Time to hop aboard the mighty poetical omnibus once more, ably driven by Titus, who set a prompt for us here. We were to write about aminal(s), specifically:
1) The Dolphin
2) The Gecko
3) The Panther
4) The Bushbaby
5) The Archerfish
6) The Kingfisher
7) The Harrier
8) The Ring-tailed Lemur
Well, the word 'panther' does appear in my poem below, so it qualifies for a ticket I suppose, but whether or not it qualifies as a proper pome, I cannot say. I am in silly mode (as usual). This trifle is best read aloud I think.
What Shall I Be?
If I were good at panthing
Then a panther I would be.
If couging were my forte
A cougar you would see.
In black and white pyjamas,
I’d probably look a dweeb.
But it looks so neat on Zeeebras
‘cos they know how to zeeb.
A lithe and slinky Boa
If bo-ing were my bag,
Or a deadly silent Jaguar
If only I could jag.
So, I guess I’ll have to settle
For the cat no-one can beat.
For there’s one thing that I’m sure of
I do know how to cheet.
Thinking about this kind of silliness reminded me of a children's television programme from my youth. It was called Animal Magic and was hosted by Johnny Morris, who used to do voices for the animals, as well as telling us all about them.
It's a classic! Here's a clip where Johnny and an orang-utan wax philiosophical about hats.
Showing posts with label The Poetry Bus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Poetry Bus. Show all posts
Saturday, 2 April 2011
Sunday, 20 March 2011
The Poetry Bus - Uiscebot's Odyssey
It's been a while....
Anyway, this week's Poetry Bus prompt comes from Uiscebot. We were to go somewhere new, experience it and write about it. There were some other bits as well - and a threat of death if rules were not followed.
I haven't been anywhere new lately (no time) so wrote about a place which was very new to me when I visited it in 2004 - China. Everywhere we went, hordes of people would appear from nowhere with cries of Hello! Hello! and try to sell us 'genuine' Rolexes, Chairman Mao watches and other gewgaws. We nicknamed these folks the Hello People.
The Hello People
Here are the Hello People,
Crowding excitedly round us,
Hemming us in,
As we alight from bus, train or plane.
Here are the Hello People.
All black eyes, outstretched hands
And big false grins
You buy? Very cheap! You buy?
Here are the Hello People.
They hunt in unruly packs
Our fat western wallets
Are their quarry.
Here are the Hello People.
We should buy, shouldn’t we?
Help the struggling poor?
Make them like us.
Make them like us.
Anyway, this week's Poetry Bus prompt comes from Uiscebot. We were to go somewhere new, experience it and write about it. There were some other bits as well - and a threat of death if rules were not followed.
I haven't been anywhere new lately (no time) so wrote about a place which was very new to me when I visited it in 2004 - China. Everywhere we went, hordes of people would appear from nowhere with cries of Hello! Hello! and try to sell us 'genuine' Rolexes, Chairman Mao watches and other gewgaws. We nicknamed these folks the Hello People.
The Hello People
Here are the Hello People,
Crowding excitedly round us,
Hemming us in,
As we alight from bus, train or plane.
Here are the Hello People.
All black eyes, outstretched hands
And big false grins
You buy? Very cheap! You buy?
Here are the Hello People.
They hunt in unruly packs
Our fat western wallets
Are their quarry.
Here are the Hello People.
We should buy, shouldn’t we?
Help the struggling poor?
Make them like us.
Make them like us.
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
The Poerty Bus - A Calculated Revenge
I wasn't going to ride the bus this week (and after you've heard what I've posted, you may well wish I hadn't!)
Anyway, Lydia of Emerging Writer fame, offered such a delicious prompt that I just could not resist. I chose the option of writing a Tim Minchin-style revenge song. Actually, I don't know what the other prompts are because she had me at revenge, if I'm honest. To see the prompt and watch a video of how these things really should be done, go here.
You can listen to my song by scrolling down to the last track in my ReverbNation doo-hickey over there on the right sidebar.
Or, if you value your lug-holes, you can just read it....
O Miss Chapman
When I was just a spotty kid
New in my second year
There was a certain teacher there
Who filled my heart with fear.
Miss Chapman was this witch’s name,
Maths teacher, heartless cow!
Though thirty years have come and gone
I’d love to meet you now.
Oh, Miss Chapman
How did it come to be
That you should take such grim delight,
Making life so hard for me?
From minute one, it all went wrong
To this day I see you frown.
And all because I wrote my name
On your desk plan upside down.
My eyesight wasn’t good enough
The blackboard for to see.
Would it have really killed you
To write it out for me?
O Miss Chapman
I was really keen to learn.
But you always thought the worst of me,
Marked me down at every turn.
Now I know I should forgive you
Forgiveness is divine.
But I am just a sinful soul
Wishing vengeance would be mine!
All these years I’ve nursed a grudge
It’s not healthy, this I know.
But I think I finally see a way
That will help me let it go.
‘Cos I learned some maths In spite of you
Oh how useful it will be!
When it comes to calculating
A bullet’s trajectory.
O Miss Chapman
Who knew maths could be such fun!
And had such a useful bearing
On the aiming of a gun.
Other useful formulae
That once to us you showed,
Let me calculate the Semtex needed
To make your car explode.
And trig, it has its uses
Though you made it seem so dull.
I worked out the perfect angle
For my axe to split your skull.
O Miss Chapman
I solved it, dare I boast?
The quantity of petrol
That will turn you into toast.
Now I know that on that Judgement Day
My soul it will be weighed
And I’ll be held accountable
For all these threats I’ve made
But in my own defence I’d plead,
I’d try to make them see
I wouldn’t have these murd’rous thoughts
Had you ONCE been kind to me.
O Miss Chapman
You really were a pill!
You still evoke the urge in me
To hurt, to main, to kill.
O Miss Chapman
I know I’ll burn in Hell
But I don’t give a flying fig
‘Cos you’ll be there as well!
‘Cos you’ll be there as well!
‘Cos you’ll be there as well!
I have yet another sneaking suspicion I've nicked that last stanza off somebody. Apologies to whoever it might be.
Anyway, Lydia of Emerging Writer fame, offered such a delicious prompt that I just could not resist. I chose the option of writing a Tim Minchin-style revenge song. Actually, I don't know what the other prompts are because she had me at revenge, if I'm honest. To see the prompt and watch a video of how these things really should be done, go here.
You can listen to my song by scrolling down to the last track in my ReverbNation doo-hickey over there on the right sidebar.
Or, if you value your lug-holes, you can just read it....
