There once was a player named Morgan
Who played all day long with his organ:
     He played with it majorly,
     Sadistically, and ragerly,
That claw-handed, hairy-palmed Morgan.  

There once was a confident nudist,
The rudest of nudists, and lewdest,
     Who'd offer a toot
     On his flesh-and-bone flute,
Declaring he'd make you a flutist.

There once was a wandering hobo
Who wandered from NoBo to SoBo
     Whilst whistling merrily,
     Gladly, and verily
Mozart's concerto for oboe.

#
Your soft voice
Lifts my heavy heart
Your sweet face
Hinders my sour days
Three words I say
Are not just a phrase

-JCM-
Kate G Jul 2017
It's three in the morning
The mourning hour
The hour where naught is awake but
Lovers and dreamers
And those deemed too far gone by the rest of us
To which we send a wilting flower.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour
And I sit upon a lush coven of cotton and broken dreams
And peer into the crisp, aging pages of a crisp, aging story
To dissolve away the alms that haunt my hollow tower.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour
And I mourn
I mourn the loss of love
And the loss of hope
I mourn a loss I have known so well
As well as a loss I have never myself felt
Tied, side by side, in a waking melancholy sour.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour
And doves less mournful than I have passed on to sleep
And he, as I dream, is far away and dead to me
Still dear to me
And I reach out, into the darkness of the night
And end the mourning hour.
Paul Hansford Jul 2016
The gardener
This is my garden; my apple tree
has over-reached itself.  The branches,
weighed down with fruit, threaten to break.
If I had read the signs, thinned out when it was time,
the crop would be less heavy, the fruit less small.
And what there is, is damaged.  If it’s not birds
it’s caterpillar, wasp, or earwig.
It will all be rotten soon.  I don’t know why I bother.


The blackbird
This is my garden; this tree I sat in
and proclaimed my own when it was full of blossom
with war-cry love-call song.
Then mating, nesting, bringing up the brood.
The days were scarcely long enough, but that
was long ago.  My children gone,
there’s time now for myself, time for a treat.
My yellow chisel bill breaks in the flesh
of these fine apples. Delicious. This is the life.


The wasps
This is our garden – insects do not have time
for individuality.  We built the colony, us lads,
chewed wood to make our paper nest, and now
we work to feed the grubs.
“Lads”, that is, using the word loosely – for us
gender is not important; that’s for the queen,
and, as it may be, the ones who service her,
none of our business.
But we need food too,
and if sustenance gives pleasure,
so much the better.  When we find a fruit
where blackbird’s chisel bill has broken in,
we eat our way inside, till only skin and core
encase our private eating/drinking den.
So what if it’s fermenting?  If we get tiddly,
and roll about, and buzz a drunken hum,
then who’s to care?  And if they do, we’ll sting ’em
.
Inspired by finding a completely hollow apple skin (with the core in place) under a tree in my garden, thoroughly cleaned out by wasps.
At one
Life had begun,
I could walk,that was fun,
Always smothered with kisses,mummy's yummy bun.
At two,
I grew too,
Did everything I wanted to do,
Again and again,then undo,
Refused to go to the loo,
Loved to spill the shampoo,
Stubborn as a mule,
With tears, buckets of boo.
At three ,
I was free,
No pampers,mum in glee,
Went to loo to pee,
Hated milk, loved tea,
Fell often, grazed my knees.
At four,
Could do small chores,
Wipe a spill on the floor,
For visitors open door,
My own clothes I wore,
A glass of water I could pour.
At five,
I was alive,
A queen bee in a hive,
I learned to thrive,
First time I learned to swim and dive.
At six ,
I was a bag of tricks,
Just for kicks,
Smart at solving conflicts,
Easily able to come out of a fix,
Clever and confident, teachers'
best pick.
Next page