Author: resarfpoetry

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apples ‘n’ pears

~

apples ‘n’ pears ( some apeth of daft for friday etc. )

…




the apple may not swat the goose

or pantomime or fill your boots

the pear may not outrun the hare

or abstract mime as flesh or juice


the apple may not kiss the moose

or basket weave or owl a hoot

the pear it may not answer prayers

or cloak the oak or loop the spruce


the apple may not throw abuse

at bats & toads in bespoke suits

the pear it may not glance in glares

at edge-less squares then eye-up newts


the apple may not brass a toot

or pirouette or lute a flute

the pear it may not scare the mayor

but nonetheless - they're both still fruits

...

as laundary dries

~

as laundry dries ( a reworking of an older post )

…




as clocks tick-tock - as laundry dries

& pigs wallow in filthy sties

i twiddle toes to kill some rhyme

whilst in the mind - a pantomime


as breezes blow - as fingers blame

& cress grows by the window pane

dick whittington has turned again

& mother goose is on the game


as facts are flung - as hats are donned

& fat ladies they sing of swans

alladin lamps the genie one

& cinderella's head has gone


as sheep get lost - as bridges sigh

& fuddled folk they wonder why

a beanstalk bursts towards the sky

as clocks tick-tock - as laundry dries

...

 

scarz ‘n’ tales

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scarz ‘n’ talez ( a poem )

…


the brambles ripped off bits of skin

the nettles stang my snow-pale knees

the blackthorn left its wicked mark

the wasps kicked off then came the bees


the pollen rushed right up my nose

above my head - a buzzard soared

then duly shat upon my hat

the sun did blear - my eyes are sore


the ravens crowed a blackish din

& sappy wept the woodland trees

the hemlock rashed - things could be worse

i'm more odd socks than socrates


the goose grass stuck to sweaty clothes

the ants attacked as hornets swarmed

still breathing though - yeah, all's so so

it's summertime - it's war outdoors

...

 

plod-stuff

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plod-stuff ( a true story )

…



our elbows glowed where noses shone

us muddled bunch so bumble on

through fields of green in sways of still

there is no breeze today upon


us squelchy sods so yon we plod

with thoughts of warts & peas in pods

as badgers burst & gardens groan

whilst on the road - a toad's skin's shod


our ankles itch - is this a gift?

we look to lunch as pollen drifts

we follow paths & fallow deer

as sieve-like minds they gently sift


when all is spun a tune a is hummed

the back door calls, the walk is done

the annals wait to hear of tales

beneath a montomic sun

...