O Miss Chapman
When I was just a spotty kid
New in my second year
There was a certain teacher there
Who filled my heart with fear.
Miss Chapman was this witch’s name,
Maths teacher, heartless cow!
Though thirty years have come and gone
I’d love to meet you now.
Oh, Miss Chapman
How did it come to be
That you should take such grim delight,
Making life so hard for me?
From minute one, it all went wrong
To this day I see you frown.
And all because I wrote my name
On your desk plan upside down.
My eyesight wasn’t good enough
The blackboard for to see.
Would it have really killed you
To write it out for me?
O Miss Chapman
I was really keen to learn.
But you always thought the worst of me,
Marked me down at every turn.
Now I know I should forgive you
Forgiveness is divine.
But I am just a sinful soul
Wishing vengeance would be mine!
All these years I’ve nursed a grudge
It’s not healthy, this I know.
But I think I finally see a way
That will help me let it go.
‘Cos I learned some maths In spite of you
Oh how useful it will be!
When it comes to calculating
A bullet’s trajectory.
O Miss Chapman
Who knew maths could be such fun!
And had such a useful bearing
On the aiming of a gun.
Other useful formulae
That once to us you showed,
Let me calculate the Semtex needed
To make your car explode.
And trig, it has its uses
Though you made it seem so dull.
I worked out the perfect angle
For my axe to split your skull.
O Miss Chapman
I solved it, dare I boast?
The quantity of petrol
That will turn you into toast.
Now I know that on that Judgement Day
My soul it will be weighed
And I’ll be held accountable
For all these threats I’ve made
But in my own defence I’d plead,
I’d try to make them see
I wouldn’t have these murd’rous thoughts
Had you ONCE been kind to me.
O Miss Chapman
You really were a pill!
You still evoke the urge in me
To hurt, to main, to kill.
O Miss Chapman
I know I’ll burn in Hell
But I don’t give a flying fig
‘Cos you’ll be there as well!
‘Cos you’ll be there as well!
‘Cos you’ll be there as well!
I have yet another sneaking suspicion I've nicked that last stanza off somebody. Apologies to whoever it might be.
Monday, 27 December 2010
The Poetry Bus looks a gift-horse in the mouth
I'm finally back at the bus stop after a several-week absence. My word-hoard has been as empty as my wallet after Christmas. Today, however, I managed to scrape together enough poor coins for the fare.
This week, Muse Swings has set us the task of writing about the worst gift we ever received.
This poem, although written in the present tense, describes a gifting of many years ago.
Click on Muse Swing's link above for the original prompt and the links to other bus passengers. Have a go yourself, there's still time.
The Gift
America, America, home of the brave and free
Land of milk and honey, and of opportunitee.
A land o'erflowing with good things, to see, to eat, to wear.
So what d'you think my mum-in-law has brought me back from there?
Has she brought me Wranglers, or Nikes at cost price?
Has she got a camera? A Walkman would be nice!
Perhaps some Hershey's Kisses, or some other candy sweet.
Just some little trinket, just some little treat.
Now, I know she's tried her hardest and this gift is kindly meant.
There are no hidden messages - to please is her intent.
So can anybody tell me, can someone make it clear
Why she's brought me back a dishcloth, when we HAVE THEM OVER HERE!
This week, Muse Swings has set us the task of writing about the worst gift we ever received.
This poem, although written in the present tense, describes a gifting of many years ago.
Click on Muse Swing's link above for the original prompt and the links to other bus passengers. Have a go yourself, there's still time.
The Gift
America, America, home of the brave and free
Land of milk and honey, and of opportunitee.
A land o'erflowing with good things, to see, to eat, to wear.
So what d'you think my mum-in-law has brought me back from there?
Has she brought me Wranglers, or Nikes at cost price?
Has she got a camera? A Walkman would be nice!
Perhaps some Hershey's Kisses, or some other candy sweet.
Just some little trinket, just some little treat.
Now, I know she's tried her hardest and this gift is kindly meant.
There are no hidden messages - to please is her intent.
So can anybody tell me, can someone make it clear
Why she's brought me back a dishcloth, when we HAVE THEM OVER HERE!
Sunday, 31 October 2010
The Poetry Bus - Trick or Treat, Sick or Sweet
It's Halloween, Samhain, Day of the Dead, call it what you will. It's that creepy time of year when winter really starts to get his teeth into the ailing year. The clocks have gone back and soon it'll be Christmas (which is more scary, if you ask me).
So, this week's prompting by liz over here, was about the spook-fest of Halloween. Being a poet of little brain, I couldn't manage a triolet, so here's my doggerel, which may just about fit the prompt of 'Pardon Me While I Scream'. Or not. Anyhoo, go to Liz's link above to find some proper poems.
A Witch's Lament
There was a time, the old witch said
(Absently boiling a baby's head)
That folk would tremble at our name
But lately things just aren't the same.
There was a time, the old witch cried
(Tossing ears like pancakes, as they fried)
When we sailed the moonlight on our broom
Now it sweeps cobwebs from the room.
There was a time, the old witch boasted
(Prodding at puppies as they roasted)
When we'd blind the eye, and the mind beguile
I must admit, it's been awhile.
There was a time, the old witch muttered
(Laying out fingers, all nicely buttered)
When we'd freeze the blood, cause hearts to quail
Not star in some popular children's tale
There was a time, the old witch moaned
(Arranging kittens, all neatly boned)
When we were dark as dark could be
But now it seems, we're all P.C.
There was a time, the old witch said
(Still a-boiling that baby's head)
When to be a witch was to be a rotter.
But no more, thanks to Goody-Two-Shoes Potter!
So, this week's prompting by liz over here, was about the spook-fest of Halloween. Being a poet of little brain, I couldn't manage a triolet, so here's my doggerel, which may just about fit the prompt of 'Pardon Me While I Scream'. Or not. Anyhoo, go to Liz's link above to find some proper poems.
A Witch's Lament
There was a time, the old witch said
(Absently boiling a baby's head)
That folk would tremble at our name
But lately things just aren't the same.
There was a time, the old witch cried
(Tossing ears like pancakes, as they fried)
When we sailed the moonlight on our broom
Now it sweeps cobwebs from the room.
There was a time, the old witch boasted
(Prodding at puppies as they roasted)
When we'd blind the eye, and the mind beguile
I must admit, it's been awhile.
There was a time, the old witch muttered
(Laying out fingers, all nicely buttered)
When we'd freeze the blood, cause hearts to quail
Not star in some popular children's tale
There was a time, the old witch moaned
(Arranging kittens, all neatly boned)
When we were dark as dark could be
But now it seems, we're all P.C.
