(the things I know I did get right)
not ripe, ain't old
and neither young
no saint, no hero,
feels like a dream...
so much to do
so much unseen
as wise as serpents
still a child
amidst the leaves...
the snows shall come
only to leave
feels like a song
so full of colour!
and before long
all systems go
and I - with them,
in shock and awe
-- like a stage --
what do you mean by
"Act your age"?
feels like gold...
it cannot stay,
it shan't I hold
I am free
too old to live
too young to die
15 x 19
7 x 5
feels like summer
Eck Ramsay, a retired underwire manufacturer,
bought a boil in the bag cod slice at his local Spar shop.
Upon removal of its cardboard outer garments
he was surprised to find it contained a small book.
The book titled the Plaice of Cod
(a philosophical treatise on theology)
contained many essays on the ancient rites of summer,
several of which were wildly inaccurate
and a few that were accurately wild.
In the appendix there were twenty-three songs
attributed to a medieval troubadour,
who led a travelling medicine show called the Rollwrong Stones.
William Lancaster Blake built himself a chocolate castle
on a hollow hill and sold it to his mate Bill,
a scribbler of worthy words who wrote of the hills and lakes
and how long it takes for the ghosts of soldiers to cross the fells especially when led by centaurs.
Self-proclaimed king, My Other Pen drags on,
took to haranguing passers-by with tales of dancing seals
and Jewish fiddlers who wouldn’t play marriages on the Sabbath, and how the wedding guests always got ******.
Stan Tony and Drew made up the crew
which some say numbered sixty-nine
or seventy-two, but no-one could swear
how many were there especially
on the Whispering Nights……… when nothing seemed right
and the cattle lowed on their knees.
And the slightest breeze on a pewter plate
would vanish the seed that couldn’t be seen,
and dreamers would dream
of jumping through flames
that carried the names
of those who were soon to be dead.
Goats head soup
with yarrow root
was served to the guests …..whose favourite request
was Wort of Sacred Johnny,
they'd dance all night …..till the Isis light
sent the Oak root bones …..scurrying home
to the place where the days are shorter.
When the dew on the grass …..comes to pass
and the herbs have been nailed to the doorway,
when the heron's been kissed…and all are well dressed
and the False ones only moved slightly
the cuckoos will sing. "a new day I bring"
and the treetops will shake with the dancers
the day is but done and the Knights just begun
to get a little bit longer.
But stranger than this was the wish of the dish that had it away with the spoon. "hey.. kat play that fiddle"
And riddle me no riddle
I need to get high as the moon….
"which moon?" enquired the hare "Kieth or the very Reverent moon?"
"Oh either will do…. Their just different shoes
to the ones I'm currently wearing"
and with no more ado…… Stan Tony and Drew
the Stones roadie crew
for the next seven years
their horses drank tears
and everyone's fears
were fried up for breakfast
with marmalade toast
eggs over easy
rashers done crispy
a fried slice or two
and a teapot of glue
to ensure it stuck to the belly.
The mushrooms of course enjoyed these proceedings to such an extent that they were inspired to compose poems praising the nights adventures, these were subsequently published in the society pages of the Lost and Found trade journal.
When he seems ,summer highlight
bubble under the sunlight
the rainbow glow
His enchanting eyes
My heart sunk already
His cold iced gaze
in summer haze
When his love must be bright summer
I’m forever winter
Moonstruck with midsummer dream
flying to the sun
Still in aeroplane mode...mellow. :)
Underneath an oak tree,
Somewhere in the forest deep
Lies a fairy fast asleep
Sun-blushed mugginess mothers us,
With the promise of a storm.
Swarms of bumble bees do buzz
Amongst Cotoneasters bathed in warm.
It’s proper summer,
That’s for sure.
No more ice and snow
For us to endure.
The Longest Day will soon be gone,
But here, right now, the sun has won.
Time to fiesta, how I love it.
More of this I truly covet.
Midsummer again. Love it.
— The End —