Category: Nonsense

Poetry Briefing

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Photo by Miguel u00c1. Padriu00f1u00e1n on Pexels.com

Poetry Briefing

I should have written a shorter verse,
Where a couplet’s too verbose –
As slim as is a haiku terse,
Or a limerick at most.
A sestet tops, or a triolet,
Or a nonet’s fading ghost –
As tightly as a minuet
When sent by pigeon post.

I never should have waffled-on
Beyond the break, you see –
All trace of pithiness was gone,
As the twelve-bar blues run free.
If sonnet-length should not be crossed,
I should curtail this spree –
But no – I fear all hope is lost
As the ballads call to me…

Winter Jacks

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Autumn Afternoon by Jane Jones

     Winter Jacks

Jack Frost and Jack Thaw,
Mortal enemies –
Fighting over water drops
In air and stone and trees.
Jack Frost gets in early,
But then Jack Thaw wins the day,
But once the Sun has set, we see
Jack Frost come out to play.

Those Two Impostors

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Out of the Square by Cesar Santos

Those Two Impostors

So there I was, a Son of Martha,
Making my way in the world.
I knew that I could keep my head
’Gainst any Brown Bess girl.

But that was ere I met my match
With Triumph and Disaster –
A pair of Ladies of Many Dreams
As clever as Aggie de Castrer.

They played my heart for pitch & toss,
With a swish of skirt in the dew –
With broken dinner knives, they dug,
To plant their roses blue.

Why did I go with the grey widow-maker
Upon my young-man’s feet ?
Oh, how I wish I’d walked by myself,
Where never the twain shall meet.

But I shall hang from the highest hill
On the road to Mandalay.
How far is St Helena now
From a lonely shilling-a-day ?

But no – don’t deal in lies –
For if a dog has torn my heart,
As it’s moving up and down again,
It’s just because I gladly played my part.

Don’t let cold iron be my master
While the gentlemen go by –
For the female of the species
Is a better man than I.

Languid Curlicues

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Languid Curlicues

“Poetry editors are in revolt against the overuse of certain florid words.”

– Poetry How

Cliches seep into my verse,
Those myriad shards of shrouded thought –
Reflections on the torrid motes I nurse,
So pent and overwrought.
I strive to excise each as it freights
Through my ever-cloistered, fevered mind,
Yet their crimson soul still percolates
To leave a palimpsest behind.

The Groaning Trencher

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from a listing on AliExpress

The Groaning Trencher

Sometimes, falls the Burns Night on the number two New Moon,
That will open the cacoon of a brand New Year –
So the neeps and cock-a-leekie get to share the serving spoon
As the beansprouts and the riceballs soon appear.
From the docks of old Kowloon to the mists of Brigadoon,
So it all goes in the haggis, and the bamboo pipes the tune –
As we all sup down together, from New Scotland Yard to Scone,
In a typhoon of lampoons and tartan cheer.
Now maybe I am nothing but a Sassenach poltroon,
From the billabongs of Perth, and through the snows of Saskatoon –
But a shortbread in my green tea on a global afternoon,
And the paddy-fields of glens are very near.

Can I just say what a wonderfully weird experience it is to hear someone read Address to the Haggis in an unapologetically RP accent ?

Brass Neck

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An amended image from the original computer modelling by Darren Naish & Donald Henderson.

Brass Neck

All mammals can swim,
Or least, can float,
Just paddle each limb
And be the boat.
It may be slow,
And lacking grace,
But it lets them row
To a dryer place.

Even the elephant,
Hedgehog, or bat,
Even the fattest
Or scardiest cat,
Even the kangaroo,
Aardvaark, or aye-aye –
You know why it’s true ?
Cos they’re mammals, that’s why !

All, that is, except for one –
The landlubber giraffe.
Once evolution had its fun,
They’re not safe in the bath.
It’s strange the way that they capsize,
You’d think they’d learn to cope
When possessed of long and mighty thighs,
And a built-in periscope.

But on the land
They look such gentry,
Tall and grand
When standing sentry.
They are the backlash
To the trout,
Who make a splash
By standing out.

Online Ovines

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Do Androiods Dream of Electric Sheep by Cooper Hill

Online Ovines

When I first heard of what made androids dream,
I wanted to know much more –
Like where are the hordes of electric sheep
All under the crook of a cyber-Beau Peep ?
Yet ev’ry pasture dotted with white may teem
With robotic ewes by the score,
And so well made are these flocks of steel,
They bleat and follow just like real…
Do their eyeballs glow with a laser beam
That the ravens quake before ?
Are their horns antennas, warning of fox ?
Does their wool discharge with electric shocks ?
I swear these sheep aren’t all they seem,
It’s folly to just ignore…
For the folds are filling with a new kind of lamb,
A bellwether seeking to upgrade their ram.

Carapace Steeplechase

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Carapace Steeplechase

The pangolin and the armadillo
Are worthy mounts for a knight,
Though they only ever battle ants,
And their snouts are lacking a bite.

With a pingo-pongo-pangolino,
Clanking, swanking, tank–bambino –
Overcoat from head to toe –
Hi-ho for a skin of nails !

They’re faster than the tortoises,
And faster than the snails –
With scutes from shoulder-blades to boots,
In a bodysuit of scales.

But the armadillo and the pangolin
Are secret devils for a thrill –
They curl-up in their tightest balls
And roll full-tilt downhill.

With an armadilla-dilla-dilly-day-oh,
With a three-band-six-band-nine-band-go,
In a concertina rodeo –
Hi-ho for the bonded mail !

They’re tougher than the rhino,
And they’re tougher than the whale –
With clout – from a stainless-steel snout
To a tinplate-tempered tail.

Pangolin by Adam Tusk

Fit as a Fiddle

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Fit as a Fiddle

Violins are slim and light
To perch upon the shoulder so –
They mustn’t pile on extra wood,
Or lose their cinched-in waist for good.
For no-one wants to see the sight
Of a bloated bridge beneath the bow –
Don’t let the fretboard become baggy,
Stop the strings from slouching saggy.
Play less heavy, play more bright,
And never let the tension go –
Work those quavers through their paces,
Else they’ll end up double-basses.

Shipshape

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Photo by Adi Perets on Pexels.com

Shipshape

Stage right is my right,
But my right ain’t your right,
So my right is your wrong,
And your long is my height.
But ships have got it sorted out,
No matter which way turned about.

I’m upstage left of down,
I’m out-bound and in-town,
So my step is your kerb,
And your verb is my noun.
But ships have got it followed-through,
Where starboards start and end on cue.

Stage right is my right
To see things through my sight,
So my late is your soon,
With high noon at midnight.
But ships have got it fair and square,
Where port is port, and over there.