A Walk in the Rain

Tip-toe through the garden

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 20:54:00 +0000

Though Stan lacks education
He's been blessed with common sense.
Some believe he's thicker than
The planks nailed to his fence.

But Stan knows well his ten-foot fence
Will keep him safe from strife,
Keeping out the leprechaun
Who travelled here from Fife,

A crazy Scottish cousin of
A leprechaun called Peter
Who poses as a pint-sized man,
Drinks whiskey by the litre,

And shows great feats of fortitude
With night-long jigs on sheds.
The sound of boots on iron roofs
Wakes flowers from their beds,

And makes them grow with evil thoughts
And plans to cut down trees,
Schemes for farming beetles and
Electrocuting bees.

Peter's dance enhanced the place
In front of Stan's abode,
A beetle-farm-filled wilderness
Where menace overflowed,

Regarded as a garden by
Its owner, who was proud.
Stan admired the daisies that
Released a noxious cloud.

He loved to see the sunlight on
His apple tree's black branches.
They only make their rotten fruit
To drop in avalanches,

And land on lawns of neighbours who
Complained about the briars,
Those ever-roaming tentacles
That tended to start fires.

Peter's dance made sneezing plants
Appear in even rows.
They'd wait until they got a chance
To sneeze on strutting crows,

And smear black clothes with some strange goo
That sticks to feather coats,
A style that suits the parrots who
Reside on pirate boats.

When Peter's cousin Cormac came
To visit for a week,
He spent the first month telling tales
Of trips to Mozambique,

And felling trees in Canada
Where children panned for gold,
While grizzly bears grew beards and bowler
Hats to fight the cold,

And when his stock of tales were told
He ventured out for air.
He hoped he'd meet the neighbourhood's
Fedora-growing bear.

Instead he found the wilderness
Where Stan goes to unwind.
Its strange mystique applied a hold
On Cormac's funny mind.

He spent three weeks exploring it,
In search of deadly creatures.
He built sand castles with the stuff
That flowed from water features.

His never-ceasing researches
Made Stan feel ill-at-ease.
He'd put up with unwanted guests
If they paid rent or fees.

To extricate his visitor
He followed Cormac's route.
Days and nights of daunting jaunts
Made up this fraught pursuit.

After Cormac's exit Stan
Built up the fence with planks.
He's seen this added safeguard used
On all the local banks.

Written in the Stars

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 06:37:00 +0000

An often-correct horoscope
Told Monica she would elope
With Willie, a welder,
And each time he held her
She'd smell his aversion to soap.

Soon she felt flustered and harried.
Her tea leaves said they would be married
By Ron, a dead rector,
A spine-chilling spectre
Who stroked the strange hedgehog he carried.

Her crystal ball's view made her quail.
The church would be used as a jail.
The rector would roar
And the hedgehog would snore.
A banshee would whistle and wail.

But she saw an end to her plight.
The cake looked immense in moonlight,
And she'd have recourse
To a court of divorce
In a graveyard on their wedding night.

A Life of Comedy

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 19 Sep 2010 10:21:00 +0000

My greatest wish was that each day
Would leave me with a lighter load,
And I'd avoid events that held
The sense that something would explode,

And that a life of comedy
Would come to me and make me laugh,
To bring a tingling buzz as good
As those supplied by Van de Graaff.

It seemed my wish was granted when
I won a highly-valued prize,
A cruise across enchanted seas
And days as light as butterflies

That flutter into twilit skies
And grace the views of setting suns,
Far away from relatives
Whose greatest skill is getting guns

And pointing them at animals
And leaving walls with massive holes,
Missing out on free fresh meat
They'd hoped to cook in casseroles.

The bar on board the ship was home
To sombre people dressed in black,
Men espousing misery
While drinking wine and rare cognac.

They revelled in advising me
To yield to our impending doom,
A looming ending soon to start,
A constant night about to bloom,

With meagre light illuminating
Waiting rooms for tours of yards,
Estates of tombs where garden gnomes
Wear uniforms of prison guards,

And these eternal building sites
Would never be the welcome host
To any type of building work
Performed by man or beast or ghost.

I had to hear these cheerless folk
Explain their bleak philosophy.
Some would speak in technical
Expressions that were lost on me.

