The Black Bra

Black on Red
It stood
Proud statement
Discarded in frenzy
All passion spent

Improperly passive now

Objet trouvé
Found flotsam
Overstating its status
Bright
Bold
Yet benign

No threat 
No danger
The sad music of lust
Transmuted
Statuesque

Fashioned by whim
Now become
A seafront memento
In memoriam
Of some casual
Teasing escapade
A littoral reminder

Perhaps

Of a purple period
Of passion

Part Bikini

Or

Plain Brassiere

 

Photos by kind permission of Canadian artist, Alma Kerr

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Oojamaflip

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On the trials of a would-be Poet . . . continued . . .

The words won’t come …

Oojamaflip

Is all that I can say

It fills a space

A hole in time

But I will have my day

My day when flow turns into flood 

And torrents can’t be held;

New words will rush – 

Nay, hush, they’ll gush.

 

More trees, no longer safe, will die

For inspiration 

Felled.

 

Is it for this the poet’s toil,

Denuding all those forests?

Did oojamaflip kill time and life

With its pointless blunted knife?

 

Or did I seek to spill my thoughts

Predicated on my fecund muse

Merely upon a whim –

A sense of knowing what to say

Without reason to say it? 

NOTE: From the O.E.D.   … Like thingamabob or whatchamacallit, oojamaflip (also spelled whojamaflip, hoojamaflip, etc.) is a word used to refer to something a person doesn’t know the name of, or doesn’t wish to specify precisely.   . . .

A word used when you can’t remember the word that you want to be saying.

To Rhyme or Not to Rhyme?

I asked a question of my friend

It did not seem too hard.

I wished to know

What rhymes with word,

Hardly a question for the Bard.

He said he’d heard

Of nerd and turd,

And bird and curd and herd,

And even that rude French word merde

If I wished to be absurd.

I left him to his contemplation,

I could hardly ask for more.

Eight words were all that I could hope

Before he asked me what it’s for.

When I said I was averse

To omit a telling rhyme,

He said a verse was always worse

When forced into a line.

No doubt it’s true,

A poem is killed,

Its passion bled anew,

When thought proceeds without a nudge,

A kiss from me to you.

So, suitably dissuaded from

Forcing further rhyme,

I’ve downed my pen,

I don’t know when,

But, mouse among men,

I I’ll try again

… sometime.

SMILE – Spike Milligan

[  # 100 of My Favourite Short Poems  ]

 

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This is a wonderfully positive poem, with a delightful premise, wittily expressed by that master of humour, SPIKE  MILLIGAN

SMILE

 

Smiling is infectious
You catch it like the flu

When someone smiled at me today
I started smiling too

I walked around the corner
And someone saw me grin

When he smiled I realised
I had passed it on to him

I thought about the smile
And then realised its worth

A single smile like mine
Could travel round the earth

So if you feel a smile begin
Don’t leave it undetected

Start an epidemic
And get the world infected.

 

Ralph Roister Doister

 

Ralph Roister Doister was a bit of a wenching lad
Lived in Tudor London with his dear old dad
Braggart soldier, doomed to fail, upstart braggart and a cad.

His story, our first comedy,
Nick Udall gave it birth;
Joyfully pleasing London folk
With merry quips and mirth.

Mumblecrust and Talkapace
Featured in this play
Raucous, Fun and fluffy –
‘Twas the sixteenth century way.

See the Wikipedia entry for more on  Ralph Roister Doister 

Ralph Roister Doister is a sixteenth-century play by Nicholas Udall, which was once regarded as the first comedy to be written in the English language.

What’s In A Name? . . . 3 Limericks

THREE LIMERICKS

Aloysius Archibald Ash

Was considered exceedingly brash

When he said to his mater

You’re getting like pater

I especially like your moustache.

Mister Horatio Hess

Lived his whole life under stress

When he tried to slow down

His continuous frown

Meant his face was a permanent mess

Mister Hieronymus Bosch

Never thought he’d be posh

But his depiction of Hell

Went down very well

And it earned him a great deal of dosh

Le Mot Juste

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As I sit with pen in hand
Considering what my muse demands,

Oft an idea comes to mind;
So many thoughts are inter-twined.

First a ruling I must make,
What form shall my poem take?

Rondeau, ode, or Villanelle,
Sonnet, haiku, kyrielle?

I’m excited, I am ready,
I’m inspired, feeling heady.

Ah, when the mot juste does occur,
How joyously my line will purr.

But then my thoughts will always turn
To all those words which I shall spurn.

Those rhymes which never quite will fit,
And where those phrases should be split

Have I spelt that word correctly?
I must check it out directly.

Then the punctuation too;
Comma or colon?  Wish I knew.

Capitals to start each line?
Will they add to my design?

Perhaps it’ll prove less nondescript
If I centre all the script.

Can I improve the way it flows?
Better check that I suppose.

Then, of course, must choose a title,
That indeed will be most vital.

Decisions made, about to publish.
Please don’t tell me it’s all RUBBISH.

 

 

 

 

The Imbroglio

The  IMBROGLIO

 

I’m embroiled in an imbroglio –
Meshed in fuss and stress;
I didn’t see it coming up,
Careless I confess.

I told her not to speak her mind,
Not to tell the tale;
But NO, she had to spill the beans
Our secret to unveil.

Such honesty’s not always wise,
It often leads to pain.
I doubt she’ll ever think of me
Desirously again.

For, admitting to our liaison then,
Over a glass of wine,
Brought calumny upon her head,
And a beating up on mine.

 

Ed-ingo #2

Statue of ‘Edward The Peacemaker’ … Tiverton, Devon, England

 

 

The Royal Head held proudly high
Atop his sculpted pose;
Reminder of the man of peace
Slumbering on in sweet repose.

But now atop that regal head,
Displayed in pinkest glory,
A wayward bird has just alighted
And I am here to tell the story.

It started as a student prank,
Designed to seek attention
For term end rag week escapades,
Somewhat beyond my comprehension.

How to equate a royal crown
With a vivid pink flamingo,
Defeats my sense of decency,
I cannot grasp such student lingo.

Above the River Lowman here
It cries out to the town,
‘Just look at me, now can’t you see
My new pneumatic crown?’

Perhaps this king who loved a joke,
Despite this loss of pride,
Would now say to the passers by,
“Do not those larkish students chide,

For I was once a student too,
I laughed and loved a joke,
So I’ll be pleased if my new crown
Diverts the canny local folk.”

Note:   This is a follow-up poem to ‘Ed-ingo #1’ published a few days ago . . . see:  ‘Ed-ingo #1’

---

 

Edward VII (1841 – 1910) was the great grandfather of our present Queen, Elizabeth II. There are a number of statues of Edward VII around the British isles and Commonwealth Realms. This particular one can be found on a bridge over the River Lowman in Tiverton, East Devon.  Edward was married to Alexandra of Denmark, but had many mistresses.  He was acknowledged as ‘The Peacemaker’ for the considerable efforts he made to maintain world stability at a time when War seemed to be looming.  The peace he had worked so hard to keep was eventually broken with the declaration of the First World War (1914-1918).

The WISE, The NOT-WISE, and The REST

For a life spent in teaching and schools
Dealing with both genius and fools, 
Then without malediction
I can say with conviction,
I never had quite the right tools.

For it took me a long time to find
And the difference was hard to define:
The wise oft were demented, 
The dull – vague but contented, 
And both could be quite asinine.

Whilst the average student was fine, 
‘Twas these others who took up my time. 
The norms kept me sane, 
While the rest were a pain, 
But have given me cause for this rhyme.