There was a time, the old witch said
(Still a-boiling that baby's head)
When to be a witch was to be a rotter.
But no more, thanks to Goody-Two-Shoes Potter!
Thursday, 21 October 2010
The Poetry Bus - Meetings, bloody meetings
Meetings, meetings, meetings….
In the workplace, they are places to spend hours of your precious life daydreaming and/or longing for death, listening to some boring old fart droning on and on (of course, you might BE the boring old fart, which is almost as bad).
Elsewhere, they can be a thing of mystery, excitement and anticipation, or blind chance, holding out the promise of new things, of change, or the renewal of something long-forgotten.
So this week’s ticket to ride should be something connected with meetings. Any kind, anywhere with anybody or anything.
So get scribbling and when done, leave a comment here and I will construct linky-things.
I've had my entire weekend written off with a cold, so apologies, but I'm just going to publish the links without any clever references to their contents. My effort is below:
Meeting Me
If I could meet my 20-year-old self
I'd fetch her such a slap,
For being such a dozy cow,
For being clueless and timid
And not seizing the world
That was her oyster back then.
But most of all, I'd slap her face
Good and hard,
Shake her by the shoulders
And scream
Into her uncomprehending face
"Don't turn into me!"
The Passenger list....
Dr FTSE
Stammering Poet
Karen
Muse Swings
Rachel
Pateran
Weaver
120 Socks
TotalFeckinEejit
Enchanted Oak
NanU
Jinksy
Niamh B
Titus
The Bug
Carolina Linthead
Mrs Trellis
Jeanne Iris
The Watercats (and all the things)
Don't Feed the Pixies
Poetikat
Emerging Writer
In the workplace, they are places to spend hours of your precious life daydreaming and/or longing for death, listening to some boring old fart droning on and on (of course, you might BE the boring old fart, which is almost as bad).
Elsewhere, they can be a thing of mystery, excitement and anticipation, or blind chance, holding out the promise of new things, of change, or the renewal of something long-forgotten.
So this week’s ticket to ride should be something connected with meetings. Any kind, anywhere with anybody or anything.
So get scribbling and when done, leave a comment here and I will construct linky-things.
I've had my entire weekend written off with a cold, so apologies, but I'm just going to publish the links without any clever references to their contents. My effort is below:
Meeting Me
If I could meet my 20-year-old self
I'd fetch her such a slap,
For being such a dozy cow,
For being clueless and timid
And not seizing the world
That was her oyster back then.
But most of all, I'd slap her face
Good and hard,
Shake her by the shoulders
And scream
Into her uncomprehending face
"Don't turn into me!"
The Passenger list....
Dr FTSE
Stammering Poet
Karen
Muse Swings
Rachel
Pateran
Weaver
120 Socks
TotalFeckinEejit
Enchanted Oak
NanU
Jinksy
Niamh B
Titus
The Bug
Carolina Linthead
Mrs Trellis
Jeanne Iris
The Watercats (and all the things)
Don't Feed the Pixies
Poetikat
Emerging Writer
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
The Poetry Bus - Magic Roundabout Spin
This week's excursion aboard the noble charabanc of dreams is hosted by Rachel Fox, poet extraordinare who set us a challenge here to produce something based around childhood characters or stories.
Go here for all the other passengers. Now then, let's see.
Hmmm.
As a kid, I loved things like Star Trek, Space: 1999 (it's OK, I've over that one now) and my most beloved toys were Major Matt Mason and Action Man. Could these be the stuff of poetry? Errr. No.
OK, come on think, think!
Nothing?
Ok, DON'T think, maybe that's the key. Hmm, now that the monkey-chattering has stopped, just on the edge of my mental hearing comes the tiniest thread of a tune, dragging an idea along in its wake....
The rough-as-old-boots recording of this song is the last track in my ReverbNation widget over on the right. I sound like I have a cold, but I don't.
MAGIC ROUNDABOUT SPIN
Remember when we were just children,
With our heads full of nursery rhyme.
And with each summer's day came a new game to play,
With always one more tree to climb.
There was always some water to splash in,
A net full of newts we would catch.
Scrumping our tea from the old apple tree
As our secrets and plots we would hatch.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Spin me a magical tale.
Magic Faraway Tree, oh, won't you carry me
To that country where good things prevail.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Let me ride and play 'let us pretend'
Magic Faraway Tree, oh won't you carry me
Can't you turn back the clock, my old friend?
But we grew up as all children should do,
And we put aside those childish things.
The swings and the slides, all the places to hide
No more pulling off butterflies' wings.
Now the years, they have spun by in seconds,
All are gone in the blink of an eye.
We grew up, learnt a trade, there were bills to be paid
No more dreaming of pie in the sky.
Now the roundabout stands still and silent
Its music no more shall I hear.
The Faraway tree will not blossom for me
It's too late to replant it I Fear.
For time's arrow will fly only forwards
This is the lesson we learn
The play and the laughter are for those who come after
The roundabout gave us our turn.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Whirling orange and yellow and red.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Till Zebedee says 'Time for bed'.
OK, it still needs work and it's a lot of old cliched cobblers, but there it is.
Go here for all the other passengers. Now then, let's see.
Hmmm.
As a kid, I loved things like Star Trek, Space: 1999 (it's OK, I've over that one now) and my most beloved toys were Major Matt Mason and Action Man. Could these be the stuff of poetry? Errr. No.
OK, come on think, think!
Nothing?
Ok, DON'T think, maybe that's the key. Hmm, now that the monkey-chattering has stopped, just on the edge of my mental hearing comes the tiniest thread of a tune, dragging an idea along in its wake....
The rough-as-old-boots recording of this song is the last track in my ReverbNation widget over on the right. I sound like I have a cold, but I don't.
MAGIC ROUNDABOUT SPIN
Remember when we were just children,
With our heads full of nursery rhyme.
And with each summer's day came a new game to play,
With always one more tree to climb.
There was always some water to splash in,
A net full of newts we would catch.
Scrumping our tea from the old apple tree
As our secrets and plots we would hatch.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Spin me a magical tale.
Magic Faraway Tree, oh, won't you carry me
To that country where good things prevail.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Let me ride and play 'let us pretend'
Magic Faraway Tree, oh won't you carry me
Can't you turn back the clock, my old friend?
But we grew up as all children should do,
And we put aside those childish things.
The swings and the slides, all the places to hide
No more pulling off butterflies' wings.
Now the years, they have spun by in seconds,
All are gone in the blink of an eye.
We grew up, learnt a trade, there were bills to be paid
No more dreaming of pie in the sky.
