Sunday, 31 January 2016

An A to Z special for the Letter I . . . A useful and Slightly Poetic Spell

I have been busy lately so I thought I would stop for a Spell

HAH HA HA ha Hah  ha ha ha ha

Iron Bars
Steel Ingots
Eye of iguana
And the finger of
An insidious charmer
Wing of Insect
And an indigo thought
Rope taken from an old West Indian port
An insecure moment from a grandfather clock
An interesting but small igneous rock
An ibis’s wing
And a rather obscure indelible thing
All stirred together with water
From a poisonous icy spring
Stirred very slowly
As impatience will fail
Slowly adding some
Rancid pale ale
Some improper thoughts
And an impala's teeth, plus its tail.
And an artists impression
Of the large blue whale
An inch from a ruler
An injection of rum
Some sticky illicit Green Bubble gum
Then add the legs of a Bumble Bee
And the decomposing intestines
Of the lesser spotted human flea.
Then keep on stirring until the potion
Is steaming, bubbling and hot
Then shout at the world
You are coming to get them
Whether they are ready
Or not.

Saturday, 30 January 2016

Poetry for the Big Garden Bird Watch. . . . .

Well I have done the Big Garden Bird Watch
To see what I could see
Like Eagles and Swallows
And possibly the odd Penguin or two . . .
I think sort of. . . maybe
The trouble is they all look the same
Because a bird is a bird to me
And a Seagull and a Golden Eagle
Can be confused incredibly easily
But I did see some Blue Tits
And a Vulture sitting in a tree
And Blackbirds and Sparrows
The rather rare Dodo
And a Chaffinch or two . . . or was it three
And a big fat grey Squirrel
Who eats all the food, that we put out
Which the cat likes to chase
Around and around and round about
He never catches it however
Because the little critter is too fast
But if a passing Condor sees it
That day will be its last
And as the Penguins nibble fish
Off our bird table on the lawn
My neighbour views
My observed list
With bemusement
And with scorn
And tells me (pointing) . . . that the Dunnet
Is not a humming bird
And to say I’ve seen a Phoenix
Is simply quite absurd
And that my Big Garden Bird Watch
Is not going very well
And that Puffins don’t eat peanuts
And Goldcrests don’t eat jelly babies
And I’m an idiot if I can’t tell
But I have done my bit
Submitted my list
Despite My RSPB neighbour
Waving his fist
And I suspect someone will think
It’s somewhat rare but nice
That I saw a flock of
Wilson's bird-of-paradise

There were loads of them

Honest with huge talons 

Friday, 29 January 2016

Poetry for Quiz Nights

We are off to a quiz night tonight
In the local Village Hall
To answer many questions
And I will try to answer them all
Like who made Lord Nelsons favourite Hat
And what was the name of Elvis Presley’s Cat
And who invented Sheppard’s Pie
And what is the constant in the equation for the cube of Y
And where did Tom and Jerry live
And what was the present Quasimodo did give
And what was the smallest critter on Noah’s Ark
And how many teeth has the Great White Shark
I know these questions are easy
We all know this stuff
Such as what did the Polynesians use instead of Snuff
And what is the speed of an adult Plaice
And what do you find on a King Penguins face
And how tall is the tallest waterfall in Wales
And what happens when a flimflam fails
And what is the standard width of Britain’s railway track
And how do you get a boomerang back
Why do mice stand on their heads
And who wrote . . . The man who lived in two sheds
And where can you find the polyfinttery spider
And what is the altitude record for a glider

And then half way through we all stop
For food cake and drink
Before it all stats again
And we all need to think

And then at the end the top team gets a prize
Which is something a bit odd and a bit of a surprise
 Like a mummified newt
Or a flock of well trained
House Flies


And if you come last you normally get a big jar of jelly babies, which explains a lot about the local Village Quiz Nights and why folk are not too keen on doing too well. Although no one wants to look like they know nothing but then everyone wants the jelly babies, so it’s a battle of wits to the bottom. We have never won or lost, but if our team ever does win  I get to keep all the trained Flies. . . . Now how cool is that.  

