A Pretty Kettle of Poetry

Cheeriness and depths of doom cavort
In the same tavern.
Brains distil any thought
That heads might turn.

If I really have to live my life alone

I’d rather not see anyone.

They can all come out to pay their respects

Just seconds before the referee blows another 90 minutes.

Darkness is very black
with eyes open or closed.
100 years after an attack
where dead men marching wearily dozed.

You’re going to have to take that back
or else there’ll be hell to pay!
You’re going to have to take that back!
It misfires and could blow your head off one day!

Ah, sod this for a game of soldiers. Let’s turn back!
Let’s shine up our buttons for a parade
and line up for the final push or massive big button whack!
Kids, learn history by heart ‘cos memories fade.

Illustration;

My blog with original poems, illustrations and songs was put in at number 16 of Top 100 Poetry Blogs at https://blog.feedspot.com/poetry_blogs/ in December 2019.

Why? Feedspot explain;

“Feedspot editorial team extensively searched on Google and social media websites to find the best Poetry blogs and ranked them based on several factors such as. 

1. Blog content quality
2. Post consistency
3. Age of the blog
4. Average number of shares on social sites for your blog posts
5. Traffic of your blog and more…

And if you keep posting quality content regularly and get more shares on social sites, your rank will improve with time for sure.”

Will do. Very proud to know my work is appreciated.

• 

Buoying up what should only be anchored on a seabed,
launching horizon thoughts from a beachy head,
polishing off planks running red in gallons on bloody Mary galleons,
mutinying off bilious dream decks into wavy waters off Albion;
a pirate seagull takes a selfie from a cliff ledge.

Out-of-breath knee-rug centenarians in their Sunday best
blowing out as many candles as possible to show who’s the eldest,
sudden street-sleepers rolling out nicotine-rolled mattresses,
metal-detector treasure-hunting wanderers wondering where it’s at is;
a hypochondriac pigeon twigs it and drops down dead on its chest.

Shuddering scaredy-cats fidgety-pecking bread-crumbs,
cry-baby pram-pushing toddlers make-believing their mums
perfect perchers on rain-dropping bunting over wet pavement stones,
nesty fledgling prodigies playground-beaking on xylophones;
an Olympic swift breaks the all-time record at 32 metres per second.

Up-in-the-branches and away-with-the-fairies for whatever it takes.
a modest million-strong division of camouflaged ambushers awakes,
budget-totting scrimpers’n’savers blowing it all in one fell swoop,
flashy film producing flashers put away for a long time in a chicken coop;
a skylarking starling in mirror-sunglasses sweepstakes.

I hold back more words a day
than I ever say.
Spout off more than my fair share
to people who don’t know me or care
just to entertain.

I go back home, open the door
and close it behind me once more.
Go to my park bench with its personalized plaque
in my sitting room and sit back
and watch the day’s passersby once again.

The moon outside is a little empty head
glowing in the dark as I go to bed
with the whole world wide web as a speech-bubble
with 7 billion mouths presumably in a bit of trouble
to get what they think heard
or get voices they hear not written off as absurd.

• 

And the people clapped.
And the people applauded.
And the people cheered.
And the people lauded.

And the people kissed.
And the people flocked.
And the people laughed.
And the people rocked.

And the people cried.
And the people called.
And the people chanted.
And the people bawled.

And the people mourned.
And the people stopped.
And the people thought.
And the people dropped.

This poem comes from Side 1/Side 2 collection. Video done some time ago – One take with the cat on the balcony!

In The Juggler’s Arms
the circus family catch up with their latest acts.
The tight-rope walkers walk a thin line
with their boyfriend/girlfriend acrobats.

A Sunday roast
on a seaside coast
the big-top landlord likes to trumpet and boast
‘bout his horn-blowing seal.

In The Juggler’s Arms
tipsy knife-throwers stain their costumes with their thrills’n’spills
as Houdini descendants, disappearing weekly
get out of paying their bills.

Lovey-dovey fun
In the pub garden sun
unicyclists peddling out You’re the only one
to their wheel.

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