Now the roundabout stands still and silent
Its music no more shall I hear.
The Faraway tree will not blossom for me
It's too late to replant it I Fear.
For time's arrow will fly only forwards
This is the lesson we learn
The play and the laughter are for those who come after
The roundabout gave us our turn.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Whirling orange and yellow and red.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Till Zebedee says 'Time for bed'.
OK, it still needs work and it's a lot of old cliched cobblers, but there it is.
Tuesday, 21 September 2010
The Poetry Bus - Do You Take This Man...?
I'm late for the Poetry Bus, the very Poetry Bus I'm hosting on behalf of Don't Feed the Pixies (who is BACK, by the way).
The challenge was to write something that could be read at a non-religious wedding - and it should not give the reader instant diabetes with its sugariness.
For the original challenge and everybody else's pomes go here.
The challenge was to write something that could be read at a non-religious wedding - and it should not give the reader instant diabetes with its sugariness.
For the original challenge and everybody else's pomes go here.
Only Human
I am only human.
And there will be times
When I’ve been stubborn,
When I’ve been stupid,
When I’ve not been kind,
When you will wish
You had not braved the thorns,
Stormed the castle and kissed me awake.
You are only human
And there will be times
When you’ve not been patient,
When you’ve not listened,
When you’ve been thoughtless,
When I will wish
I had not seen that frog on the lily-pad
And kissed him into a prince.
We are only human
Living a real life, not a fairy tale.
We are only human
Not Frog-prince and Sleeping Beauty.
We are only human,
And, happy ever after or not,
Fairy tales have endings.
Our love does not.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Poetry Bus - Don't Feed the Pixies Challenge
Due to unforseen disasters, Don't Feed the Pixies has asked me to post his challenge for the Poetry Bus. Note, the is HIS challenge, not mine (mine would have had 62% more otters in it)..
Usual toot, when you've done yer pome, leave a comment here and I'll do the linkies on Monday next.
Anyway...... over to Don't Feed The Pixies...
Hi y'all in Blogging land - just a message from us Pixies from beyond the grave. Don't Feed The Pixies is no more and I'm not sure what is going to happen long term regarding blogging right now: too much going on in my head. I will, however, stick to the few outstanding commitments I have and post the Poetry Bus challenge via a willing helper :)
This week I would like you all to write a pome suitable for a non-denominational wedding. In this country the law is quite clear that you can't mention God or religion at all unless you have a wedding at a church/synagogue/mosque etc - so no naughty mentioning of God.
Secondly - from personal preference, nothing too tacky, cheesy or ott sentimental - we're looking for a gentle warming of the cockles of the heart here. I'm hoping that someone will be kind enough to collate the pomes and send copies on to myself - but here's my effort below. It doesn't have a name (aww).
Though we walk through fields of fire
Our skins shall not be burned
Through the cold may soon surround us
We shall keep each other warm
Though the winds of change may shift our course
I think that you should know
Wherever you may travel now
My heart will surely go
In the ever changing seasons
You are constant, you are known
In a world of such confusion
You will never be alone
Though our feet may yet be taken down
New paths that we don’t know
Wherever you may travel now
My heart will surely go
Wherever you may travel now
My heart will surely go
*** PLEASE NOTE: the above is Don't Feed the Pixies's poem, not mine (much as I would like to claim it as my own) ***
Early Birds for the bus.....
Jeanne Iris flutters in first - here.
Peter Goulding bags a seat by the door here.
Doctor FTSE Avows here.
Heather warns us not to forgetti the confetti here.
Rachel is giving us tree-love here.
Jinksy gives us tragedy here.
... and then cheers us up here.
Bug is giving one of her cousins a gift here.
Titus gives it to us Romford-stylee here.
Niamh is giving us a taste of lurve here.
Muse Swings in the hurricane season here.
TotalFeckinEejit finds an unconventional love here.
Mrs Trellis is here.
Swiss is here.
Lydia is here.
Helen is here.
Enchanted Oak is here.
Argent finally gets going here.
Erratic Thoughts is a naive passenger here.
Izzy has hit 'post' and is here.
Usual toot, when you've done yer pome, leave a comment here and I'll do the linkies on Monday next.
Anyway...... over to Don't Feed The Pixies...
Hi y'all in Blogging land - just a message from us Pixies from beyond the grave. Don't Feed The Pixies is no more and I'm not sure what is going to happen long term regarding blogging right now: too much going on in my head. I will, however, stick to the few outstanding commitments I have and post the Poetry Bus challenge via a willing helper :)
This week I would like you all to write a pome suitable for a non-denominational wedding. In this country the law is quite clear that you can't mention God or religion at all unless you have a wedding at a church/synagogue/mosque etc - so no naughty mentioning of God.
Secondly - from personal preference, nothing too tacky, cheesy or ott sentimental - we're looking for a gentle warming of the cockles of the heart here. I'm hoping that someone will be kind enough to collate the pomes and send copies on to myself - but here's my effort below. It doesn't have a name (aww).
Though we walk through fields of fire
Our skins shall not be burned
Through the cold may soon surround us
We shall keep each other warm
Though the winds of change may shift our course
I think that you should know
Wherever you may travel now
My heart will surely go
In the ever changing seasons
You are constant, you are known
In a world of such confusion
You will never be alone
Though our feet may yet be taken down
New paths that we don’t know
Wherever you may travel now
My heart will surely go
Wherever you may travel now
My heart will surely go
*** PLEASE NOTE: the above is Don't Feed the Pixies's poem, not mine (much as I would like to claim it as my own) ***
Early Birds for the bus.....
Jeanne Iris flutters in first - here.
Peter Goulding bags a seat by the door here.
Doctor FTSE Avows here.
Heather warns us not to forgetti the confetti here.
Rachel is giving us tree-love here.
Jinksy gives us tragedy here.
... and then cheers us up here.
Bug is giving one of her cousins a gift here.
Titus gives it to us Romford-stylee here.
Niamh is giving us a taste of lurve here.
Muse Swings in the hurricane season here.
TotalFeckinEejit finds an unconventional love here.
Mrs Trellis is here.
Swiss is here.
Lydia is here.
Helen is here.
Enchanted Oak is here.
Argent finally gets going here.
Erratic Thoughts is a naive passenger here.
Izzy has hit 'post' and is here.
Monday, 30 August 2010
The Poetry Bus - Back to School
Schooldays are meant to be the happiest days of your life, right?
Maybe.
Some parts were ok, I suppose, but not all of it was enjoyable. Enjoyable or not, however, this week's Poetry Bus challenge, as set by Karen here is all about school. You can also click on the link to see what others came up with.