Some of them used simple words
With ample time between each one.
They'd reminisce on days with books
That reached the peak of teenage fun.

For some a light and easy read
Would be a book by Wittgenstein.
Some said life's a jigsaw and
You'll laugh when all the bits combine.

The final scene will be revealed.
You'll see that it's a sinking ship.
You'll never find a fuller stop
To punctuate a stately trip.

Late one night I had to laugh
Despite the sense of shock I felt.
A massive ice berg shook our ship.
It wandered over seas with stealth.

The men who had been hoping for
An end to life to come their way
Were all in floods of tears and praying
Loudly to extend their stay.

They didn't need to be afraid.
Our boat would win its bout with ease.
It beat the berg and kept its course.
It ruled the waves of icy seas.

The quality of ice bergs now
Is not as high as in the past.
Because of global warming they
Are not designed and built to last.

I smile when I mull over all
The harm to Father Nature's wife,
And future cataclysms that
Might terminate all human life.

The Futility of War

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Grace became the nanny for
A family in Kerry;
A mansion near Killarney where
The granny lived on sherry.

The parents led chaotic lives
That threatened to unravel.
The unrelieved upheaval came
From constant foreign travel,

Busy sealing business deals
Or sailing seas on yachts,
Getting tangled up in nets
And complicated plots.

The kids ran wild with Grace, whose nerves
Were frayed around the edges.
Sam and Sue put keys in cakes,
Or so the cook alleges.

They'd try their best to leave a room
Arranged in disarray,
While Grace despaired, but all would change
As brunch began one day.

The plethora of crackers placed
Upon the silver platter
Were swiftly aimed at Grace's face
And thrown with feeling at her.

Something snapped inside her head.
Her fury overflowed.
A dark, forbidding mood impaired
Her caring nanny mode.

She started throwing bread at them.
She only lost their trust
When she threw wholemeal bread without
Removing all the crust,

So they threw jam and Parma ham
And Parmesan, ungrated.
At times like these, when armed with cheese,
They're frequently elated.

They'll improvise and try to use
All weapons within reach.
Sam threw shells and batteries
He'd gathered on the beach.

Grace fought back by throwing books
And magazines left scattered.
She looked at all the titles though
Their contents hardly mattered.

The war went on till lunch was served.
They stopped for soup and salad,
A time for trauma-laden troops
To sing a mournful ballad.

When they surveyed the mess they'd made
They felt both pride and shock.
Even Gran had fled to hide
In her grandfather clock.

Carpets, curtains, rugs and walls
Were scarred by shards of cake.
They'd smashed to bits the priceless vase
They dearly hoped was fake.

Chairs had suffered injuries.
They'd soon be amputees.
They'd have to get new wooden legs
But they'd get used to these.

Sam and Sue agreed with Grace
When she proposed a truce.
She cursed the crackers and the force
Of madness they let loose.

They signed their names to seal the peace,
The first accord of many.
They promised they'd forget the fight
And blame the mess on Granny.

Many weeks went by before
She exited the clock.
Inside she'd found some diamonds and
A terrier called Jock.

(Another change: I'll be updating this site every three weeks from now on).

Come back next week

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 07:20:00 +0000

I've decided to update this site once every two weeks instead of every week.

Breakfast in Bed

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 07:09:00 +0000

Benjamin's bed was a massive four-poster
With just enough room for himself and his toaster,
His microwave oven, his block of blue cheese,
His stock of black treacle and green herbal teas,

Stacks of rice biscuits and fresh macaroons,
Boxes with numerous knives, forks and spoons,
Packets of sugar and bowls of molasses,
Cupboards to store his fine china and glasses,

Small tins of tuna and bags of sultanas,
Baskets with ample supplies of bananas,
Bottles of sweet maple syrup in crates,
Flapjacks and pancakes on thin paper plates,

A suitcase with cake tins and moulds used for jelly,
Salad and coleslaw from his local deli,
Mushrooms from his uncle Sean's latest crop,
And cheesecake with cream and a cherry on top.

There wasn't much hope that he'd ever get thinner
When breakfast in bed lingered on until dinner.
Whole days would tend to blend into one meal.
He'd find himself eating his porridge with veal.

Cornflakes were mixed with homemade mayonnaise,
Along with linguini on some rainy days.
But he vowed to eat with his loved ones instead
As he had a sad Christmas dinner in bed.

