A Kipper Condunderum

A wonderful thing is the Kipper,
That flavourful flesh of a fish.
Seasoned with just enough pepper,
It lies quite proud on a dish.

In times of smoking forbidden,
A Kipper is enriched by fumes.
Preserving from tail to midden,
Until, with great joy, one consumes!

A Failed Romantic's Valentine Lament

I am a rather random soul,

Not given to romance.

I dare not pester or pursue,

I leave a lot to chance.

I cannot read the fairer sex,

They remain to me elusive.

Therefore I am barely unaware,

Why one'd choose me exclusive.

I know that via my cluelessness,

Relationships I've fumbled.

But I'll not fret for milk that spilt,

Or otherwise has tumbled.

Maisy Payne the Labrador, a Lament

She held the measure of the world,
Through the workings of her nose.
She faced each challenge of each day,
With curious face as they arose.

Struck down now, by twist of fate,
Aft brief respite from cancer's dice.
A noble, stalwart, Senior Dog,
She'll find the scent to paradise.

Blues of a Conformist Colour

A song that I have invited Tilehurst Children's Arkestra to use ..

I experience a standard angst,

My misery is measured.

It surfaces for time to time,

Even when well-leisured.

I have no muse to lift my soul,

No escape from despair.

The words I drag forth from my pen,

Are quite a leaden fare.

I'm hard to spot within a crowd,

My blandness hides me well.

Our differences all fade to grey,

A human storm, a swell.

I sort my woes like butterflies,

And pin them in a grid.

Their drab and unattractive shapes,

Are things I cannot rid.

Harrowing and the Heroic

Those who stand upon the shore,

To face fortune's ebb and flow,

Take on board the risks therein,

That those further up ne'er know.

For some are broken by the fates,

Their lives battered by the harrowing.

Many would leave them to their doom,

Bar the venturous hero or heroine.

There are not absolutes in this,

No standards, made of gold.

The beholder is the one to judge,

Who are the foolish or the bold.

Spike Milligan

Born in rich, deep India,

The home of spice and curry;

Where we found the blessed tea,

Where everyone must hurry.

Your mind it soars across the waves,

On sturdy canvas sails,

To where he was trained to fight a war,

And later mirth prevailed.

On hot days I would think of him,

His words, his muse, his way,

In that courtyard of the Louvre,

Where gentle winds blow every day.

To achieve a faction of his works,

Would truly humble me.

The surreal nonsense of his work,

His lasting legacy.

Familial Creatures

His furrowed brow, his heavy face,

He looks for things that are out of place.

The ones that stands and beats his chest,

Is the beast that matches best.

With her social, inquisitive curiosity,

Her black, her white, her serenity.

She does not eat the bamboo shoots,

But with the big racoon she is in cahoots.

She peers at the world via her break,

She stands on one leg, poised to speak.

The principle fisher, the tall wading thing,

With this creature she has much akin.

The claws for gripping, not for war,

The slow careful way so full of lore.

An easy mark for a predator,

For whom survival can be quite a chore.