I chose to write about my least favorite lesson.
Bewildermath
Of all of my lessons, the worst one,
Was Maths, Monday morning, the first one.
Those Equations and Pi
And sine x and log y,
Made teenage existence a cursed one.
The teacher kept taking me through it
Showed me how to break down and construe it
Oh, BODMAS and FOIL
They made my blood boil
To this day, I can't bloody well do it!
The teacher, she thought me a duffer.
I didn't know enough stuff to bluff 'er.
She would call out my name
And put me to shame.
How I wanted to shoot 'er and stuff 'er!
Exam day came round and I blew it.
So fed up, that I simply slept through it.
Now Maths, I may lack
But it's not held me back,
'Cos I get the computer to do it!
Maybe.
Some parts were ok, I suppose, but not all of it was enjoyable. Enjoyable or not, however, this week's Poetry Bus challenge, as set by Karen here is all about school. You can also click on the link to see what others came up with.
I chose to write about my least favorite lesson.
Bewildermath
Of all of my lessons, the worst one,
Was Maths, Monday morning, the first one.
Those Equations and Pi
And sine x and log y,
Made teenage existence a cursed one.
The teacher kept taking me through it
Showed me how to break down and construe it
Oh, BODMAS and FOIL
They made my blood boil
To this day, I can't bloody well do it!
The teacher, she thought me a duffer.
I didn't know enough stuff to bluff 'er.
She would call out my name
And put me to shame.
How I wanted to shoot 'er and stuff 'er!
Exam day came round and I blew it.
So fed up, that I simply slept through it.
Now Maths, I may lack
But it's not held me back,
'Cos I get the computer to do it!
Wednesday, 25 August 2010
The Poetry Bus - Overslept
Well, the Muse stayed in bed all day Monday and Tuesday, the lazy mare. She finally showed up, half-dressed, her hair and make-up a complete mess and smelling of drink. I was going to send her home as being unfit for work but, hey, at least she got here in the end.
This week's challenge poetique was set here by Chiccoreal. I chose the morning-related prompt and this is what transpired:
Monday
The alarm’s diamond drill-bit
Whines, and cracks go spidering
Across the surface of my dreams.
The fish-head man, the flooded bathroom,
The argument we were about to have,
And the apples with human faces shatter and fall.
I unglue my eyes into waxy morning light.
I cannot yet escape the gravity-well of the duvet,
So I savour the delicious warm lethargy awhile.
But Monday is calling and will not be denied.
My bare feet touch the bedroom carpet
And I’m surprised it’s not covered in pieces of dream.
This week's challenge poetique was set here by Chiccoreal. I chose the morning-related prompt and this is what transpired:
Monday
The alarm’s diamond drill-bit
Whines, and cracks go spidering
Across the surface of my dreams.
The fish-head man, the flooded bathroom,
The argument we were about to have,
And the apples with human faces shatter and fall.
I unglue my eyes into waxy morning light.
I cannot yet escape the gravity-well of the duvet,
So I savour the delicious warm lethargy awhile.
But Monday is calling and will not be denied.
My bare feet touch the bedroom carpet
And I’m surprised it’s not covered in pieces of dream.
Monday, 9 August 2010
The Poetry Bus Summer Edition
This week, the Poetry Bus is being piloted once more by the learned Professor Jeanne Iris over at Revolutionary Revelry, where the challenges - for there be three of them - have been set.
I chose the prompt about summer. Now, my ticket may not be entirely valid for this journey as we were supposed to write about a sensory experience connected to a summer memory but, being a bit rubbish and a bit rushed, I thought I'd write about something a friend and I did when we were twelve, maybe thirteen. It is a summer thing, it is a memory, and it contains the word hottest, so I just hope the ticket inspector doesn't choose this journey to come and inspect our tickets.
Summer Quest
It was the brightest day of the hottest summer ever.
We were thirteen and we had a plan.
We had talked of it, thought of it, imagined it,
And now it was finally to be. Finding Day,
The day we were going to search for it.
We had seen it from the bus,
We had seen it from the road,
Peeking above the distant houses,
Geodesic, white and mysterious.
Avid devourers of Asimov, Wells,
Arthur C Clarke and all the Science-Fiction rest,
We dreamed our own purpose upon the dome,
Alien, faceted, and gleaming white
Amid the Gasworks' grimy grey pipe and clutter.
Armed with our wits and tepid orange squash,
Unhindered by the gluey tar of melting roads,
We navigated back-street and waste ground.
Then, through chain-link diamonds, we gazed in wonder.
We had got as close as mere mortals were allowed.
The dome loomed silent over us, forever beyond reach.
This was a place hallowed to Authorised Personnel Only.
KEEP OUT signs and padlocks were to defeat us in the end.
That, and the fact it was nearly teatime.
To this day, we never got any closer to our dome.
To this day, its purpose remains a mystery.
To this day, we get together for lunch sometimes
And laugh about our Summer Quest.
I chose the prompt about summer. Now, my ticket may not be entirely valid for this journey as we were supposed to write about a sensory experience connected to a summer memory but, being a bit rubbish and a bit rushed, I thought I'd write about something a friend and I did when we were twelve, maybe thirteen. It is a summer thing, it is a memory, and it contains the word hottest, so I just hope the ticket inspector doesn't choose this journey to come and inspect our tickets.
Summer Quest
It was the brightest day of the hottest summer ever.
We were thirteen and we had a plan.
We had talked of it, thought of it, imagined it,
And now it was finally to be. Finding Day,
The day we were going to search for it.
We had seen it from the bus,
We had seen it from the road,
Peeking above the distant houses,
Geodesic, white and mysterious.
Avid devourers of Asimov, Wells,
Arthur C Clarke and all the Science-Fiction rest,
We dreamed our own purpose upon the dome,
Alien, faceted, and gleaming white
Amid the Gasworks' grimy grey pipe and clutter.
Armed with our wits and tepid orange squash,
Unhindered by the gluey tar of melting roads,
We navigated back-street and waste ground.
Then, through chain-link diamonds, we gazed in wonder.
We had got as close as mere mortals were allowed.
The dome loomed silent over us, forever beyond reach.
This was a place hallowed to Authorised Personnel Only.
KEEP OUT signs and padlocks were to defeat us in the end.
That, and the fact it was nearly teatime.
To this day, we never got any closer to our dome.
To this day, its purpose remains a mystery.
To this day, we get together for lunch sometimes
And laugh about our Summer Quest.
