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.
In a “wise passiveness“ I sit
Able to conquer any fit.
Wounded is my melancholy
When he meets his deft enemies
My Serenity, and Spirit
Blue heavns with clouds as fiberfill gone stale
Jist floating lazly in morn's vague suspense,
Where coffee scents the air with half a sense
Of yonder whilst mine owly eyes in pale
Excuse take note of aught reply t'avail
As wont, sans words to roll oer fer intents
My tongue, and silence shifts as twere from hence
Without a voice as I leave that detail.
So later, from the kichen window fer
Mair than whatever, watch a wolf chase to
Effect some shapeless form, which as it were
Is caught just as his mouth decays in blue
Seas no, erm, Jolly Roger haunts in tour,
And wonder if that signifies aught too.
NOTE: Coleridge extolled "...cloudland, glorious cloudland!--" or you can correct me, and Wordsworth coldly delineated several images from the clouds as well, the sestet containing a bit of that.
It is in the woods
In the world
That i may find peace
Whether resting on the banks of despair
Or wandering through a thicket of feeling
I come to find
That grants me thought
And while i may take pause
It is then
And then alone
That i am
Truly at peace
All this world has beauty
And it is i who finds
Great these scenes
I can feel it all within me
My blood courses through my veins
Akin the coursing river i pass by
It is not easy to acknowledge
But i often grant no thought
To the world around
Blind i am
And blind i remain
But in this world i am given
Until i am dead and gone
No more flesh
No more bone
I will contemplate this world
For the great care that has been given it
Will be continued through me
And when i am but a soul
My harmony with the world
And serenity will
I deny it me
It cannot steal me
From my pleasure
I bask in creation
And all around me
The earth shakes with shivers
I know all too well
Until my thoughts are thoughts no more
I will hope the future
Will ask for me
I thirst for what i do not know
What i cannot see
And what my eyes have recognized but my heart has not
The nature i lose myself in has caused me
To lose myself
I know not what i be
Or what i’ll be
But the times past are no more
And i weep for them
As a man i am curious
What lies beyond
The cries of fallen brethren
The sad harmonies that the animals we’ve displaced
Escape their bodies
And so do i
To tell their stories
To sing their songs
In a major key
I am a slave to it
The world i’ve ignored
I need not the society
I abandoned up the road
Nature has stolen my heart
I catch a glimpse
Of who i was
The things i once found true
And i shudder
For mother nature was not
And is not greedy
She cares for her children
In ways i could never understand
It brings her joy to raise life up
And we deny her that
Day after day
We walked this together
You and i
Recalling that once our mother would be there
It is only me
I am alone
And i wander
With sorrowful thoughts
And despairing diction
With a mother who is not mine
Who welcomes me
And embraces me
I am alone
The moon highlights my path
And where there were once two sets
It is now only one
The ghost of you --
Dear sister --
Trailing further and further
What are your words worth
Well thank God I am at last set free
Trapped within these pages so dog-eared
I began to think that no one wanted me.
The top shelf of a thrift shop was my goal
To be pulped at the recycle yard my fate
But “Glory , Hallelujah “ two dollars paid
This liberator took me home n read aloud.
“I wandered lonely as a cloud”
“ That floats on high o’er vales and hills “
Written by Philip November 18th 2018.
Poetry of Wordsworth Published 1807.
What are your Words Worth. ?
I feel Clare,
Like a seed,
Planted from birth.
Who blossoms in Spring,
Then dies in Winter,
A kind girl,
***** blond hair,
With ready smile,
I hold her hand,
As she fades away.
...that is invisible.
So...we'll feign's not sae bitter as snow thence
Is gone with yesterday and skies t'avail
Are softly blue, like April waltzes, hale
Green nubbins of both tulips and ah hence
What Wordsworth knew as jonquils was't? now fence
These warmly golden hours with hopes' detail.
For daffodils' bright yellow shall soon hail
Again and purple violets wink fr'intents.
I do not long for summer's heat girls stir
Blog posts and comment for, because they do.
Yet O! to wander in the shadows fer
Sweet ****** white-and-purple violets dew
Half lingers on in silver droplets were
What I could gasp to own 'til I see You.
Yes, it's...March after all. What's left to say?
No, we certainly shall not.
O Wordsworth! La, but how his spirit's hale
Pride sifts anon twixt every stanza, whence
My soul congeals, as left like bones from hence
To dry and bleach in heavn's bald eye; joys fail
Whileas he waxes eloquent, to hail
Aught note of twinkling life with that cold sense
Which calculates the breath out of all thence
Caught in his lines, til I can't breathe t'avail.
He takes up passion like's unknown as twere,
Despite the fact he is just that, yet to
A fault upon a bloodless scale, who'd stir
The whitened ashes of aught fire to do
It up as if's a specimen: dead. Poor
As all that, he extolled much...sans life's dew.
Weel, he did wax subtly eloquent in that rude number to some Scottich peasant cottage.
Were Wordsworth living today
he'd never wander lonely as any cloud
there would be hundreds of day trip ramblers
walking on public footpaths only allowed
Were Morrison living today
he wouldn't breaking through anywhere
massive walls built by an unhinged president
patrolled by guards daring you to dare
Were Shakespeare living today
every winter would be our discontent
a borrower and a lender we now all are
to be or not to be meant not to be meant
Were Rossetti living today
love would still be her token
to be spent Tinder browsing
then have her heart broken
Were Yeats living today
there would still be no strangers here
just virtual friends you would never meet
as a night out is now too dear
For all poets living today
legacies live on after earthly demise
their quotability forming a lasting legend
gifts for future generations to reprise
Who knows, many of us may be quoted for generations to come (and not just through poetry!)
We sped along the highway,
Faster than two hundred year old clouds;
All at once a yellow blur of sunflowers
Filled the only view we had.
Fields and fields of sunflowers
Facing the south sun like a choir;
And ready for harvest.
Desnise remarked she liked the seeds,
And the oil is good for pharmaceuticals, etc.
We use them a lot, I quipped.
But we were in a rush to see
Stratford's As You Like It,
So they never got a second thought.
Til now, you see,
For I'm feeling somewhat vacant.
Tip of the cap to Wordsworth