He did a good job at transforming his life.
He now cooks for his seven kids and his wife.
They're glad that he's now nearly always awake,
But they're sick of eating his broccoli cake.

Why Esther likes to stand

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 07:16:00 +0000

The setting sun adorned the bay
And gentle winds were westerly.
Mr. Moran called to say
That Esther was requesting me.

I'd only known her for a week.
In Flora's quiet cafe she spoke
To compliment my strong mystique,
An aura kindled by my cloak.

She joined me for a cup of tea
And some of Flora's carrot cake.
We spoke about the bourgeoisie
And poetry by William Blake.

Before I left to flaunt my pose
And walk my aura by the sea,
I said I'd help her weave the prose
To tell a tale she had to free,

A story trapped inside her mind,
To feed her readers fine rewards,
Like cheddar fed to those who've dined
On fodder sliced with bloody swords.

She said she'd wait until she felt
Her words could flow in streams that swell,
A mental thaw when snowfalls melt
And feed the streams where salmon dwell.

She'd summon me to her abode.
When Mr. Moran called I went
And heard the words that thawed and flowed
To flood an empty document.

I typed as she described the scene:
Lovers lost in morning mist.
I thought it sounded saccharine
Until her tale threw up a twist.

This couple were two apple trees
Who shook their leaves to speak in sound,
Though both of them knew Portuguese.
Their roots spoke German underground.

Esther claimed to be the child
Of these two trees with tender souls,
Who danced when autumn winds were wild
And used their fruit to play lawn bowls.

She'll stand for weeks on orchard paths
And she'll retain a blissful stare
When Frisbees, balls and frightened cats
Get stuck in her amazing hair.

Higher Education

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 07:11:00 +0000

Leonard was acknowledged as
A truly splendid grouch.
He practised his appalling leer
In tandem with his slouch.

He thrived in finding minor faults
And forming long complaints.
He'd talk until the sun's descent
About the sins of saints.

He did his best to irritate
And trigger indignation.
His skill at instigating fights
Took years of education.

He mingled with distinguished staff
At college in Antwerp,
Where lecturers encouraged him
To loudly belch and burp,

And slurp his soup in restaurants
To anger other diners,
Agitating adults there
And entertaining minors.

These fledgling young curmudgeons would
Begin to bloom and burgeon.
They'd marvel at the mess he made
As he devoured his sturgeon.

For many years he took great pride
In all his churlish labours.
But he grew bored with being shunned
By relatives and neighbours.

He undertook a PhD
In charm and being nice.
His tutor watered potted plants
While singing 'Edelweiss'.

Leonard learnt to stand up straight
When walking down the streets.
He smiles and waves or doffs his hat
At everyone he meets.

He studied how to be a source
Of solace and of peace.
At first his neighbours sensed a wolf
Beneath his snow-white fleece.

But now they see a little lamb
Whose tender heart is big,
Until he starts to eat and he
Reminds them of a pig.

My Holiday with Dahlia

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 07:20:00 +0000

My holiday with Dahlia
Began in Lower Saxony.
In trekking through Westphalia
We'd trails and mountain tracks to see,

And views infusing ecstasy,
Euphoria before repose.
Taxing thoughts perplexing me
Were always eased by alpine shows.

Windmills in the Netherlands
Made these two featherheads feel light.
Days spent turning red on strands
Would be lead weights to halt our flight.

To Italy we went by bus
And floated high on Bolognese.
People less adventurous
Add Venice to their holidays,

And go where tourists congregate,
Like sheep converging on the piers
On well-planned days that culminate
In serenades from gondoliers.

But God-sent thrills on trips abroad
Are found by seeking something new.
In Venice we were over-awed
By rhubarb at a barbecue.

Elmer Keeps Most of his Toes

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 07:09:00 +0000

Elmer feels blessed on a cold winter night.
He'll proudly show off the effects of frostbite,
Frightening children with two missing toes,
And tales of their ghosts in his shoes when it snows.

The rotting and rattling confined to his boot
Were typical of his impractical youth,
When he was incautious in his expeditions,
Heedless of threat in atrocious conditions.

He thought he'd be toe-less before turning thirty,
Handy for cleaning his feet when they're dirty.
He lived with a devil-may-care attitude,
But Elmer abandoned his cavalier mood.

