Tag Archives: #soc

Writing and Reading (at this moment in time)

At this moment in time,

I have posted upon WordPress

for one hundred and twenty-one

days in a row.

I have also read from my Kindle

for the past twenty-six days

(I miss a day, occasionally)

but, I have also read from my Kindle

for the past sixty-four weeks

(I miss a week ‘very’ occasionally).


I might have to thank a long list of authors,

and be thankful to a huge number of inspirational moments for the above,

but this is no place for speeches,

or peaches, as each is

inevitably, or invariably,

too long, under, or over ripe,

and very rarely at the correct

length, or ripeness for public proclamation.

As you can see from the above, writing is a thing.

Make of that what you will.

Me – a 10-minute SoCS write for Linda G Hill’s prompt.

See here for Linda G Hill’s website and prompts

Me. I, Myself? What can I possibly say that will convince you to choose between the three of them? You may love Me, be passionate about I, or still have deep feelings for Myself, but will you be able to whittle down the three to just the one?

I knows you for what you are, and you don’t fool Me, let alone your being cared for by Myself.

You and I? Me and someone like You? Myself, I would protect you from Myself, unlike Me.

Me and his shadow, I and another like Him, Al by Myself, seeking insider information?

You tell Me. And I shall be Here beside Myself. I cannot tell You, or so he told Me. As to Myself, I cannot understand Myself, and He cannot understand Me. She doesn’t believe in Me, and I understands Me only too well. Tell You Me this: should I work it out for Myself, or He for Me?

What I really wants to know is, when it comes to Me, is He actually working for Himself? Or am I?

You may understand all of this, but I has lost the plot, and He really hasn’t ever known what was going on. Myself, I liked, but He hates Me.

Your printer is haunted #SoC

You may

or may not


but your printer is haunted.

Think upon that for a moment…




or just plain old indifferent?

Well, I just must here tell you,

that less than one percent of computers

are possessed.

Of that one percent, less than one percent

of those are haunted.

of that one percent of one percent,

only two point four percent of those

are low on their Cerulean ink levels.

Imagine… printing off an A4 poster where the sky is a pale green

and not a vivid blue!

Your printer is haunted.

Take it from me

that it’s going to haunt you.

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.

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…?