Capital Notion
They’re funny things, these Proper Nouns,
They’re Folks and Brands and Months and Towns,
And once achieved, each Noun then gives
Us just-as-Proper Adjectives.
Capital Notion
Category: Short Pieces
Breathless
Breathless
And a great stillness then knew me,
As a lightness of thought did rock me then.
I thought how the Lord had come to me;
Alas, it was but lack of oxygen.
Each Word is a Species
Each Word is a Species
Un·in·ter·es·ted – so dictionaries claim
Has meaning specific, restricted by rules;
Dis·in·ter·es·ted – it now means the same
To ev’ryday users of linguistic tools.
So Dis has migrated to Un’s patch of speak;
Is language more poverished ? Meaning dis-hanced ?
Nat’ral selection defavours the weak,
But look how im·par·tial is grabbing its chance.
A Great British Tradition
A Great British Tradition
The banks all held a holiday, with ev’ryone invited:
These pin-striped bowler-hatted gents were thoroughly delighted
To paddle in the briny sea with crowds of day-trip workers,
And hike the green and pleasant hills and join the mansion-lurkers.
They greeted bakers, plumbers, teachers, ev’ryone from ev’ry measure;
Watched the doctors, taxmen, postmen, ev’ryone about their leisure.
’Cept for those, of course, who had no need for such a lazy day,
Because these reckless banker shits had stolen all their jobs away.
Skywriting
Skywriting
Infact, they both used pencils
Up until Nineteen Sixty-Seven,
When a privately-researched pen was announced
And NASA and Cosmonauts quickly renounced
Those flammable, lead-shedding pencils –
Americans first, with Apollo 7.
They should be so proud, that commie space-guys
Are writing with Yankie-most free-enterprise.
Open Season
Open Season
August is a month that’s open wide,
When windows welcome in outside
And shoulders sport their freckled with a pride.
August is a month of empty woes,
Of open necks and open toes,
And bright unfolded blooms upon the rose.
August is a month of busy highs,
With covered heads and shaded eyes,
But still with smiles as open as the skies.
Niggles & Naggles
Niggles & Naggles
I’ve always suspected, vaguely,
Though I’ve never attempted to probe –
But it simmers away to plague me
At the back of my frontal lobe.
Of course, of course, I don’t dwell long,
But it’s never, not really, quite forgot;
Of course, of course, I could be wrong,
But of course I think I’m not.
