make a turgid and tired

idea seem like new;

few are the times

when my ultimate rhymes

have been manipulated beyond a joke.

Spoke to a man the other day,

his name was Ray,

he had nothing to say.

And on it goes.