Thursday, 28 January 2016

Poetry for Voldemort . . . . . . Almost

Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,
Where did that Harry Potter go
Be he rich or be he poor
I'm sure I heard
That Potter Snore
Waking the Spirit
Of Christmas Past
And a Elf and a Hobbit
In Gormenghast
As well as JK Rowling
Asleep in Bed
Which is like biting?
The hand
From which you’re fed
Or maybe it’s that Gandalf chap
And some cunning scheme
So I can’t nap
Or I could just be having
A terrible dream
Like that Cursed Child
Who has witches seen?
I am told there are three
And their mate Macbeth
And if you see them
It is certain death
With their eye of newt
Tail of a dog
Sherbet bon bons
And the leg from a fermented frog
And people
Point and say I'm mad
Yes point and laugh
Which is rather bad
But the Banshees
You see will get them all
When I give them
My werewolves call
And the banshees will swoop
And vampires will bite
And monsters will scare
Long into the night
And I will tell all
It’s that Harry Potters fault
For beating up Voldemort
And bringing his evil empire to a halt

And he Snores (that’s Harry not Eric)
I'm sure Voldemort was Eric to his mates
Well I always called him Eric
Although I'm not sure he liked it much
And he said I snored
But it was not me it was that Harry
No it was

I dont think my poetry career is going to well at present
But its an acquired taste 

Tuesday, 26 January 2016

Beatrix and Harry Potter and the strange tale of the missing book

Once upon a time there was a young Wizard called Beatrix she was very keen on writing  her book of spells, she loved to record many spells scribbling little drawings of entrails and stuff in the margins. She was often heard practising them or learning new ones from Professor McGregor in the old potting shed at the end of Hogwarts vegetable garden as they ate Ginger and Pickles and drinking a nice pot of camomile tea with a small tot of rum added.  

Eye of Newt,  Leg of Rabbit, Toe of Mrs Tiggy-Winkle and a nuns old Habit . . . . . . . . .  Liver from Jemima Puddle-Duck. . . .  and a small bit of Squirrel Nutkins, Just for luck . . . .  Yes such spells were often heard coming from the potting shed on the long warm evening of spring. And so it was, and all was well until one day Beatrix’s younger brother Harry lost his faithful owl in the enchanted woods. He searched high and low, but with no luck. Then one evening sat by a tree near the old potting shed Harry heard Beatrix talking to Professor McGregor

Professor I tried that spell and it did not seem to work

Oooooo Miss Beatrix which one was that

Mr Tods big glass eye, Tommy Brock’s boots crisp and dry, Wing of owl and its beak and head Make my hair a nice shade of red.

Ah you forgot the Two bad mice and a Toms severed thumb said the Professor

DAMN said Beatrix, but at that very moment young Harry leapt up and shouted at Beatrix for using his owl in a spell. . . He was not happy and he shouted . . . Bookium avanishioxus inum flashious. . . . And sure enough before you could say hang on I will explain everything the book that Beatrix had been writing with all her spells and drawings in had vanished.

Give me back my book young Harry Potter said his sister Beatrix

Never not until a weird cat wearing an old jacket wearing silly boots and carrying an old flintlock rifle turns up CALLED KITTY CAT. . . HAH AHha ha ha ha ha ha hah a hahah a hah ahaha hah a ha ha ha said Harry in a slightly mad way

And so it was until to everyone's astonishment what should happen to wander into the Victoria and Albert Museum, but none other than Kitty Cat, leading to a long protracted legal dispute with a certain chocolate covered snack

It’s a funny old world said Professor McGregor as he ate yet another Rabbit pie.       


Monday, 25 January 2016

The Truth behind Burns Night . . . And the origins of the Haggis

This is the story of Mad Rob Z Burns whom way back was the man who finally destroyed the terrible beast of the heather known at the time as the Hissing Hag a terrible beast that legend said had plundered the wild places of Scotland eating unsuspecting crofters and travellers.  Rob Z Burns was a proud and fearless Scottish warrior who would stand his ground against all, even when out numbered twenty five to one. Which is why he was known as Mad Rob Z Burns; well that and his habit of waving his private parts at mountain goats and Englishmen scaring both somewhat.

You see back in about 1520 Scotland was in much turmoil having lost many fighters and noblemen in the Battle of Flodden in 1513 and this was a time when the fabled beast of the Wild the so called Hissing Hag was said to be at its most dangerous. Partly due to the fact, most of the highland warriors had perished in their battle against the English. But there was one who had not, Mad Rob Z Burns and having resigned himself to the Scottish defeat decided to find and defeat the fabled beast, The Hissing Hag.

He was a man of few words and when folk did ask him things such as  . . . How is it going  Mad Rob Z . . . he would reply with . .  Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes believe . .  or even . . .  Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware . . .  Which after a while led to folk shuffling past avoiding conversation all together.  Much as most folk do today when they see a mad drunk Glaswegian in Sauchiehall Street.

