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( 1 3 7 2 9 1 )
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ant problems ( ? )
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ant problems ( ? ) ( a n o t h e r p o e m )
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there's enough cyanide in one apple pip to kill an ant & that's my tip ...
john wesley was a celebrity methodist
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john wesley was a celebrity methodist ( a t r u e p o e m )
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john wesley
was a celebrity
methodist
he gigged it
throughout the land
back in that
y'old eighteenth century
preaching
to all of his fans
john wesley
was a celebrity
methodist
an icon
& pin-up too
nowadays
he'd be in glossy magazines
whoring
as our celebs do
...
farmers’ wives
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farmers’ wives ( s o m e t r u t h s )
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farmers' wives ooh aarr ooh aarr farmers' wives beauty & charm farmers' wives frolics in barns farmers' wives always smell of farm ...
hug a mugger
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hug a mugger ( s o m e s o u n d a d v i c e )
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hug a mugger kiss the bugger tongues & all sorts ( don't hold back ) ...
it’s late spring
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it’s late spring ( a b a s t a r d p o e m – t h i n g )
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wonky stuff come that may lots of knots lambs at play daffodils disappeared last week or else last year 'round this then bleary still life has time time to kill summer waits in them wings hark - a lark it's late spring ...
all clouds above are actors
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all clouds above are actors ( e i g h t l i n e r e a d )
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all clouds above are actors they're players of the sky with ever-changing faces they're thesping as they fly the plot goes where that wind blows its pace dictates the speed at which their story unfolds 'tis high drama indeed ...
the self-portrait of a fruit bowl
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the self-portrait of a fruit bowl ( a p o e m & a t r u e t a l e )
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the self-portrait of a fruit bowl those oranges, apples & pears with bananas to lend a hand & plenty of berries in there the self-portrait of a fruit bowl plus nuts thus we've not lost the plot they painted then when we were sleep but don't ask us who painted what ( ? ) ...
ropy oak tree poetry
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ropy oak tree poetry ( s o m e r o p y v e r s e )
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ropy oak tree poetry the stuff all's heard before its leaves are just like similes its acorns - metaphors in some ways we're all oak trees with those seasons we grow yeah then there's roots - of course green shoots plus stormy winds can blow ropy oak tree poetry i'm strangely drawn to you magnetically with extra weird oh what else can i do? but pen a little plod to thee a piddle on me pad it's ropy oak tree poetry then somehow i feel glad ...
feeding the ducks
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feeding the ducks ( a s i x t e e n l i n e r e a d )
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feeding the ducks with stale bready crusts ducks never cluck yes ducks bring us luck chickens - they cluck as minstrels they pluck feeding the ducks no whirlpool here sucks stale bready crusts for ducks or their such camels with humps here waterfowl munch felled trees are stumped it's quarter past lunch grateful those ducks so quacks very much ...
resarf poetry 