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Telling porkies?

When the owl and the pussycat sailed their boat
where willowy seaweeds curled
How could they hope to keep afloat
in a rodomontader world?

Do quahogs and quince go well together
when eaten with runcible spoon?
If they weren’t bilious in mercurial weather
that was one miraculous moon!

Three-hundred and sixty-six days later
they could only have found that tree
thanks to a solar generator
don’t y’all agree?

If owls can only sing one song
and pussy cats cannot spell,
you’d think that book deal must go wrong…
yet Nursery Rhymes still sell.

Middle-aged mothers, slightly used,
seek male companions with dancing shoes.
Three hours a week, alternate eves.
No jackets required, just plain shirt sleeves.
No conversation – could be mute –
but smile compulsory – should be cute.
Musical talent considered a bonus,
unless it’s the bagpipes then please don’t phone us.
Must be able to dance the tango,
salsa, waltz, chacha and mambo,
rumba, jive and western swing
and anything else you can throw in.
Your own transport is required
(we’ve been there, done that, now retired).
And afterwards when dancing’s is done
you’d better look like you’ve had fun.
Just escort us from the door
to the carpark, nothing more.

Expectations

Expecting
my old jeans to fit
I pull out my winter woollies to find
I was mistaken
Expecting to go down St Anne’s lane
my dog’s nose points west
past Philippa’s fluffy hedge Lindy’s pristine verge
we zoom

(I was not
expecting it to rain)
When we return
wet and winded
the milk bucket stands empty
Winston winds round my legs
Expecting

Hello Ghost

“Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields
On—on—and out of sight!” – Siegfried Sassoon

Something borrowed, something blue
Said Ron “I have a book for you”
No author’s name upon the spine
Just says “Memoirs” – how divine
Published MCMXXVIII
Round World War I – my favourite date
(My choice of title must be right:
Just then the cat turned out the light)
Said Ron “It’s written by a poet”
Said I “Wouldn’t you just know it.”
I’m working on paper (for a break)
But who needs Google – piece of cake
No phone a friend or leave the room
Ron’s wife says “It’s Siegfried Sassoon.
So traumatised by senseless slaughter
(war is so much foul water
under the bridge) of beasts and men
‘horse’ he never said again.”
To cut a lengthy story short:
Now three more books I’ve bought.
No, dead people I don’t see,
but poets will always speak to me.

Close encounter

My Ridgeback met a Rottweiler
Yesterday when out on our walk
A gentleman’s disagreement
Luckily little more than talk

(My terrier assures me that this rhymes most beautifully in the original.)

After the ballet

How do I love you? Let me count the ways.
I love you to the depth and breadth and height
That you can leap, across the darkest night,
spanning silence, vaulting time and space.
I love you to the level I can praise
your pirouettes, which dazzle, spinning light.
I love you freely, as you give delight.
I love you purely, for your feline grace.
I love you for the passion that can fuse
all eyes on you, who dominates the stage.
I love you with a love that will return
whenever there’s an orchestra to play
a tune to set you dancing. Now to earn
the cash to watch you dance another day.

– Posted on a rebound from yesterday’s “persona” poem, with apologies to Betty.

Power to the Penguin!

I’m the Penguin and I’m willin’ to do any killin’
It’s Batman that I’m dissin’, like a snake I am hissin’:
That rat’s gotta go. Get him out this hood. Yo!
You tuning me why? I’ll tell you no lie:
I’m a villain and I’m chillin’ till Batman I’m killin’
To a bird that can’t fly, he’s the rodent of the sky.

I don’t need no zoot suit, your tuxedos make me toot.
You tune me my umbrella’s cute? Man, it’s a poison parachute!
The nightclub I’m a’runnin’ like an iceberg where I’m sunnin’
Sitting cool or take a dive, digging shark shooters jive.
I’m a villain and I’m chillin’ till Batman I’m killin’
To a bird that can’t fly, he’s the rodent of the sky.

I ‘m better like a breeze, and I’m sharp like a cheese.
I’m gonna braise his beef, show him I’m the real chief
of the hood. It’s no good until that’s understood.
See I’ll get Batman hopping: I’m the Penguin and I’m popping!
I’m a villain and I’m chillin’ till Batman I’m killin’
To a bird that can’t fly, he’s the rodent of the sky.

Haiku

telephone faultsman

working weekends

small boy peeps out the cab

Blockbuster?

No love lost and no love found

I am working barren ground

Thrust the spade and turn the soil

Unadulterated toil

Phoned a friend for her advice

far too early (wasn’t nice)

Put the kettle on to boil

Left my sandwich, let it spoil

“Have a drink – I am buying!”

(sleepless, there’s no point in trying)

I am working round the clock

just walking words around the block

Breakfast in bed

P1000717
Early dawn surprise
Winston leaps upon my bed
asking to be fed
but still better in my eyes
than presenting something dead