Saturday, 31 July 2010
The Poetry Bus -The Stricnwa Blues
Going to be a tad busy this weekend with visitors, annoying Klueless Decision Support System user calls (two already today and I haven't even had brekkie yet!). So I'm posting my bus ticket early.
The incandescently intelligent NanU has set us the challenge this week of using Blogger's verification words to make a poem. The orignal challenge is here. What everyone has done with it is here.
Looking at the words I had been collecting assiduously all week made me think of a far distant world, where some things are totally alien and others despressingly the same. I absolutely swear that every one of the whacky words in this pome is a genuine offering from Blogger.
The Stricnwa Blues
Zingsmo the Monion was sitting in a bind
He had noplex to go to, he was feeling left behind.
He couldn’t catch the winglys in their sudden, fluttered flite,
He had no-one to datie, he had no-one to fight.
Zingsmo the Monion was feeling rather down
His face was long and oungsful, and his tears would likely drown
A tralotli, a coloc, even, or a manchm, huge and grim
Now it seemed that no repows so sweet was ever meant for him.
Zingsmo the Monion eschewed his sullen fate!
He would saddle up his conepus, he would find his entsne-mate!
He would singsne her his encel-song, and lure her quickly in!
A life of breadab bliss, he thought, would be the cure for him!
Zingsmo the Monion soon met his heart's delight.
She smiled upon his encel-song, her noscr glowing bright.
He thought he'd die of happiness, his reonsci turning blue
When, 'neath the triple-banded moons, she said the words, "I do!"
Zingsmo the Monion, some nineteen soldles after.
A hive of screaming younglings has banished all the laughter.
His nagging mate’s coacewa has grown flaccid and much slacker
Oh, Zingsmo the Monion, you are a hapless facquear!
Zingsmo the Monion now aches to see the day
When he can flee his breadab prison and get himself away.
The moral of the story is, as we shall now rehearse.
Be happy with your lot in life - things can always get much worse!
The incandescently intelligent NanU has set us the challenge this week of using Blogger's verification words to make a poem. The orignal challenge is here. What everyone has done with it is here.
Looking at the words I had been collecting assiduously all week made me think of a far distant world, where some things are totally alien and others despressingly the same. I absolutely swear that every one of the whacky words in this pome is a genuine offering from Blogger.
The Stricnwa Blues
Zingsmo the Monion was sitting in a bind
He had noplex to go to, he was feeling left behind.
He couldn’t catch the winglys in their sudden, fluttered flite,
He had no-one to datie, he had no-one to fight.
Zingsmo the Monion was feeling rather down
His face was long and oungsful, and his tears would likely drown
A tralotli, a coloc, even, or a manchm, huge and grim
Now it seemed that no repows so sweet was ever meant for him.
Zingsmo the Monion eschewed his sullen fate!
He would saddle up his conepus, he would find his entsne-mate!
He would singsne her his encel-song, and lure her quickly in!
A life of breadab bliss, he thought, would be the cure for him!
Zingsmo the Monion soon met his heart's delight.
She smiled upon his encel-song, her noscr glowing bright.
He thought he'd die of happiness, his reonsci turning blue
When, 'neath the triple-banded moons, she said the words, "I do!"
Zingsmo the Monion, some nineteen soldles after.
A hive of screaming younglings has banished all the laughter.
His nagging mate’s coacewa has grown flaccid and much slacker
Oh, Zingsmo the Monion, you are a hapless facquear!
Zingsmo the Monion now aches to see the day
When he can flee his breadab prison and get himself away.
The moral of the story is, as we shall now rehearse.
Be happy with your lot in life - things can always get much worse!
Friday, 23 July 2010
The Bidawee Poetry Bus for the Bewildered
This week, the Poetry Bus, in the capable hands of Niamh B, is tackling the topic of confusion. Click here to see the other passengers.
I'm never usually this early but, meh...
I thought briefly about doing something about the incipient dementia which is gradually creeping up on me these days, but figured others might want that topic (naming no names!!!). Then this appeared....
What Really Happened in the Garden of Eden
I’m confused, the First Man muttered,
When confronted by the wheel.
It seems I cannot eat it,
And it has no sex appeal.
But it will take you places,
The Devil, he replied.
Speed up your daily living,
And become your manly pride.
I’m confused, the First Man muttered,
This abacus makes no sense.
It’s supposed to help me count things,
But it only makes me tense.
You’ll soon learn how to use it,
Said the Devil, with a laugh.
You’ll be able to predict things,
And even draw a graph.
I’m confused, the First Man muttered,
There’s nothing here to fear.
I have no mortal enemy,
Why would I need a spear?
It’s only for your safety,
Said the Devil’s grinning face.
I’m sure you’ll never need it,
It’s just for 'just in case'.
I’m confused, the First Man muttered
Are all these things for free?
It seems the world is changing
Since I nibbled from that tree.
Relax, and don’t you worry,
The Devil’s voice did soothe.
Your children, they can pay me,
For making life so smooth.
I’m confused, the Woman muttered
What on Earth is all this noise?
Hush, the Devil whispered,
Man is playing with his toys.
Note: no slight upon the male gender is intended here - women have their own silly toys too.
I'm never usually this early but, meh...
I thought briefly about doing something about the incipient dementia which is gradually creeping up on me these days, but figured others might want that topic (naming no names!!!). Then this appeared....
What Really Happened in the Garden of Eden
I’m confused, the First Man muttered,
When confronted by the wheel.
It seems I cannot eat it,
And it has no sex appeal.
But it will take you places,
The Devil, he replied.
Speed up your daily living,
And become your manly pride.
I’m confused, the First Man muttered,
This abacus makes no sense.
It’s supposed to help me count things,
But it only makes me tense.
You’ll soon learn how to use it,
Said the Devil, with a laugh.
You’ll be able to predict things,
And even draw a graph.
I’m confused, the First Man muttered,
There’s nothing here to fear.
I have no mortal enemy,
Why would I need a spear?
It’s only for your safety,
Said the Devil’s grinning face.
I’m sure you’ll never need it,
It’s just for 'just in case'.
I’m confused, the First Man muttered
Are all these things for free?
It seems the world is changing
Since I nibbled from that tree.
Relax, and don’t you worry,
The Devil’s voice did soothe.
Your children, they can pay me,
For making life so smooth.
I’m confused, the Woman muttered
What on Earth is all this noise?
Hush, the Devil whispered,
Man is playing with his toys.
Note: no slight upon the male gender is intended here - women have their own silly toys too.
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
The Poetry Bus - Passengers Now Boarding
Hooray! I'm back for a second tour behind the wheel of the mighty juggernaut that is the Poetry Bus. Many thanks to Dominic for his inspiring prompt last week.
