More stupid ideas than a brain drain, there’s a massive mind the gap side of the brain that turns into a brain-dead blob with a boasting mouth bigger than a gob.
Thick as a plank on four legs and a pinball brain rattling inside a wooden skull, each one of them beggars belief begs, sleeping like a log brainwave dull.
A tree clearly more than ‘just a tree.’ but their splintered little eyes couldn’t see beyond their Pinocchio noses full of little sap lies with one chopping the other one down with mindless alibis.
Nature regenerates like annual rings and there’s hope something good will come out of such a rootless human act. But for now, this poem ends with a big compassionate nope: Would love the judge to become a hanging one and hang them from ‘just a tree’.
Yep, nope, that’s not the jury member or even human being I aspire to be and I’m the first to say sorry if I’ve cracked. That sycamore gap tree is obviously much bigger than I could ever be.
John Di Girolamo was born during the swinging middle ages as the Battle of Hastings raged outside on a cold, miserable Saturday evening just outside 'The Juggler's Arms' in Oxford, Torquay and Exeter at the same time. Born to a family, he spent most of his early years learning how to open umbrellas for a rainy day, and the runnings of horses and sword swallowers and the costs they incurred. Having graduated in 'Circus Management', he took to spinning plates for a living and persuaded his father to buy a restaurant to fund what he believed would be a lucrative career move. However, in the the days leading to The Age of Post Punk', he quit and would embark upon what was to go down in history doodles as a notebook.
Few knew it then but he had already started copying poetry, and often written by other people. As the minutes passed by, and Sardinia loomed, the idea of collages and drawings suddenly hit him as a way of filling up what had become a kind of book with pages and all. One day while storming off in a huff because his mum told him to, he struck upon the idea of putting it all together over a long-playing record (later a CD) and during a commercial break in the digital age, decided a blog would end Cromwell's ill-fated republic.
Sent off by recorded post, it would be by chance that his poems would get to their ultimate destination as, meanwhile, his pigeon who had queued so loyally for so long, sadly died the day before it was sacked.
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A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 