King Arthur is a bear.
He is, I swear it
Although, I know,
Some here may not be able to bear it.
Truth be told,
The Arthur of old
Was more likely to have been
A mythical legend
Rather than King Ursa Major
Perhaps ‘Ursa’ and ‘Arthur’
Became confused in the mists of time
As we may have become
In the midst
Of this rhyme.
I wrote a song about a pop tart
To try and get into the pop chart
The song wasn’t very good
It was not about the hood
And so it didn’t really sell
I changed the tune a bit
To try and get myself a hit
And added some cool words
To try and win some cool awards
But, that didn’t work too well
I got a girl band to sing it
For so emotionally they’d wring it
But, we didn’t make a video
Which, made the song a no go
And as current as William Tell
So, we made a video and mimed
And a few lines never rhymed
With poor lip-sync it was a crime
And we shoulda coulda woulda took our time
But we rushed
And were singing when we shoulda woulda coulda hushed.
So, we gave it up
And we all got proper jobs
And kept our dreams
On shelves
Still singing our song…
To ourselves.
In the darkness of your light
In the daytime of your night
I shall unwrap the mystery of your ways.
Because. G:)
“A Beautiful Desert Oasis”
Climbing up on Donnell Hill
‘I can see the city lights’
In San Bernardino.
‘A fool in love –
A crazy situation’
In loco parentis – apropos of something…
Or nothing.
‘And if you want…’
To be dreaming of a certain place
‘It’s Californication!’
Why, on day twenty-nine of @NaPoWriMe
Do I sit here considering the relative merits
Of my poetry; how it’s written, and where it’s…
Going? I, have no way of knowing!
Are my poems just a strange way of telling and showing?
Would a psychiatrist, having looked me up,
Then looked me up and down, lock me up,
Or run me out of town?
Are all the leaves brown?
Questions; I have many.
Answers; few and varied,
Do the truths lay (or lie) buried?
Who is…
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And one from the archives. G:)
“To infinity and beyond!”
China’s lucky number;
The endlessness of the figure ate
Its way into my brain
Like a runaway train
Rolling along the track;
We’ll never end our journey
Never get to go back.
Spider’s legs;
And as sure as eggs is eggs,
And cows will e’er go moo
The figure eight,
I’d like to state,
Is my favourite number, too!
It’s always been a classic,
No other will compare,
It has a certain joie de vivre
And total savoir faire.
“Huit!” the French would ecrit,
“Otto!” heralds the Graeco-Latino
And “due!” and “neuf!” and many other a foreign numeric word
Don’t come anywhere near to “Eight!” that I have ever heard.
Not to say that the other numbers aren’t important, too;
For some of them are, probably, fun.
But, I have a problem trying to think, when pushed…
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When I’m gone
Will there be any who look upon
My passing with any sadness?
Will they look back upon my sanity? My madness?
Will they smile? Frown?
Will they speak kind words about my being?
Or will they down my existence,
My blatant persistence in surviving so long?
Will I be a headline or a footnote
Or will there be nothing written upon what I did, the words I wrote?
The world will continue turning
The people blithely carrying on as if nothing of importance had happened by my presence
Upon this planet for a few brief decades.
And as my illusory memory fades…
A sense of calmness pervades;
For the oceans that moved whilst I lived;
The storms that raged;
Even the sun that shone,
Whilst I was here in body and spirit,
Pay a moment’s tribute to my journey here on Earth
And all that I have achieved…
Just a microsecond; or maybe not.
As I dance my way to oblivion;
In this mortal’s final gavotte.
You see me on my phone again
Tapping keys as if I’m messaging the world and its brother;
But, I am a modern-day poet
Putting my rhyming thoughts down
Upon my screen
Before the battery dies
And I
Have to resort to handwriting ‘words’ upon a scrap of paper.
Words, which start off scruffy and end up less decipherable than the enigma machine’s output after it’s been programmed by Dipsy, edited by Lala and keyed in by the other two.
So, when you see me next
Don’t just assume that I am keying a text
I might be creating the best
Poem in the world.
I just might.
A Black Forest Gateau – sorry, Hound.
Walking stately through the forest on a path that he had helped establish over the years, Marmaduque Fabriquet was at peace with the world; his two hounds, Fleicher und Christien, ran alongside and away, enjoying their freedom from the restrictions of Hame Farm – though those ‘restrictions’ were hardly solitary confinement for his two faithful Black Forest Hounds.
set a challenge to come up with an interesting and inviting first sentence for one of the writing groups that I attend (The Write Stuff) I thought this was a possibility. It does, however (IMO) not give any clues as to what the story is about, or what might happen. It seems to me merely a start. What follows may make the difference; but, as a first sentence, I am not won over by it. What do you think? G:)
One day,
when I was younger
than
I am now,
And I
Was looking forward
to when I would be older
than I was then
I thought that
Today (insert actual today’s date here)
Would be the day
That I
was looking forward to
But, looking back
At myself looking forward
I didn’t know
Then
that ‘that’ then
And this ‘now’
Would be as it was
And is
And that I
Would still be blue.
What is Dutch Courage?
Where does the phrase originate?
Why do I ask you these questions?
How does ‘your’ mind stimulate?
I hear a phrase on the radio;
Or whilst listening to folk as they chat;
I am inquisitive, enquiring, seeking answers…
Can ‘you’ relate to that?
I Google and find; what’s your method?
Do you still look through a leather-bound tome?
Or is asking a friend a possible option?
I found out that not all roads lead to Rome.
However you discover your knowledge;
Using the medias that show ‘you’ the way;
In whatever way you search to enlighten;
Is there something out there to learn of today?
hangerfarmpoets 