where art collides philosoperontap

I met a metal man,
His head was just a can,
Then I spied his wife,
Her finger was a knife,
I also saw their son,
His screws were all undone,
And when I pet the dog,
My hand scratched on a cog.

You’re time-expired, you’ve been retired, cold-shouldered from the job-scene,

you’re surplus to requirements, a sad, discarded has-been,

your use-by date has come and gone, you’re on the shelf from this point on,

you see yourself rejected, diminished and demeaned.

  (more…)

terse
short verse
longer the poem
rhyme gets worse
struggling spelling
words need nurse
death of language
remove in hearse

see dave – I can do rhyme 🙂

For some who choose to sip from the Spring of Hyppocrene
rhyming’s like a virus for which there’s no vaccine;
our poems read like excerpts from traditional pantomime
Beware you would-be wordsmiths, the curse of verse is rhyme
Rhyme’s merely ornamental, a sort of literary glue
fun when writing doggerel or limericks or clerihew
(more…)

the dishwasher is on in the kitchen again. it is very relaxing. in the same category as photocopying but different.

the house is quiet – other than a debate going on upstairs regarding who has rights to the hot water from the immersion heater. unlike the water it isn’t a heated debate. more of a vocal eyebrow raise.

I can hear the bath running and the downstairs toilet flushing. outside it is raining though it is a silent rain.

then the peace is disturbed…

Anne bought a job lot of leeks, boy,
From a little chap down some dark alley.
He said, “These will last you for weeks, boy,
Since I’ve heard your Tref’s from the valley.”
But Trefor’s too posh for such things, boy –
He’s moved on to mangetout and zucchini
In his dreams that’s the food that anne brings boy
Served up whilst she wears her bikini

It pelts down and the unwary get wet.
forty days and forty nights seem like an eternity
all hail Saint Swithin and all who sail in her
flood alerts fill the wet air waves
another notch on the windscreen wiper control
oh no a leak, fetch a bucket
(more…)

seriously large lumps of catarrrrrrrrh
coughs that reverberrrrrrate
cracccking ribs and
bending me double.
whisky and water, not really any help but
sounds good. probably needed
the hot lemon accompaniment.
the alcohol makes me wake up
in the night to go to the toilet.
in the morning I am tired and
still have the cough.

Oft mistook for a figurehead, Lizzie
walks tall despite her five foot something,
at the birthday bash, always a huge success
an annual event not to be missed,
friends gather to celebrate,
as they do each year, the homage on Boxing Day,
corks, deafening, pop and glasses sweetly ring,
the guests consume dutifully, and ease
themselves into another day of indulgence,
the old year merges seamlessly into the new.

or

When asked what it’s like to be Lizzie
She replied in a manner quite dizzy
On my birthday she said
It goes right to my head
This champagne that we drink is so fizzy.

It’s over, not in the Dickie Bird sense.
Scrambling breathless to the white tape we are.
Of the conductors in the audience, how many are tired beyond their memory?
How many different levels are there of conducting? –
Daughters to brothers, brothers to sisters, brothers to brother.
And why should you stray from the xbox and instruct?
Unlike those who play the games, do the twittering, enjoy the deadness of arguing, YOU are a team.
Have a family break. Enjoy the mix. It’s not eternal.