The thick layer of snow on an ice-coated lake
Enticed him like icing on top of a cake.
He wanted a slice he would cut with his sled.
The lake would attempt to consume him instead.

He faced his demise when he fell through the ice.
He wished he had heeded his father's advice:
"Don't walk on ice where the locals use kayaks."
The cake underneath was a huge anti-climax.

His life flashed before him in heart-warming scenes,
From his first reluctance to start eating greens,
And days from his childhood when mild-mannered fairies
Were there on his visits to eight Auntie Mary's

To banish the boredom. They gave him gold shoes.
He wore them and vanished in clouds with red hues.
His fourth Auntie Mary collapsed in surprise.
Her eerie canary kept rubbing its eyes.

He saw many scenes that were over too soon,
Recalling the joys of a June afternoon,
The pleasure of finding some jam on the floor,
The treasure he buried when he was just four,

His school days and all his audacious adventures
That started when Granddad removed timber dentures
So he could speak freely in telling his tales
Of troubles on travels in fierce winter gales.

After recalling his deeds in cold places
He saw a succession of beautiful faces,
Of family members and friends he could trust,
And women he lost due to his wanderlust.

Elmer was drowning, dejectedly charting
A course for his journey as he was departing
The land of the living with feelings of dread,
Fearing a place that was hot lay ahead.

But fishermen saved him before his withdrawal.
Visions of death and infusions of awe'll
Impel many people to steeples to pray,
Or promise to sample life's ample buffet.

But Elmer went straight to a spot near a river,
Eager to see what the ground would deliver.
His wait in the queue at the Styx to be ferried
Reminded him where his lost treasure was buried.

He dug up the suitcase he'd found as a child,
When he thought that money, like honey, grew wild.
The case contained coins made of silver and gold,
A well-wrapped revolver a century old,

And photos of something that looked like an elf.
These photos were all that he kept for himself.
He buried the gun in the suitcase again,
And gave all the treasure to two fishermen.

Matches Made on Mountainsides

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 07:04:00 +0000

His meagre zest would soon decay
When Jeff began his working day.
He hated working in a pub.
Dealings with Beelzebub

Would be appealing if that beast
Could permeate his life with yeast
So it would rise and he could find
A job to animate his mind.

Full-time drinkers chose careers
As part-time thinkers steeped in beers.
Thoughts ran wild without a leash.
These dreadful bores had found their niche

In spouting outright balderdash
And touting plans for making cash.
Their thoughts about the food they've had
Were never short of barking mad.

Jeff would have to hear their views
On cooking all desserts in stews.
The listener had little choice.
He had to hear the same advice

Repeated time and time again.
They'd tell him he should buy a hen
And keep its eggs inside a sock
That has a clasp to hold a lock.

This sock should spend six hours a day
Inside a stew of beans and whey
And chocolate fudge with double cream
To feed a thrilling troubled dream.

Jeff felt cursed by all he heard.
His ears would ache with every word.
He'd lie awake in bed at night
And try to let his mind take flight,

To float up high without its weights,
Where satellites have garden gates
And picket fences round their lawns
And awe-inspiring views of dawns.

But thoughts of work confined to earth
A mind that failed to feel the worth
Of wasting time discussing why
A crescent moon consumes the sky

Until it's fat and feels unwell
And spews a most unpleasant gel
On heads of those heroic men
Returning home to feed their hen

At half-past-two while neighbours sleep
And chatty birds still chirp and cheep,
And caped crusaders hop and skip
With lollipops in garlic dip.

When football thrills left drinkers buoyed
And Jeff's morale had been destroyed,
A well-heeled man in hobnailed boots
Related tales of men in suits

Who camp on lonely mountainsides
And wait for caves to issue brides.
Happy couples set up home
And banish days of monochrome,

With colours added to their lives,
Souls with star-like sparks that wives
Can generate with perfect ease
And light a fire to melt a freeze.

Jeff was quick to lose his cool.
He called this man a total fool
And ridiculed these doubtful claims
Of cave-made wives igniting flames.

This man took Jeff to see a cave
Where mountain air and aftershave
Combined to make a pungent smell
To lure the cave's beguiling belle.

Jeff saw many matches made.
The potent silent serenade
Of these intoxicating scents
United brides and dapper gents.