This week, we have two tickets available:
Excursion to the Comedy Store
Now we all know comedy is not easy to do, but I know from past experience that there are some seriously (sic!) funny people out there. Dust off your tickling sticks, put that water-squirting flower in your lapel, strap on your handshake buzzer and let's make with the funny!
Tunnel of (unrequited) Love
We had the slushy Valentine's stuff earlier this year, but it's not always easy to love and not be loved in return. What's it like when that certain special somebody doesn't even know you exist (it's called stalking - Ed). Are they with someone else? Are you jealous? Come and share the bittersweetness with your bus-travelling friends.
You can combine the two challenges into one if you wish.
As usual, when you've created your masterpiece, pop a comment here and next Monday, I'll do the linkiness that we all love so very much.
It's only Saturday, but already several eager beavers are at the stop, waving their tickets about and blocking the pavement, so I'd better get things rolling...
Here's my little effort - a bit early but, meh! I've gone for the unrequited love option.
He was just the friend of a friend.
I was just fifteen
And had read about love in books.
He was just the friend of a friend.
I was just lonely
And mistook kindness for something more.
He was just the friend of a friend.
But I made him a god
And god-like, he was oblivious to his suffering worshipper.
He was just the friend of a friend.
But he loved another.
And all my bitter tears could not drown her.
And now for the real poets....
Peter Goulding has raced to the bus-stop with his tale of librarian love here.
Jeanne Iris is finding her own song here.
Weaver is stretching her brain here.
The Bug is sitting under a tree here.
The Poet-in-Residence is coming all over astronomical here.
Helen is flamin' well here.
Dianne is celebrating odoriferous love here.
Erratic Thoughts is screaming 'it shoulda bin me!' here.
Rachel Fox is telling us what girls learn here.
Don't Feed the Pixies is all pomed out here.
Niamh B is in Tenby here.
Gwei Mui speaks of what might have been here.
Crazy Fieldmouse is waiting for the second moving van here.
Heather is telling a true story here.
Jinksey is all about the interwebs here.
Enchanted Oak is in the dungeon here.
Dominic Rivron is articulating an amenican sentence here.
Dave King speaks of love and loss here.
Lydia is carrying a song here.
TotalFeckinEejit is being killed here.
Titus is not going down here.
Chiccoreal's dude is a dud here.
Doctor FTSE is being wittily erudite here.
Domestic Oubliette has had a productive meeting with the muse here.
Shilpa is trying to attract a CIA man here.
Kat is brewing up trouble here.
Karen is gazing at the moon here.
NotMaudeGonne is having a bit of a clear-out here.
This week, we have two tickets available:
Excursion to the Comedy Store
Now we all know comedy is not easy to do, but I know from past experience that there are some seriously (sic!) funny people out there. Dust off your tickling sticks, put that water-squirting flower in your lapel, strap on your handshake buzzer and let's make with the funny!
Tunnel of (unrequited) Love
We had the slushy Valentine's stuff earlier this year, but it's not always easy to love and not be loved in return. What's it like when that certain special somebody doesn't even know you exist (it's called stalking - Ed). Are they with someone else? Are you jealous? Come and share the bittersweetness with your bus-travelling friends.
You can combine the two challenges into one if you wish.
As usual, when you've created your masterpiece, pop a comment here and next Monday, I'll do the linkiness that we all love so very much.
It's only Saturday, but already several eager beavers are at the stop, waving their tickets about and blocking the pavement, so I'd better get things rolling...
Here's my little effort - a bit early but, meh! I've gone for the unrequited love option.
He was just the friend of a friend.
I was just fifteen
And had read about love in books.
He was just the friend of a friend.
I was just lonely
And mistook kindness for something more.
He was just the friend of a friend.
But I made him a god
And god-like, he was oblivious to his suffering worshipper.
He was just the friend of a friend.
But he loved another.
And all my bitter tears could not drown her.
And now for the real poets....
Peter Goulding has raced to the bus-stop with his tale of librarian love here.
Jeanne Iris is finding her own song here.
Weaver is stretching her brain here.
The Bug is sitting under a tree here.
The Poet-in-Residence is coming all over astronomical here.
Helen is flamin' well here.
Dianne is celebrating odoriferous love here.
Erratic Thoughts is screaming 'it shoulda bin me!' here.
Rachel Fox is telling us what girls learn here.
Don't Feed the Pixies is all pomed out here.
Niamh B is in Tenby here.
Gwei Mui speaks of what might have been here.
Crazy Fieldmouse is waiting for the second moving van here.
Heather is telling a true story here.
Jinksey is all about the interwebs here.
Enchanted Oak is in the dungeon here.
Dominic Rivron is articulating an amenican sentence here.
Dave King speaks of love and loss here.
Lydia is carrying a song here.
TotalFeckinEejit is being killed here.
Titus is not going down here.
Chiccoreal's dude is a dud here.
Doctor FTSE is being wittily erudite here.
Domestic Oubliette has had a productive meeting with the muse here.
Shilpa is trying to attract a CIA man here.
Kat is brewing up trouble here.
Karen is gazing at the moon here.
NotMaudeGonne is having a bit of a clear-out here.
Sunday, 11 July 2010
The Poetry Bus Goes 'ON'
This week's outing is in the very capable hands of Mr Dominic Rivron of this parish, who set us a challenge to write a poem on - literally, ON - something. The challenge was set here. The other passengers' tickets may be inspected here.
I decided to put my poem on an old kettle.
It's not Keats but there are limitations to what can be said on the side of an old kettle. Maybe we've found a new art form - 'write-on' poetry.
I decided to put my poem on an old kettle.
It's just water,
Wet leaves, milk.
Maybe sugar,
Maybe not.
It's just you,
The tea, and me.
Maybe talking,
Maybe not.
It's not Keats but there are limitations to what can be said on the side of an old kettle. Maybe we've found a new art form - 'write-on' poetry.
Monday, 28 June 2010
The Poetry Bus - Signs and Blunders
This week's poetry bus is in the capable hands of Don't Feed the Pixies (and you really shouldn't) and he set us a task of rehabilitating road (or any other) signs that were just lounging about doing nothing. You could either:
1) Follow the sign and write something you saw at the other end
2) Merely imagine what might be at the other end and write about that
3) Find a new use for the word on the sign to explain something that currently has no word
To see others' valuable contributions go here.
My sign is this one, which I used to walk past every day on the way to work. Read it carefully. Good, eh?
The sweet, sweet irony of this is that this sign is hanging on the fence of a school. Not just any school, mind you - it's the one I attended as a youngling. Which explains a lot. Or not.
