Poetry

yet still not

…

the reason why the morning
sunshine gave way
to shrouded clouds of grey

a dodo egg
or the mating rituals
of the lesser-spotted snark

the bee in the mitre
not the bonnet of the bishop
a birthday wish

since gone wrong
or a sausage roll with chips
plus beans & garlic bread

the sinkhole that appeared
in the middle of the car park
of your local b&m

someone else’s faux-profiles
of odd little me
on spicy websites

your long lost uncle
or the ghost of fanny adams
so try bloody harder

…

questioning questioning

…

can the candlemaker
blow the candles
on his birthday cake?

does the grocer’s daughter
know her onions
like her father?

how far does the farmer
plough the field
before the seagulls

then descend
& feast upon
the worms that squirm in furrows?

will the wicked winter wind
frisk us all
fruzzen?

has the haberdasher
dashed
down to the harbour yet?

do the bible bashers
worship badgers
on the sly?

when will the spring
sing a hymn
like a poem thing?

…

furthermore it’s autumn

…

we became the pages
like the photographs
of the calendar’s turn
over & collapse

catch another breath then
whack the kettle on
formerly’s a rain cloud
once is now upon

i, the ‘nana milksop
shaken like a leaf
tumbles in the breezes
time is but a thief

you, the feathered future
darker than the crack
of a massive arse’ole
so shadows attack

furthermore it’s autumn
winter’s on its way
walk into the evening
as the mantis pray

’til the badgers samba
as the toadstools spore
roaming in the gloaming
knocking on death’s door

…

questioning, questioning

…

can the candlemaker
blow the candles
on his birthday cake?

does the grocer’s daughter
know her onions
like her father?

how far does the farmer
plough the field
before the seagulls

then descend
& feast upon
the worms that squirm in furrows?

will the wicked winter wind
frisk us all
fruzzen?

has the haberdasher
dashed
down to the harbour yet?

do the bible bashers
worship badgers
on the sly?

when will the spring
sing a hymn
like a poem thing?

…