Nowadays he loves his work.
In drinkers' words great wonders lurk.
Their notions don't assault his ears
And he believes all that he hears.

The Life and Soul of City Streets

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 07:11:00 +0000

I live in the city. I notice its laughter
In noises it makes with delight.
I'll happily listen to traffic till after
The start of a warm summer night.

From dawn until dusk I could listen to buskers,
The jesters who beat tambourines,
The chancers and dancers who gather in clusters
That vaguely resemble routines,

The singers who linger nearby the fishmonger,
Beside the cake-maker and diner,
Hoping the smells will diminish their hunger
Till dinner from someone's bin-liner.

With luck they might purchase affordable food,
Some edible vegetable fakes.
Counterfeit meals can dispel a bad mood.
Desserts are allegedly cakes.

Crowds used to flock to a woman called Betty,
A model of poise in her pose.
She'd eat a baguette and a plate of spaghetti
While singing a song through her nose.

Her talent ensured that she made enough money
To buy proper food for her act.
She'd eat fresh-baked brownies with spoonfuls of honey
And two Snickers bars when she snacked.

I ventured out busking with songs of my own.
Their structures defied all convention.
My shyness meant I would perform them by phone,
And Betty got all the attention.

I hoped that my lyrics would greatly impress her.
I borrowed from Milton and Chaucer.
She fell for a busker, a former professor,
Who sang and drank milk from a saucer.

They ran off together and married in Brussels.
They left gaping holes on the street.
One spot was filled by two whistling Jack Russells
Who worked with a lewd parakeet.

Betty was quickly replaced by three dancers
Who contemplate life's inner meaning.
Ask them deep questions and they'll supply answers
Through dances, some mime or just leaning.

Simple Things

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 07:15:00 +0000

When I'm annoyed I feel a need
To flood my head with memories
Of childhood days with golden glows.
I play a requiem for these.

The house where I grew up is gone.
Time has claimed our small abode,
A dwelling in a scenic spot
Beside a winding, crumbling road.

Our little world appeared to be
A curious and boundless place.
Its mysteries confounded us
Beneath the moon's impassive face.

At dawn we'd be like knights of old.
We'd set about performing feats.
We sought the woodland's secret paths,
The eerie, otherworldly streets.

We fought the shadows of great beasts.
We always felt adventurous.
At dusk we fled the woods with haste
And trees would rightly censure us

For failing to pay homage to
The foliage that graced the woods,
Where all the fauna forage and
The flora flower out of hoods.

We learnt to show some reverence
For ever-present plants we faced,
For weather that would flavour our
Endeavours with the sweetest taste,

For storms that lavished favours
We would savour as the lightning flashed.
We thanked the moss and buttercups
That caught us when our go-carts crashed.

These memories remind me of
The eminence of simple things,
And emphasise the vital fact
That noble, ancient trees are kings.

These monarchs shelter animals
And house the most discerning birds.
They speak sublime, momentous truths
In prose with no intrusive words.

The Dangers of Spring Cleaning

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 07:04:00 +0000

Donna's head is full of facts
And knowledge gleaned from books.
She memorises recipes
For all the meals she cooks.

She knows the names of kings and queens
And minor Asian cities.
She's able to recite a list
Of naval battles with ease.

Each year she feels her brain contains
Some facts she'll never need,
Like ways to clean the stains of blood
From foxes on your tweed.

Her brain requires a good spring clean
To clear some free head space.
She'll throw out all the useless things
On shelves behind her face.

But once when she was throwing out
Some things she'd learnt in college,
She inadvertently removed
Some very useful knowledge.

She found that when she held a spoon
And came across a bowl
Containing ice cream that she liked,
She didn't know her role.

She didn't know what she should do
To use the spoon she held.
She wondered if these baffling things
Were somehow self-propelled.

Fantasy

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 07:18:00 +0000

Graham's paintings feature blood
And dragons found in dark red mud.
He paints the gore without restraint
In scenes to make the squeamish faint.

Fiendish, saint-destroying beasts
Will cook their foes on racks at feasts.
It riles the unemployed embalmer.
Blacksmiths make the victim's armour

Into salt and pepper cellars.
Furry former sewer-dwellers
Rest on skewers over fires.
Scarecrows made from straw and squires

Stare from where the withered wheat
Conceals the scarecrows' tethered feet.
Wizards battle Beetle cars
That come to life with built-in scars

That can't be seen inside their souls.
They show the sentiments of trolls
In their long antisocial phase.
They like to leak on new driveways.

