About Roland's Ragbag

Long retired; Expatriate Tyke; Eclectic; Not-So-Grumpy Old Man.

Flights of Fancy

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Flights of Fancy

 

I’m given to flights of fancy,
‘Well, fancy that you say! ‘
Walter Mitty Syndrome,
A game that mad minds play.

Imagination rules,
The order of my day.
Stocked with ghosts and phantoms,
Reality at play.

My stories, novels, poems,
Articles and features,
With Ghouls, werewolves and zombies,
They’re bedevilled with such creatures.

– – – – – – – – – –

A mix concocted to bemuse,
Feelings splintered, screams abound,
Shattered dreams and shuttered minds,
Injured hearts, can all be found.

Hatching  out new cans of worms,
Striving for that killer effect.
Daydreams and nightmares have their place,
Even the Plague I resurrect.

So when at last I’ve said and done,
Ended my mini-masterpiece.
I’ll settle back, accept the praise,
Waiting for the press release.

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Miss Tyke

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Miss Tyke

I enjoy the thrill of the chase
But I try to avoid all disgrace
So I never take chances
When I make advances
Instead I slow down just in case.

I once went out with a Tyke
Took her on a very long hike
She said, “Givus a kiss”,
But she got more than this,
And she moaned, “Now, yes, THAT I do like!”

I took this lass out on the moors
She said, “I want to be yours”,
I won’t mumble or grumble,
Just give me a fumble,
They say it’s the best of all cures. “

Then she gave me a come-hither flounce
“I bet I still can” I announced.
She said “Give it a try,
I won’t scream or cry,
But I may give a squeal as you pounce.”

So I gave her just what she asked.
We frolicked and played till at last,
She couldn’t believe
How I twisted and heaved
Till her flabber was never so gast.

Well, I married this sweet Tykish lass;
A large family we did amass.
I will never regret
That first time we met,
But I now miss the excitement alas.

 

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Cryptic Verses

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CRYPTIC  VERSES

 

We met via a cryptic crossword
Ensnared by a neat cryptic clue
I gave her a smile as a greeting
Followed up by a “How do you do?”

She was young, twenty-three-ish, and pretty,
Presentable, pert and petite.
She rang my Big Ben with a ding-dong
And my heart skipped a jubilant beat.

She was sitting there doing a crossword,
It looked like the one in ‘The Times’.
While I was just taking a breather,
Thinking up verses and rhymes.

Then ‘Wave cereal bowl’ she murmured,
As she looked, without seeing, at me.
Now this, I thought, I could work at.
I gave thanks to the powers that be.

An eight letter answer was needed,
So I set my old brain cells ticking
I knew if I thought hard I’d find it
The clue just needed unpicking.

For ‘cereal’ – think ‘grain’ or think ‘bran’,
And for ‘bowl’ then how about ‘dish’?
But to fit them together I thought,
Would be more than I ever could wish.

But it soon became clear to me
When looking again at the clue,
That what I was looking for now,
A word which meant ‘wave’, that would do.

A light then switched on in my mind
I knew I had twigged it at last
‘BRANDISH’ I yelled with great glee
Assuming she’d leap up and gasp.

But “Calm down!” she abruptly called out
“I ‘d just worked that out for myself.
I don’t need your help you spoilsport.
Go pickle your brains by yourself.”

Disgruntled, I stood up and left,
Yet another faux pas I had made.
One more chance for romance I had blown,
So it’s back to my verse I’m afraid.

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‘CRYPTIC CLUE:  Wave cereal bowl’;   ANSWER:  Bran-dish’

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‘On Lost Youth” . . . A TANKA

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‘On Lost Youth” . . . A TANKA

 

Still lusting for life

It so defeats me to cry

Joy now comes with pain

Bringing thoughts of what has been

Youth will never come again

 

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Tanka is a genre of classical Japanese poetry meaning a short poem, and one of the major genres of Japanese literature. 

A Tanka consist of five units (often treated as separate lines when romanized or translated) usually with the pattern of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables per unit or line). Wikipedia

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Gaps

Poppies

Poppies …  WHB Pen &  Wash

Gaps

There are gaps in my life that need filling,
I know without doubt that they’re there;
I hear them, I see them, I feel them,
My senses are keenly aware.

But perhaps they’re not many, just one,
So large as to to fill up the whole;
Maybe they add up to life’s meaning
And what I consider my soul.

 

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Songs My Mother Sang

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Songs My Mother Sang

The songs were of chill and anguish,
Sad songs with wistful themes,
Telling of loss and longing,
Songs of uncertain dreams.

Wistful, anxious, plaintive,
Sung in the dark days of war,
As though no end to suffering
Would reach us evermore.

She sang of the wandering gypsies,
The old lady sweet and kind,
Of old Barbara Frietchie’s flag,
And the boys who were left behind.

But though her words were sombre
I knew as she held me tight,
Her clutch was so warm and tender
The darkness would turn to light.

 

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Memento

 

Chambord-Loire-France

Chambord:  WHB – Pen & Wash

MEMENTO

 

What of me remains…
Persists when I have gone?

Take away my body
Deconstruct my presence
then rebuild an image
made only of memory
unique to each who knew me
no composite save each
biographed reflected anecdote

Save what I have created
those I have affected,
influenced, guided,
tainted I trust not,
as parent, teacher, associate,
as lover and as friend
as moderator and as judge
as poet and as peasant

Sic transit gloria mundi
And thus my light
in time
as light does
will fade from view

 

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No Regrets

 

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Let me kick my regrets into the long grass,
Let me mark an end to my sorrow.
The pain that I bore
Let it fade away,
Bring back my life from tomorrow.

The love that we shared it still will remain,
The times we were close will not wither.
The hopes that we had,
The love that we shared,
The pains that we bore together.

Our dreams may have faded without being fulfilled,
Along with the hopes that we cherished,
But what has remained
Has carried us through,
It’s our dreams not our love that have perished.

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Reverie #6: Doubt

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Reverie #6: Doubt

 

Nothing in the world is certain
Pull up anchor
Sink or swim
Switch the light off
Draw the curtain
Do it now upon a whim. 

You’ll find your destiny has spoken
Only when you realise
That all is doubt
Some lows
Some highs
And all good fortune  rests
Upon that final funeral hymn. 

Abide with me
Do not forsake me
You are needed by my side
A life is given
A life is taken
Now fast falls the eventide
Stay for ever
Leave me never
‘Lama sabachthani’, He cried.

 

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Tooty Fruity & The Imbroglio

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The IMBROGLIO

I’m embroiled in an imbroglio, 
And, Yes, I am confused. 
Which way to turn I do not know, 
Perplexed, baffled, bemused.

She’s says that she will live with me, 
See to all my needs, 
If I will gift my house to her, 
The pool, the grounds, the deeds.

I think she’s asking far too much, 
And yet she’s such a sweetie. 
I’d like to give her what she wants, 
Listen to her entreaty. 

Perhaps I’m just an aged fool, 
Smitten by her beauty, 
But should I take a chance and swap
My world for Tooty Fruity?

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