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.

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 

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.  

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

Honest

I dont think my poetry career is going to well at present

But its an acquired taste 

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.       

THE END.

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 25^th 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  

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

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...... 

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.

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. . .      

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

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,

Pitter-pattering

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

Sometime

One day

Hopefully