…

do feed the animals
do run indoors
do sing a song
do another poem
do the write thing
do the twist
do the funky chicken
do wash your hands
do pay with cash
do keep the change
do cut your own hair
do ride a sine wave
do save the whale
do bring back the dodo
do the ess in maths
do the pee in ptarmigan
do the village bike
do wear a helmet
do the garden hedge
do take sugar
do-bee-do bee-shoe
do scrape that barrel
do the fandango
do agadoo too
do pay the piper
do mind the gap
do brush your teeth
do get to sleep
do a to-do list
do their fuckin’ heads in
do take photographs
– don’t ever stop

…

…

yesterdays poem was

a brown cow on the brow

of a windswept hillock

& a pocketful of hay

…

…

crocus croaking in the dawn

rebbit as the rabbits spawn

      choral mornings stirring bees

      blossom on the yawning trees

petals on a greening gust

snowing so the feathers dust

      shelves & delves in lofts above

      turpentine, a turtle dove

missing marbles in the head

pan is in the garden shed

      lions roaring like a lamb

      venus from a giant clam

circles from the second sun

crosses on a y’ easter bun

      mars is marching on again

      dancing apes in april rain

ribbons swishing round a pole

yonder is a prancing foal

      tumbleweed & clarinets

      daffodils – the rest forgets

down amongst the dingle’s ring

when the stinging nettles sing

      as a badger shags a fox

      tick another fucking box

…

…

( author notes )

dear reader, the following bollocks contains spoiler alerts

from the next exiting episode of your life

so if you don’t want to know what happens next

then don’t read on

( final warning & on we go )

…

it all begins with birdsong

it won’t rain ’til teatime

you won’t spot an otter

or a headless horseman

or dance the macarena

with a member of the clergy

the morning toast will burn again

you’ll hear a milkman whistle

a t.v theme from yesteryear

& see a grey squirrel

chase a black cat

then smell a stagnant pond

you’ll drink a cappuccino

with extra chocolate sprinkles

you’ll catch the wrong bus

the sun’s is still a hot cross bun

the moon is still its lunacy

that rash disappears

you’ll sneeze three times

plus the poetry flows

so your constipation clears

( with aplomb )

…