July 20, 2014

 

 

And with a hint

of white or grey,

but always keeping

red at bay,

 

she teamed with black,

her natural choice,

and only shade to make

her heart rejoice.

 

Though on the shelf

where pink stood out,

and caught her eye,

but left much doubt,

 

she sighed, resigned,

to what she knew,

that black her belt

and black her shoe!

 

And with lime green,

the shade of the season,

her mind, it wrestled

without reason.

 

And amber tones

of yellowy yuk,

were surely made,

but for a duck,

 

And bloody beige,

so non descript;

as safe as houses,

for those tight lipped,

 

But not for her,

that neutral shade;

as bare as flesh,

no statement made!

 

For dressed in black

when on parade;

no other choice,

was there displayed,

 

for elegance

or smart attire,

that would ever set

the world on fire.

 

And so safe, so assured

in monochrome,

when travelling in style,

to Paris or Rome.

 

With a touch of white,

if one may dare,

born out of desperation

and despair.

 

Just for a change,

to brighter be,

for the times when black

even got to she!

 

June 18, 2014

 

 

Here they come;

the usual suspects;

reliable to the end.

 

The first in the queue,

the rubber-neckers

who’s eyes on stalks, extend.

 

‘Could you please sign here,

for my collection,

then I’ll be on my way,

 

and if you’d sign thirty more

for my charity,

it would really make my day.

 

and if you’ve time

could I possibly beg of you,

on my buttocks, sign your name,

 

then I can take a selfie

to pop in my album,

so you can be, my claim to fame.

 

And if I can delay you further,

now it has started to rain,

would you say hello to my brother

 

who is your biggest fan ever,

along with my closest aunt

and my long departed mother!

 

Your time is at a premium,

and I know there’s others

waiting in the queue,

 

but this is the only chance

that I may ever get,

to have a quick word with you!

 

 

 

May 24, 2014

 

 

Our first line of defence;

so protective and bold,

and handy for cricket

if the batsman is old.

 

With ‘fortress like’ walls,

housing battalions of seeds,

they supply in each mouthful

most of our daily needs.

 

Oh, how a meal they enrich,

in one form or another.

They are packed full of iron

with no added sugar.

 

Big beef ones are great,

and little cherries, divine,

when just swallowed whole

or taken fresh from the vine!

 

This versatile staple

outsmarts all the fakes,

and sees off all the radishes

in the supremacy stakes.

 

So ebullient, so necessary,

so addictive and fine,

I must say that tomatoes,

are good friends of mine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The screen on screen;

a clever scheme,

where work is read

but never seen.

 

A trained ear to the rescue came.

Squeezed in so tight,

yet not the same;

so personal, this crazy game.

 

A word, a phrase,

at random picked,

like ice cream cones

that can’t be licked.

 

But evident

like all sore thumbs,

that stand out in

a bowl of plums.

 

A thought, a tune,

a sudden lilt,

thought out beneath

a duvet quilt,

 

takes on new life

in pastures green,

where work is heard

but never seen.

 

 

 

May 10, 2014

 

 

No depths of sorrow

could they convey

when Horace Ogden

passed away.

 

For he took with him

a soup recipe;

a secret version of

Ham hock and pea,

 

passed down through

generations, proud.

Never written down

or said out loud.

 

So after Horace Ogden,

turned up his toes,

they switched to peas

that had been froze,

 

but folks complained

and said ‘try harder’,

so they added garlic,

found in his larder.

 

But that tasted bitter,

causing some to spew,

and making the customers

switch to Irish stew.

 

You see Horace Ogden

used ham, from ‘Old Spots’,

and not being a fan of onions,

replaced them with shallots.

 

But the real secret lay,

in the steeping of his peas!

How Horace Ogden’s memory

still lingers, in the breeze!

 

 

 

 

On days when sense

is hard to find,

and you feel ostracised

from all mankind.

 

Just be thankful

that you’re not a toad,

who’s been squashed to death

on a country road.

 

 

 

 

From yesterdays winds

an old stranger blew in,

totally unannounced,

wearing a sardonic grin.

 

And in that last moment

left to savour,

locked in forever,

as if a favour

 

came a haunting echo;

almost a semi quaver!

But no hope was there

to ever save her.

 

….and at the end,

waiting in the wings,

was the face of that stranger;

one of her wartime flings!

 

‘Life not much different

to earth’ she thought,

reflecting on the gospels,

she had been taught.

 

No getting away from

her chequered past.

No cloth to wipe clean the slate,

that now in stone cast.

 

Then floating next to her soldier

appeared her partners face,

and just like two tadpoles,

they hovered in space.

 

And then they were joined

by many, many more!

All familiar faces,

on this bottomless floor.

 

And then, to her horror,

she saw she was the same;

her head, all she had left

of her old earthly frame!

 

With this realisation, a thought

crossed through her mind.

‘There’d be no adultery committed’

she was relieved now to find.

 

But before she could bade

all the tadpoles a goodbye,

her guardian angel took her by the ear,

and winked with one knowing eye!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 9, 2014

 

 

Interpret what you will of this;

t’is yours to own, t’is yours to kiss.

 

In whole, or maybe just in part;

t’is yours to keep, t’is all my heart.

 

Interpret what you will, but rush;

t’is a fair offer, t’is no ambush.

 

Interpret what you will, sweet pea;

t’is your last chance, t’is my last plea.

 

 

 

April 27, 2014

 

 

An enraptured madness of a surrealist joke,

where all things possible, and thoughts provoke.

When wingless birds take to the air,

soaring through the thermals, without a care.

 

And widgets of the world unite,

for a Can-Can fest’ around midnight.

And lost leaders out of nowhere win;

with a twisted, barley sugared grin.

 

From his mouth comes spewing, lime green gunge,

as the devil dances on a bathtub sponge.

The surrealist route, an escape from hell,

when all other therapy, to the ground has fell.

 

 

 

April 23, 2014

 

 

When Titfer Tat

met Jack the Hat,

no reconciliation

found on the mat.

 

 

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