light verse and much, much worse
Nudism in cubism
Falls under The Abstract
And artist folk behind each stroke
Admit it’s inexact.
The avant garde can leave some jarred
So, should you choose to pose
Don’t be surprised to find your eyes
Where most look for their nose.
At Cana, water turned to wine
Delighting all the guests
And showed the world The Great Divine
Considers all requests.
Although some question Was it prayer?
Or did a son discover
The force behind a mother’s glare
Is unlike any other?
The ostrich claims the biggest eggs
The longest neck and strongest legs.
Give thanks these birds don’t fly about
For just one turd would knock you out.
Where do storks nest during a war
As spires tumble and towns are no more?
What will deer eat when tanks advance
Over sweet meadows of young, tender plants?
What drives a cub out of the den
Crying alone for its mother again?
Gone is the gold
Dark is the dawn
Ghostly and cold
Best to fly on
January’s no one’s friend
A month that lingers without end
No end to winter’s deepest chill
Which steals the breath and makes us ill
No end to counting every dime
From letting go at Christmastime
To resolutions boldly made
Then just as quietly betrayed
No reason to buy a bouquet
No fireworks
No Mother’s Day
At New Year’s, many raise a glass
Bemused by how the months soon pass
Then wake the next day full of dread
To fear the year which lay ahead
The word for hippopotamus
Ain’t half big as its bottom is
Take me to that fabled time
When destiny was more sublime
When noble quests were blessed by God Himself.
Where crones intoned prophetic rhymes
While wizards read the stars for signs
And deep within each hollow hid an elf.
Take me to a time before
When magic could unlock a door
And conjurers cried out Abracadabra!
Where every frog tried to convince
Young maidens he might be a prince
And sonnets were composed by candelabra.
To play a brazen game with Death
One leap beyond the dragon’s breath
Dispatching ogres twice the height of men.
And then, to lay beneath a tree
While my sweet Lady sings to me
For as she does, my soul’s restored again.
Take me to that fabled time
The course now clear
No more to roam
Astraeus, chart the stars for home!
The critics ask from time to time
Do all your poems have to rhyme?
If not the case, my esteemed friends
How would I know when each one ends?
I have a friend, Mr Dearden
Statistics say he’s one in ten
Who lives at Number 2-2-3
Look for the house that has a tree.
His job is fixing old machines
Throughout the night, by any means
Days off, he reconditions cars
And meets his mates in select bars.
Devoted uncle, brother, son
He always calls before I’ve rung
To wish me all the very best
Before our family’s even dressed.
We’ve different circles, different pasts
And yet this quaint connection lasts
For out of nowhere he’ll appear
If only once or twice a year.
As for this figure: one in ten
I’ll need to look at it again
For should I know one million men
I could not meet as dear a friend
On her rounds every night
She’s a curious sight
With her trolley and crushed velvet hat.
As she shuffles in shoes
Lined with yesterday’s news
Through the town like a wayfaring cat.
Where are you from, Crazy Annie?
What have you done, Crazy Annie?
Now and then she will stop
To peer into a shop
At a world where it never grows cold.
Where the ladies dress up
And take tea in a cup
Framed in windows of crimson and gold.
What don’t they know, Crazy Annie?
How is it so, Crazy Annie?
They shared kids, a nice home
Worked themselves to the bone
‘Til he left without saying a word.
As she started to sink
So she started to drink
After that everything becomes blurred.
Have you no friends, Crazy Annie?
Where will it end, Crazy Annie?
At the end of her walk
Near a derelict block
Out of sight, she beds down on the floor.
And should anyone ask
It’s hot soup in the flask
Which she’d share, if she only had more.
Try not to cry, Crazy Annie
As we pass by, Dearest Annie
Mr Ormsby At Large 