1) Follow the sign and write something you saw at the other end
2) Merely imagine what might be at the other end and write about that
3) Find a new use for the word on the sign to explain something that currently has no word
To see others' valuable contributions go here.
My sign is this one, which I used to walk past every day on the way to work. Read it carefully. Good, eh?
WARNING
THIS FENCE IS
PAINTED WITH
ANTI-VANDAL
PROOF PAINT
This sign is not wrong,
If that’s what you’re thinking.
It’s just in the wrong place.
Somewhere, there is a world
Where anti-vandals go around
Causing thousands of pounds
Of improvements.
We need protecting
From such as these.
The sweet, sweet irony of this is that this sign is hanging on the fence of a school. Not just any school, mind you - it's the one I attended as a youngling. Which explains a lot. Or not.
Sunday, 20 June 2010
The Poetry Bus - A Sign?
I'm back with the Poetry Bus after a few weeks' idling about. This week's challenge is set by Poetikat. The challenge was to write about the three images below, which show the before, during and after of the recent destruction by lightning of a huge foam statue of Jesus.
I really struggled with this challenge but finally came up with this:
The Light of the World
I joined the murmuring crowds gathered
To gawp at the nakedness of steel
That the lightning and fire had left.
The bare bones of the King of Kings.
The irony of the giant white Jesus,
Supplicant hands lifted to the Father,
Struck and killed by a bolt from heaven
Dripped on our heads like molten metal.
We searched for meaning in the scorched steel,
Tried to riddle the message of mangled armature,
Garlanded the event with significance.
Surely, we said to ourselves, this is a sign.
Meteorology or mystery? No matter.
For a moment, in our minds, plastic and steel
Had been transformed, had become
The Light of the World.
I really struggled with this challenge but finally came up with this:
The Light of the World
I joined the murmuring crowds gathered
To gawp at the nakedness of steel
That the lightning and fire had left.
The bare bones of the King of Kings.
The irony of the giant white Jesus,
Supplicant hands lifted to the Father,
Struck and killed by a bolt from heaven
Dripped on our heads like molten metal.
We searched for meaning in the scorched steel,
Tried to riddle the message of mangled armature,
Garlanded the event with significance.
Surely, we said to ourselves, this is a sign.
Meteorology or mystery? No matter.
For a moment, in our minds, plastic and steel
Had been transformed, had become
The Light of the World.
Sunday, 23 May 2010
The Poetry Bus is on Fire
This week's challenge really had me stumped. It was set by Terresa here.
Basically, we had to write something based on this picture.
Now, I'm not even sure what's going on in this picture. Is she fire-eating? Has a firework just exploded in her face? Does she have super-power dragon-breath?
Anyhoo, this is what I eventually came up with. Other firewalkers can be found on Terresa's blog (follow above link).
She is fire, she is fire and ice,
Burning bright and bitter cold,
Flaming red and arctic blue
Torn in two, torn in two.
She is ice, she is ice and fire,
Saving warmth and killing chill
Howling wind and homely hearth
Torn in half, torn in half.
He it was that drew the line
Equatored her heart,
And divided her.
(Yeah, I know equator isn't a verb, but this is poetry after all).
Basically, we had to write something based on this picture.
Now, I'm not even sure what's going on in this picture. Is she fire-eating? Has a firework just exploded in her face? Does she have super-power dragon-breath?
Anyhoo, this is what I eventually came up with. Other firewalkers can be found on Terresa's blog (follow above link).
She is fire, she is fire and ice,
Burning bright and bitter cold,
Flaming red and arctic blue
Torn in two, torn in two.
She is ice, she is ice and fire,
Saving warmth and killing chill
Howling wind and homely hearth
Torn in half, torn in half.
He it was that drew the line
Equatored her heart,
And divided her.
(Yeah, I know equator isn't a verb, but this is poetry after all).
Saturday, 15 May 2010
The Poetry Bus Wakes up and Smells the Lino
This week, that legendary conveyance, the Poetry Bus, is driven by Barbara who set us a challenge on her bleeuugh! to write a poem whose first line was: I got down on my knees and smelled the new linoleum.
Now, there's a few ways this could go, obviously, but this is a family blog and we'll have no kinky stuff here, thank you very much. Barbara wanted long lines as well. My pome has those, alright (hence the smaller font to fit them in), but reads more like a lump of prose as a result.
Anyhoo. Enjoy. Oh, by the way, the story recounted here is completely fictional as far as I'm concerned, but I'm sure it has happened to somebody somewhere.
I got down on my knees and smelled the new linoleum.
The toothbrush clutched in my aching fist was a shocking pink shout,
At odds with the steady brown decorum of the imitation oak parquet,
Defying the tired but resolute black of the shoes of the woman standing over me.
A bucket of soapy water landed with a dull plastic noise next to my bent head,
It was not the first: Sister Mary's anger had run to many buckets this day.
I was scrubbing the floor and the wickedness from my nine-year-old soul.
Gluttony is a deadly sin and nobody should go to Hell for a stolen cupcake.
My hands were dead, white, shrivelled things, luminous in the long shadows,
My back a red-hot rod of pain when she returned just before Vespers
Surprise limned her face: she had forgotten me and my shocking pink toothbrush.
The floor was clean enough to eat off, but my thoughts were black.
P.S Can anyone think of a title for this? 'Cos I can't.
Now, there's a few ways this could go, obviously, but this is a family blog and we'll have no kinky stuff here, thank you very much. Barbara wanted long lines as well. My pome has those, alright (hence the smaller font to fit them in), but reads more like a lump of prose as a result.
Anyhoo. Enjoy. Oh, by the way, the story recounted here is completely fictional as far as I'm concerned, but I'm sure it has happened to somebody somewhere.
I got down on my knees and smelled the new linoleum.
The toothbrush clutched in my aching fist was a shocking pink shout,
At odds with the steady brown decorum of the imitation oak parquet,
Defying the tired but resolute black of the shoes of the woman standing over me.
A bucket of soapy water landed with a dull plastic noise next to my bent head,
It was not the first: Sister Mary's anger had run to many buckets this day.
I was scrubbing the floor and the wickedness from my nine-year-old soul.
Gluttony is a deadly sin and nobody should go to Hell for a stolen cupcake.
My hands were dead, white, shrivelled things, luminous in the long shadows,
My back a red-hot rod of pain when she returned just before Vespers
Surprise limned her face: she had forgotten me and my shocking pink toothbrush.
The floor was clean enough to eat off, but my thoughts were black.
P.S Can anyone think of a title for this? 'Cos I can't.
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