A tragic true tale told in haiku form. The horrid little chap in the photograph (not one of mine) is not one of the villains of the piece, but he looks remarkably similar.
Two Jackdaws perch high
And hurl the moss with malice
From the dank roof tiles.
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The mice had gathered nuts and seeds
To cater for their winter needs.
They slumbered in the fragrant hay
And woke alert on Christmas Day.
They’d found a perfect place to stay,
A stable where a manger lay:
Warm and safe with room to spare
And nothing to disturb them there.
The choir sang joyous, loud and sweet,
The mice enthralled enjoyed the treat.
Paws clasped together, small hearts rose
The little ones stood on their toes.
A robin sang, and bells were pealing,
Monty’s eyes rose to the ceiling.
High above the owl was sitting,
Eyes half closed and as was fitting
At this time of peace to all
Had taken time to pay a call.
On silent wings he soared away
Whilst hooting Happy Christmas Day.
Images from here and here with grateful thanks.
Posted in Bad pomes, Creative writing, Nature | 5 Comments »
Dasher Daschshund grew quite barmy,
he fell in love with a salami.
He knew that fickle, wondrous fate
Had brought his aromatic mate.
But months of unrequited lust,
turned little Dasher’s heart to dust.
He found he couldn’t go on living,
a life so harsh and unforgiving …
and with a whine of deep despair,
he turned his toes into the air.
(Luckily, his doggy basket
doubled as a funeral casket).
Awash with grief, his owner cried,
“Mein liebling hund has sadly died!
I’ll never own a pet agin”,
but aus den augen aus dem sinn.
The owner liked his new-found pet,
Who didn’t eat, or need a vet,
and found a sausage quite the thing
to take for walkies on a string.
Posted in Bad pomes, Creative writing, Poetry | Tagged Chariot Competition, dog, foreign phrase, salami | 2 Comments »
Rex, my gorgeous Dogstar,
with your beaut Aristo nose,
I saw you running fast and far
on your charming hirsute toes.
Oh Rex, I dream of you and me,
in heat and wondrous harmony,
making canine whoopee.
I like your spindly little legs
and your nervous courtship dance,
but my nature doesn’t make me beg
for your coy, admiring glance.
And when the whoopee’s over (sigh),
I cannot tell a silken lie,
it’s you, my dear, who’s going to die.
I’m glossy, prickly, by a fence,
all dressed in Lincoln green.
My wish for berries is intense,
but none for years I’ve seen.
But then (hurrah!) I see a bee,
and, Glory be, the bee’s seen me!
A subtle kind of whoopee.
(Competition theme:’Making Whoopee’)
Posted in Creative writing, Poetry | Tagged Chariot, Creatures, May Competition | 4 Comments »
I know I have been slightly conspicuous by my absence from cyber-space for a while, but I have been busy.
Daughter No.1 is to be married on 28th September, and we are moving house in early October. We are relocating to Dorset which was our intention about five years ago. If the telephone and broadband transfer goes smoothly, we shall be back on line on the 9th.
If nothing else we have made headway with clearing out heaps of rubbish and general unwanted clutter which we found in the attic, shed and cupboards. This has all been given away, recycled or consigned to landfill, and it’s taken an age.
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On a bladderwracked, forsaken isle,
all swirled about with wind-blown gulls,
a wild man keeps his hut and hearth,
eschewing what he held most dear;
awash in toxic madness.
A giant monster, gnarled and raving,
marked by sun and raging winds,
bewitched beneath a pregnant moon,
and twisted like a mandrake root;
harbouring ancient sins.
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Posted in Bad pomes, Creative writing | Tagged dolphins, JW's June poetry comp, magic, seaweed | 2 Comments »
Our handsome lady proudly struts and pats her curls in place;
Clad in frills and furbelowed, a smile upon her face.
Her small, soft hands are clad in kid, her shoes are made of silk,
Her eyes a sparkling cornflower blue, her skin as pale as milk.
She sheds her tippet, grasps her fan, and holds her head up high.
Her heart beats fast, her cheeks flush pink; a well-bred butterfly.
The staircase loomed and down below the “ton” all gazed enrapt.
The music faltered, dancers stood, the whole assembly clapped.
Our debutante, quite nervous now, commences her descent.
She trips and falls headlong, I fear, and nothing can prevent
A precipitous arrival, on the ballroom floor below –
She landed at the Prince’s feet, pantaloons on show!
Entry to poetry competition.
Posted in Bad pomes, Creative writing, History, Humour | Tagged debutante, pride, Prince Regent, Regency belle | 4 Comments »