Some friends of his appreciate
The way his paintings illustrate
Their daily lives in war with Orcs
And leather-wearing evil storks

Who leave small creatures made to fight
And bring defeat to all things right.
Graham's friends will strive to stay
Alive to see another day.

They'd rather have the storm and strife
Than hide in dreams of modern life,
The fantasies to hide the fear,
The families of manic cheer,

A steadfast faith in sleek facades
And folk who only play charades
Instead of speaking words of truth
On storks who bear a new recruit

To fight without integrity
And make their rivals beg to be
Allowed to enter death's domain
Without courgettes inflicting pain.

Graham's aim is not to spread
The truth of life with all its dread.
His goal when he sets out to paint
Is making his aunt Sally faint.

Notes from my Trusted Financial Adviser

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 06:24:00 +0000

Notes from my trusted financial adviser
Would come with a helping of horse tranquilliser.
She somehow convinced me to cut down on spending,
To live with the holes in my clothes that need mending.

She said that when flu leaves my nasal paths blocked or
My elbow's demanding a trip to the doctor,
I'd have to make do with my own remedies,
To make simple treatments from things found on trees,

And start farming leeches to use in my cures.
I'd have to end breakfasts of Belgian liqueurs.
At least I would have to reduce this expense,
And earnestly try to use less frankincense.

A meal of a crispy pig face and spiced mice is
The latest example of my sacrifices.
For lunch I have peanuts and packets of dust,
And bread that is nothing but bits of black crust.

My second-hand car only goes in reverse.
Despite this it's certain that things could be worse.
I've nurtured a love for my own home-made wine.
It widens the smile of the pig when I dine.

Valerie Adores the Rain

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 27 May 2010 18:16:00 +0000

Valerie adores the rain.
She won't pull up her hood.
She's catalogued the hurricanes
Her hair style has withstood.

Her head expands when it gets wet.
Her brain begins to flower.
She feels the unrelenting rain
Increasing her brain power.

And she'll discover startling facts
That light up in her mind.
Facts about the lives of plants
Are things she loves to find.

She'll marvel at the knowledge that
She never knew she knew,
Like how to instigate a flawed
Exhilarating coup.

Hilda's Garden

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 20 May 2010 09:21:00 +0000

Her overgrown garden would fight her.
The grass concealed creatures who'd bite her.
An old timber wagon
Was home to a dragon,
But he was her cigarette lighter.

This is Hilda running a marathon
to raise money for mice.

The Climate in my Head

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 13 May 2010 07:39:00 +0000

I've boundless praise for the inventor
Of those frosty days in winter.
I miss them now that summer's here
To leave its blemish on this year.

Memories of snow will spark
A pleasant fire to quench the dark
In long and dreary days of June,
The interlude in life's cartoon.

When leaking clouds that need a plumber
Start to dominate our summer
I'll be glad I don't need heat
While stressed-out hordes head off for Crete

To laze beneath incessant sun
And bake until they're overdone,
And spend their nights believing that
They've found their perfect habitat.

I'll steer away from stress and strain.
All I'll need to keep me sane
Are thoughts of winter's many charms
And drawing monsters on my arms.

Dinnertime at Darren's House

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 06 May 2010 08:15:00 +0000

When Darren's fridge is short of food
He won't go to the shops.
He won't sweep floors for stray popcorn
Or missing lollipops.

He won't eat out in restaurants
Like senseless, spendthrift fools.
He'll simply go down to the shed
Containing all his tools.

He'll make his food from bits of planks
With nuts and bolts and nails.
Fools can pay a fortune for
Their meal of frogs and snails.

He's satisfied with plywood pies
And eggs of oak or pine.
He'll use their yolks for cakes he makes
That smell of turpentine.

Some desserts have wires and gears
And some make ticking sounds.
On Christmas Day he cooked the hare
Who raced and fooled greyhounds.

He made a cake that tasted bland.
He only ate one slice.
He found that he could use it as
A pest-control device.

