Poems

another winterish acrostic

…



w elly weather then
westerly downfalls


i t’s muddy underfoot as
invaders cross the sea


n ot a bee bumbles
no rose other than


t he hellebore blooms
twilights haunt too soon


e verything is cobwebs
eggs in a casket


i dle as the catkins purr
in between warm fronts


s outh east sunrises
snoring dormice


h urry old codger
home before the puddles freeze

…

alt scribbles

…


henry the bloody eighth
will soon be henrietta

never underestimate
alt-historians

they’re proper gobby
like the climate changelings

in hi-vis orange
lost without a rhyme

as now is the sound
of the chatter on twatter

& dead sheeran lives
in this golden age of beige

but king charles is not my
elvis ruddy presley

& no flesh android voted
for sausage starmer’s rent boys

…

sun hat saturday

…


sun hat saturday
ring us in the morning then
when the grey turns gold

…

( author notes )

thanks to anyone that reads these silly, tongue-in-cheek poems. i’ve lost quite a few subscribers recently – but we crack on when we can. off to work now, have a good one

we four

…

we, the mutant few
genetic blips-r-us

the early birdsong
fortuna’s mood swings

& other such factors
beyond the machina

for this phantos
& their experiments

~

we, a windswept meadow
the autumn in retreat

a woodland hermitage
so muddy green trousers

growling back at clouds
& the normalz folk

in their sadness town
beyond that plod

~

we, the speaking bones
up shit creaking tones

but no paddle
all wax & no saddle

perhaps a missive stuck
a post-it-note memo

god save the parsnip
turnip lives matter

~

we, the letters writ
to messrs nobody

the footpath much less
trodden is the tonic

as the hedgehogs fly
at supersonic speed

& a tin with nothing in
is the musical glue

…

bellend freestyle

…

deeper than sleep
the rearranged pages
she cums in stages
the episodic sod
from the god of all odd
when steam rises
like a sylphid ghost
as alfred burns the toast
& catherine rides her horse
historically – of course
the roots lead to the source

…

a mess in eleven

…

your pillow smells of cornflakes
the phone book’s in the fridge
the radio is only
the crackles in between
as your border collie purrs
on her kennel, on the roof
oh, some say that the proof
is in the stodgy afters – but
your crumble tastes of sunday
& at least your attic’s warm
& the bog flushes itself

…