However rumour soon spread across Scotland of Mad Rob Z Burns and his quest to find the fabled beast of the wild the so called Hissing Hag and destroy it.  And from time to time folk would see him up in the mountains tracking the beast through the mist. He would often wave and lift his kilt exposing his private parts to the unsuspecting traveller causing much stress and shock to the young and innocent But Mad Rob Z Burns was a Scottish Warrior it is what they do (well did). Then after about two years Mad Rod returned home having finally slain the beast. As proof he had kept a part of the beast in a sack. It was a hideous and gruesome sight. Many people came to see Mad Rob Z Burns and the remains of the beast and they would all ask him how he managed to kill it, but all he would ever say is . . . . Ah jist Neeped th' Hag Hiss beest wi' mah broad sword . . .

This was celebrated by many by making a copy of the terrible remains of the beast out of various bits of Sheep which the entire family would eat while drinking loads of Whisky and being rude with their kilts. The origin of the Haggis (from the Hag Hiss or Hissing Hag).

Then one of Mad Rob Z Burns’ ancestors also called Robert Burns wrote a poem which led to the modern day celebrations we all know as Burns Night on the 25th January, but of course we all know that he was merely using a bit of poetic licence to tell the true story of Mad Rob Z Burns. Who would be far more well know had he said a bit more and exposed himself a bit less, but well that is what those old Scottish warriors were like back then.

  Address to a Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,

Gie her a Haggis  

Sunday, 24 January 2016

Even More Poetry for Robots . . . . . Bleep Bleep Bleep

Bleep bleep
Says my robot
As I eat my breakfast
At the start of another day
Bleep bleep
It says as I set off
On my merry way
Bleep bleep
As I get to work
And try to earn my pay
Bleep bleep
As I eat my sandwiches
And drink a nice cup
Of freshly made Earl Grey
Bleep bleep
When I’m in the Loo
Bleep bleep
When I leave
Bleep bleep
During my Promotion exam
With the answers
Written on my sleeve
Bleep bleep
When the adjudicator
Then insists
I really need to go
Bleep bleep
When I complain
And I’m thrown out
By a security chap
Who I don’t know
Bleep bleep
As I walk home
In the poring rain
Bleep Bleep
When my wife
Complains I cheated yet again
Adding she thinks I’m just a bit insane
Bleep bleep
When I notice, my wife
Has run off with the dog
and my car
And has gone to live with a chap
Who lives in Potters Bar
Bleep Bleep
When my robot tells me
He has stolen the works
Vending Machine
And they have been up in my bedroom
Doing something a bit obscene
Bleep bleep
When I am making toast
And I discover the vending Machine
Has run out of milk
And it appears my little robot
Wants something
Rather sexy made out of Silk

Bleep Bleep Bleep
Bleep Bleep Bleep
Bleep Bleep Bleep
Bleep Bleep
Bleep Bleep

Shouts my robot
While reading
Vending Machine Weekly
On my homes cluttered floors
So I have sent him to cool off a bit
Out in the great Outdoors

And folk worry these things are going to take over the world...... 

Friday, 22 January 2016

Poetry for the Chicken and the Egg

What came first
The chicken or the egg
Or was it a platypus
With a wooden leg
Or maybe a huge dinosaur
Or a Roy Rogers
On his horse
Although it could have been an Alien
Who sort of got blown off course?
Or was it an Eagle
Sitting on its nest
Chewing on an Antelope
And knitting a string vest
Or it could have been a fish
Swimming in the sea
Then again on the other hand
It could have been a bee
Or it could have been something Large
Like an elephant or a whale
I think this question is a bit like
Hunting for the Holy Grail.
I mean it could have been the chicken
It could have been the egg
Or Long John Silver
Who emerged from his treasure Chest
Shouting . . . Shiver me timbers. . .HAR HAR HAR
As part of his pirate test
Or a small strange creature
No one has seen before
Which after hopping in a circle
Runs out of the kitchen door
Or maybe it was a tortoise
Which managed to beat the hare?
To a place that is not here
But might be over there
Or it might have been an ant
Using cunning, stealth and guile
Although now I come to think of it
I have not seen any ants
In a while
Or it might have been the ancient Greeks
Who were clever chaps you know
They invented the thermometer
And the garden hoe
Actually that is not entirely true
But they were very keen
On chickens and eggs

But which came first I really wish I knew.

