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?

…

chuntering left

…

in between the drops
& the drips from the tap
in the bathroom’s sink

holes for all your pigeons
a smidgeon of ink
a wink & a nod

off before the whistle
yet we never saw
those thunderclouds coming

up from the ground
a mystery is blooming
chuntering left

to this very laptop
& other such devices
download complete

& then repeat
looping those cassettes
retracing echoes

of the future’s spanners
picking up steam’s litter
grabbing at the fog

horns on his head
tread with feathered feet
we, the incomplete

& utter gubbins
fall like an autumn
chorally crow

…

you are here ( s )

…

catching the last
sunbeams of summer
& the first warmth of spring

shivering like timbers
with mittens blue & woollen
in a frosty schoolyard

typing away
with your other monkey chums
writing shakespeare plays

whilst burnt alive
for being a lollard
in the fourteenth century

catching up your umbra
running with a stick
in a three-legged race

tucking away
on a stuffed dormouse
in old londinium

but laughing at the guttering
sputtering down
on a piss wet day

…