The Winning Ticket

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 09:19:00 +0000

If I won the lottery
And I was sure I'm not a tree,
I'd spend some cash to buy this prize:
A thousand chainsaws making noise,

An orchestra of engine screams,
A prison wall of sound in dreams,
Augmented by a donkey choir
Tormented by a fear of fire.

I'd let them bleat their doleful songs
While builders beat enormous gongs.
The sound would rival sonic booms
And noise from ferries' engine rooms.

I'd buy Ferraris by the dozen.
I'd give the car keys to my cousin.
He's always crashing cars and vans
And crushing them like empty cans.

I'd let him drive my Aston Martins.
I'm well aware a super car wins
Brand new friends and much acclaim,
A chance to feel the glow of fame.

I've no desire to mix with stars.
I'd only buy expensive cars
To hear athletic engine roars
And make some noise by slamming doors.

I'd satisfy my need for noise.
I'd drown out lows and nurture highs.
A piece that starts with my lead chainsaw
Might help Uncle Willie's brain thaw.

Just a single mental ember
May well help him to remember
Where the ticket's tucked away.
We've searched his house all night and day.

His ticket's worth ten million euros.
I doubt if there's a person who knows
Where that winning ticket lies.
It wears a betting slip disguise.

I concentrate on my screenplay
Instead of thinking of the day
He lost his favourite hearing aid.
It's mostly made of yellow suede.

We searched in countless strangers' ears,
Ignoring threats from guns and spears.
And all along the aid was stuck
Between a duck egg and a duck.

Brendan Began to go Barmy

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 09:32:00 +0000

Brendan began to go barmy
Just weeks after joining the army.
The whole world seemed odd
When he found out that God
Was riveted by origami.

We're not cut out for this war caper
Because we are all made of paper.
You can't avoid gaffes
When you're making giraffes.
God uses glue and a stapler.

Brendan resides on a shelf.
He works as the tale of an elf.
While out on manoeuvre
Somewhere near Vancouver
He wrote his first book on himself.

Pear Noises

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 15 Apr 2010 16:09:00 +0000

Norma enjoys spending time with her pears.
They're affable, kind and less deadly than bears.
She'll give them a shake just to see if they rattle.
The odd rattling pears will be eaten by cattle.

Some grizzled old pears emit gasses in jets.
Some of them wheeze when they smoke cigarettes.
The feeble old folk will be given to sheep.
Goats get the pears that go 'blip' and then 'bleep'.

Cats eat the pears that can make engine noises.
Dogs get the ones wearing apple disguises.
Geese get the pears that use vulgar swear words,
And Norma eats pears that keep tweeting like birds.

Gillian's Favourite Pastime

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 09:26:00 +0000

Gillian's favourite pastime is this:
Collecting sunlight in glass jars.
When it's released it will radiate bliss,
Dazzling like fireworks or stars.

She gathers the sunlight on warm summer days.
Jam jars contain the bright light.
She'll put on the lid to confine lively rays,
Stopping them from taking flight.

If inklings of summer's full glare bring you joy,
You'll need them when winter takes hold.
She'll open a jar full of light from July,
And turn winter lead into gold.

Another Busy Night Ahead

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 13:29:00 +0000

Another busy night ahead,
A banquet with a beauty queen,
Model maids who'll be well-fed
When they've consumed a magazine,

Dresses with a show to stop,
Dancing dishes courting spoons,
A Roman Catholic Robocop
Who laughs upbeat electro tunes,

A marching band of mannequins
With teddy bears released on bail,
A man who is a fan of sins
Assisted by a bath of ale.

I'll talk about my fake career:
A helicopter pilot who
Is always haunted by a fear
Of what his rebel brain might do.

I'll speak of past mistakes I've made
And deep regrets for what I've done,
Of memories that never fade
And demons who insist they've won.

I've no desire to turn back time.
I only want to halt its flow,
To see flood-waters cease their climb
When time's great tap is turned down low,

And I could float and watch white clouds
Drift by above this tranquil place,
A private pool devoid of crowds,
Where time has lost its frantic pace.

I'll treasure gifts of clear blue sky
And silence after years of storm,
Until the plug is pulled and I
Can feel a whirlpool start to form.

I'll note a certain downward trend,
A fate from which no one can hide.
I'll sink and soon I'll reach the End.
I'll see what's on the other side.
I hope to find a water slide.