Thursday, 21 January 2016

How to become a Penniless Poet or a Professional Blogger

So as a rather ordinary middle class chap in a fairly ordinary house in an ordinary little village in the hills of Shropshire in Great Britain, you might be wondering exactly how I sort of decorate my humble abode. You see I do not have loads of money to do this but I am also keen to give the space the personal touch, as I’m sure we all are. I suspect the inside of houses is like snowflakes, no two are alike despite using the same basic building blocks to create it, which in mine and many others is good old IKEA. OK we do have a lot of stuff that is not IKEA but lets face it they have cornered the market in the world of convenient flat pack furniture.

Ok I know it does not look like it but at least a day has passed since the last paragraph so PHEW. Now you might be wondering why but just as I finished it a voice through the room said . . . . Do you fancy some food. . . . Well it went from there to fighting Zombies at the edge of the woods, they are not keen on the cold and were trying to invade our central heating system, and then after that I got distracted.

Anyway one thing I did do yesterday was resigned from my part time job doing IT, this is good and bad. The main bad thing is that I am now not earning any money, but not earning any money does have one rather useful advantage you see I can now say I am a penniless poet. Penniless poets have far more street cred than those who make loads of money; actually I don’t think any poets make loads of money which is why they are all penniless. To tell the truth it is a bit mad becoming a penniless poet because with a fairly high degree of certainty it is possible to predict a life of obscurity and no money.  Something of a contradiction to my middle class lifestyle in a small village in Shropshire.

This brings me back to our humble homes interior.  You see by making little things with cardboard and the like; and adding a few bits and pieces from charity shops, even a simple middle class penniless poet can maintain an illusion of grandeur. As well as telling interesting little stories among the IKEA shelving.

I appear to have created a rather rambling diary entry tonight, not sure how that happened and I will need to think up some more poetry soon as well as make arty things to maintain my new life as a penniless poet and artist.   I guess I could say I’m a Professional Blogger, folk seem to do that now and most of them that do blog less than I do. . .      

Monday, 18 January 2016

Poetry for Cold Days

It’s feeling jolly cold today
Dull and boring and somewhat grey
And although I discussed weather yesterday
It’s very nasty and will not go away
OK yes this is the British Isles
And it is not really that common
To see the sun or the suns big shining smiles
So I have drawn one in my bathroom
With crayons, on the bathroom tiles
You see every year in the winter time
About this time of year
I go a little mad you know
And people point and say O DEAR
Yes when I go out, I stagger about
With a sleeping bag wrapped around my head
And fifteen pairs of thermal pants
Of which twelve are always red
And I gaffer tape a pair of cats to my hands
Which I prefer to using gloves
Because when I wave my arms about
I can easily catch lots and lots of doves
And I’ll strip off all their feathers
And stick them all in my shirt . . . (the feathers not the doves)
Which although a little itchy
Really does not hurt
And people point and laugh and say . . . I'm a fool
As mad as a hatter who has totally lost his cool
But I am warm and cosy
With insulating slugs covering my face
While they are all shivering
By a log fire in some Café . . . some place

Probably the one that banned me for being covered in slugs and dropping Dove feathers on their cakes while attempting to cut a hot buttered scone in half with limited vision due to a sleeping bag being wrapped round my head. Apparently they said its not normal, well it is in our house. . . . . OK I Have been told it is not normal in our house either and I have to go and sit in a cold shed. . . . Just as well I'm wrapped up warm is all I can say . . . . . . DAMN I swallowed a Slug. 

Farewell Eagles founder and Guitarist Glenn Frey

Sunday, 17 January 2016

Poetry for Rain

I have not seen a lot of sun
But we have had a lot of rain
Which really is not?
A lot of fun
And can drive a man
Quite insane
And a bit of sleet
And some nasty snow
It would be very nice
If it would
All now go
I would even be happy
With a bit of drought
Rather than the flooding seen
Here and there
And roundabout
I mean no one wants Sneesl
Or Smog and stuff
We are fed up with
The weather being so rough
As we all wake up to another
Dour dreach day
Which the bitter wind
Has blown our way
With talk of Daggle
And getting Drookit
One needs to stay warm
To make it through it
And the gentle pitter-patter,
Yet again
Sending those with no brollies
Running and scattering
about in the rain
And as the grey and dark
Once again return
I will stick
Another log on the fire
And watch it burn

Roll on spring is what I say
I am sure it will turn up
One day