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.
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.”
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).
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.
[ # 94 of My Favourite Short Poems ]
Spike Milligan … 1918 – 2002
Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
I’ll draw a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use?
2B or not 2B?
. . . GENIUS POET – TRULY SILLY POEM !!! N.B. 2B is an indicator used in the primary UK graphite grading scale to measure the hardness of a pencil’s graphite core.
To flee, or not to flee: that is the question : Whether’ tis safer to meet with danger face to face, or, to turn and run, and by escaping, live to flee another day.
PC or non-Pc: that is the question: Whether ’tis better in the end to put up with the hawks and sparrows of mind distortion, or to take umbrage against such hubble-bubble, and by exposing suspend them.
When I was young and foolish, she was winsome, sweet and cute,
I was given to firkytoodling, a pleasurable pursuit,
Practised by young lovers with a semblance of finesse,
Yet fraught with muffed advances and frustration I confess.
The way matters proceeded was with hesitations fed,
With never a suggestion of retiring to a bed.
No, circumspection ruled and held us all within its thrall,
For fear of finding that we didn’t have the wherewithal.
Not quite understanding as to where it all might lead,
And a minimal perception of what it meant to breed.
Plus a fear of breaking all those long instilled taboos,
Which governed all the protocol on cuddling, smooch and schmooze.
I tried to reason with myself, to tell myself to try,
Just let my wandering hands explore and not to be so shy
For she had let me get this far, an arm around her neck,
So surely now she’d let me have more than just a peck.
So I attempted in the dark, a first-time “Do I dare? “
A fumble here, a fiddle there, the lightest touch in hope elsewhere,
Investigating bra straps and those buttons on her blouse,
Fumbling fingers trying hard her passion to arouse.
Then fatally, I hesitated, faltered, flinched and dithered,
I’d lost my will, my heart stood still, all resolution withered.
I’d been turned on, fluffed chance now gone, and fate got in the way;
The moment passed, and soon I knew, today was not my day.
Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com
[ Wednesday Replay # 5 ]
Previously Posted on September 6, 2016
Once upon a time,
In a pool and mired in grime,
I found a body, floating high.
A desolate place to die.
A basin for a tomb;
Blue plastic for a shroud.
A watery necropolis
For beauty now anonymous.
Abandoned, left to rot,
That was to be her lot.
Discarded and bereft,
Beauty the sands of time had left.
She’s found a resting place
Without sacrament or grace.
Long ago loved but now
The victim of a broken vow.
This unseemly end
My heart did rend.
‘The detritus of time’
Will end my rhyme.
The photograph was taken by me in 2004 on a farm in East Devon, England.
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Ladies, I’m thinking,
of marrying soon,
But very few men
Would cause me to swoon.
I’d be very choosy,
I’d go for the name
I’m no boozy floozy,
They’re not all the same.
For I’d soon kill a Bill
Get sick of a Dick;
Disgorge a George,
And enslave any Dave.
I’d get fed up with Fred,
And I’d smack out at Jack;
I might prosper with Oscar;
Test my libido with Leo,
And treat Tom with aplomb.
I’d give Max the axe,
And both Lucus and Brutus –
No better than Judas!
A Ted I would dread;
As for Teddy – not ready;
And Desperate Dan,
From far Kasakhstan,
Was never the man,
To be in my plan.
Yes, I went into spasm
When I first met Adam.
I’d give Joe the elbow,
He’s so gung-ho with gusto.
The pond I did dredge
To find only poor Reg;
Then a minnow ‘mongst men
I met poor little Ben.
Dylan’s a villain,
And Toby’s a phony.
Carter’s a martyr,
A long-suffering non-starter.
Jude was a pseud,
Lewd, crude and screwed.
As for Ollie, Good Golly,
Much too melancholy.
Frank drew a blank,
So rank … and he stank,
And no medal of honour
Goes out to Connor.
But I’d say after all –
Though I bawl and I stall,
I’d rather a Paul
Than just nothing at all.
Of course, if the chance
came my way,
Being so scrumptious,
To be a new duchess,
At the end of the day
No longer I’d tarry,
I’d marry a Harry.
They did it, sir, I saw them,
They pestered and annoyed her,
They spread your desk with powder,
They turned the sound up louder,
Oh, please sir, say you’ll whack ’em.
She did it, miss! I saw her!
She spread the floor with water.
She splashed the paint on Susan Porter;
She cut the model dog in quarter.
I’m awfully glad you’ve caught ‘er.
You did it, sir, you caught ‘em.
You found them where they hid it,
You even found them with it,
So you must believe they did it.
Red-handed! Now you’ve taught ‘em!
He did it, sir! I saw him!
He fed the goldfish sawdust;
He made the hamster raucous.
Yes, he giggled when you caught US.
Believe me, sir, it WAS him.
Why don’t you, sir? Why don’t you?
Why not hit him with your ruler?
Why can’t you be a little cruel-er?
Why are you acting cooler?
You frightened that he’ll sue you?
Tony Hancock (1924-1968)
It is now 50 years since the death of Tony Hancock, one of the very best of the English language’s comedians. His material was first delivered on BBC radio, then later via television. Most of it was written by the script writers, Ray Galton and Alan Simpson, but delivered via the supreme comedic skills of Hancock. His personal life was not happy and ended in 1968 when he took his own life. Spike Milligan summed up when he quoted that Hancock shut the door on everybody and finally on himself. It is in memory of Hancock’s comedic skills and of his tortured life that I have composed the following . . .
Hancock calling
Echoing down the years
Just Half an Hour of your time please
Dead five decades now
That comic of despair.
For that Man of Calibre
life was cruel
Stone me what a life he would say
But now
Dead fifty years
No more the darts of anguished pride
No bitterness now to sour his days
No more joy in bringing joy to others.
The pain, the hurt
He took upon himself
Not gone raving mad
But bottling up his despair
In alcohol
Fighting off his demons
with blind indulgences
Never shaking off his
Chronic introspection
He bore his cross for others’ sakes
For his audience
Who revelled in his despair
Took pleasure in his woes.
But this big-time dreamer
Unlike Dame Magna Carta
Did not die in vain
No, he started as a fag
And worked his way up
To head cigar.
In its bleak chiaroscuro colours
He captured our stresses
Our foibles and our pain.
So now
We’ll get our boot off his joystick
Delighted that his work remains
His blood group still superior
His memory coloured only
In those joyous yet hurting hues.
To give a flavour of his comic delivery, I give a link below to one of his classic BBC radio performances in ‘Hancock’s Half Hour’. I have chosen a mimed version of the radio show, cleverly lip-synced, in which Tony, Sid, Bill and Miss Pugh endure a boring day at 23 Railway Cuttings East Cheam! Click on . . . ‘Sunday afternoon at home’
“I thought my mother was a bad cook, but at least her gravy used to move about”
Ramblings
Writing as a Help to Thought
Writing poetry on the nature of humanity ...and vise versa.
A writer inspired by nature and human nature
A Globetrotter
short prose, fiction, poetry
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by Hemendra Dibaakor
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Whimsical & Capricious Chatter
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the side of me most people never see
Great poets live on the edge of sanity; mediocre ones reside in the suburbs.
Life Is Beautiful
