It was the day of the wedding of Mr and Mrs Epithalamium they looked quite the Heroic Couplet and full of Romanticism until the Englyn  Prose-d the Questionku ‘ Do you take this woman’ …  then in a wavering Iambic Pentameter voice the groom whispered ‘I do not know’ ….Mrs Epithalamium felt quite Dizain and tried to scratch out his Ruba’I, the  Clerihew stepped forward to comfort her but tripped over some Concrete and felt like a right Cowboy. The brides father, the Russian Chastushka, grabbed the groom and with a  Carpe Diem attitude threatened to Choka him.

            The guests all gathered in an Enclosed Rhyme with the best man making quite a Dramatic Monologue, the brides mother had her  Hybronnet knocked off her head and the chief bridesmaid had her Kimo torn in the affray. The young flower girls Haibun and Hamd both burst into tears as their Crown of Sonnets were totally destroyed.

            The Rev. Pantoum pleaded for calm, then repeating his plea for the melee to stop started making a List of the damage, quick as a Ghazal and with great Imagism he protected the Crystalline glass from smashing into Ninette pieces. Meanwhile the poor bride was in a state of Nonet anxiously trying to get past the twins Munaajaat and Musaddas, her Idyll life had been turned upside down, today was the day she had hoped to change her Name to Triolet.

              Alliteration watched while women wept, then stepped forward and with a Lyric in his voice asked people to calm down, he told everyone he had Naat come here to watch a display such as this and suggested they went for a hot Canzone to discuss the next move, Tanka and Tyburn readily agreed as they were very hungry and particularly as it was Free Verse it meant they could eat as much as they wanted. The nearly bride couldn’t give a Sijo if she never saw her ex again she was sick of being Kyrielle to and did not want anyone else’s Epyllion and with a final Than-Bauk stormed out of the club…


© 6/4/2013

Colbert always thought , he was a very cool cat

He would spend all his days sprawled out on a mat

He couldn’t be bothered to go and catch mice

As his meals were brought he thought, “mmm” this is nice


But at night he would go and frequent some bars, and

Sit in a corner and smoke hand rolled cigars

His friends would gather around and admire

While coughing up fur ***** by a very warm fire


In his crisp white shirts, and saville row suits

He would avoid all the puddles in his hand stitched boots

With a wide brimmed hat, and sleek black fur, what

The others thought of him he really didn’t care


At the head of the table, he’d sit and just think

Which sleek furry feline would buy him a drink!

While out smoking, drinking and looking for wives

To keep such a night life, he’d need his nine lives


Come the dawn, check his shares and ring his stockbroker

Then swagger to the casino for black jack and poker!

There’s nothing he likes more than a pedicure

But he won’t throw the dice, he might break a claw


While enjoying the champagne and caviar lifestyle

For a cat of his age he isn’t so agile

Unaware in the shadows there’s lurking a rival

A Tom that’s prepared to fight for survival


One night in the club, in the middle of poker

The challenger shouts, “Colbert you’re a joker”

With a hush, onlookers tiptoed to the doors

All fearing the worst, a sharpening of claws


But, Colbert kept his cool and turned on the charm

Sir, I don’t want to fight, and I wish you no harm!

Do you dabble in cards?   Said Colbert with a grin

If  you long for my crown there’s a chance you may win


With a Cheshire cat grin all over his face, the

Challenger dealt at a very fast pace

“Aces high” said Colbert while preening his fur

The challenger looked, and then said “two purr “


Colbert feeling shaken, looking pale and shocked

With tears in his eyes, from his throne he was knocked!

The challenger said, “I’m not Jack the lad”

I had a good teacher in you , you’re my dad!


So Tom the new king, sits at the head of the table

Accepting a drink from a feline called Mable

In front of new friends and his little harem

In casinos and clubs Tom wants to be seen


Not a thought for Colbert, gone and forgotten

But the secret he keeps , is that he dealt from the bottom

Poor Colbert’s on the street begging for scraps

No hand rolled cigars, just half eaten baps


Tom’s putting on weight, but deep down he knows

Out there is a rival, so he keeps on his toes

Colbert’s demise was swift and exact

He spends the rest of his days just a plain alley cat!

??copyright 2011 Daw...

He enters looking bedraggled, tired and worn out, his skin like vellum, blank and pale.
Lifting his eyes to catch their gaze he gives a slight nod to acknowledge their presence.
He scans the room as he would a poem seeking an indent that leads to a quiet corner.
A half-lit light casts a shadow on the flock wallpaper, ink stained.
He sits hidden from view, away from plagiaristic eyes. Head In hand
Scribbling while listening for a new word, a muse sings, emanating an un-heard
Beat that guides his rhythm while searching for that elusive vowel. On the floor
Is a scattering of pencil shavings and broken lead, frustration at the loss of an adjective.
The half rhyme squeezes like a tourniquet on the brain…
Frustration runs high as enjambment slips off the page and gathers in reflective pools.

The Lay Pastoral reads an Elegy to the passing of Sir Rondeau Redouble, he lead a very lonely life ascending and then diminishing becoming less Didactic, the Footle holds a Lanterne for the loss, while the Limerick found it quite humorous.

At the bar a Stanza of poets gather, disciples of Villanelle, and regale of their latest triumphs in Women’s Quarterly. Then silence falls as Suzette Prime performs her latest Burlesque she is in good Shape. The Epulaeryu’s compare their Diamante while eating their babba ghanoosh. At the pool table the movers and shakers decant opinions on the latest ‘form’ something to do with A,E,I,O,U…Acrostic looks it up and down looking puzzled, Blank verse remains silent,

They dissect, analyse the entrails, the faint hearted feel a little Grook. The atmosphere is tense. Verbs drift like dust in the light, causing confusion, they mop their brows with a tired senryu. The haiku’s have little to say on the matter…

A Quintain of intellectuals quietly sit, the Sicilian sipping slim line Monoku’s (no ice) hoping for a Couplet before the end of the night. On a stool sit’s the barfly spilling his Bio over the counter top exposing an Ode-ious life, metaphorically speaking. On stage the hottest group in town… Chant Royal and the Syllables… singing their latest Sestina it reached 39 in the hit parade, the notes drift across the room resting on the floor congealing into a poet-tree fountain…they feel at home as the last act MC McWhirtle enthrals with his latest Ballad…the barman Ric Tameter calls time, the evening is a Rap. The club is Epic…


© 27/3/2013