Tag: Sonnet

Brad the Impaler

Faron Young

Paling to significance,

Brad the Impaler, a pied butcher bird,

whistles a chirpy tune

(Imagine, if you will,

a melodic baritone

bicycle here)

and skewers a shrew for the barbie.

Life read and heard in tooth and claw,

one sighs through clenched teeth.

‘This is all the weather you get,

so you’d best enjoy it…Grrghh!’

says a balaclavad scimitar weatherman.

I will, I will!

Promise I will, croons Brad.

Airs & Greys


Of Sonnets,
One net son,
Stone nots,

Onset tones,
Soft font


…it ain’t no sin

The Poor Poet by Carl Spitzweg


The deep, odd, shock of it hit me in the sun

On the shed path, marooned on a concrete crack

Freed up took in the scene, shocked, turned;

Trundled, older, balder, back up the ramp

Freewheeled, calmer, silent, down the ramp

Came to rest beside the stable table,

Tossed my hair (singular) in the blue breeze

And wiped the puss from Barney’s weeping souls.

The moo-cows are gone home to roast

No more mutinous idiots barge in

Decide to play this game of life to win

Trout Rainbow

Midday blooms

in passing cloud,



Turn up heat.

It is

Garlic bread still

under grill.

Cheerful tunes

trill ditties,

twee baroque

flute and warble

while We

observe the fig tree




“We have to remember that what we observe is not nature in itself, but nature exposed to our method of questioning.” – Werner Heisenberg

Sunshine after rain.

One will come soon.

So…Relax, wind down,

Never mind

it was just

The usual let you downs.

Then…Inflate, blow up,

Never mind

it was just

the usual pink suspects:

Six blind elephants from

The Flat Man .

Six is a number for elephants.

Elephants is not a number.




Let me glide

as a Frisbee


the wild, mauve



feeding on

the plankton

on the event



a vacuum

sucker of warm

lux skin flakes.





Winter Harvest


Fed and quartered on beds edge.

The cold sun sinks, limp shadow

wraiths strewn screeds, scatty notes,

forgotten glimpses of time pledged

dreaming word dreams, now merely

ungainly ugly doodles.

Weak, sloppy, turgid, grey

premises of yarns & plays.

No, just throw them all away,

The black bin bag is waiting:

You only have to turn around.

‘Snow is not thick on the ground’

Hopeless weatherwomen say

When nobody is watching.



A Window cleaner.

The galley is a mess: the Cook’s portholes,

open, abandoned, admit the squalid


‘Keel haul that Boson, Master Bates, cocking a snook again!’

Karmic three times before the gloaming



Cross word addiction seeks crucifiction.

Cryptic agnostic pursues persecution.


Here comes the window cleaner in a towel.


So, splice the main brace, Mr Hands, the wind howls

the sea is incandescent maroon green,

a kraken’s wake can be seen astern.

Just there beside the gherkins.

Looks like a job for the Kropotkins.


rain stops play

Wackford Squeers

Pinball and Dickens, it will rain soon: the window will be shut.

Our hero is unwashable.

His father done bad investments.

Cold uncle with the sneery clerk do not help.

What is worse is that is he must go

faraway from this familiar terror

work for Squeers and dwell in his world.

Back in London the dirty oiks cheered him

on his way and gave him a letter.

he did not read it, forgot it.

We worry about him.

He drops the letter, retrieves it from the carriage floor

and reads:

‘…you can come at night. My spilling has gone with my wallies. Pops.’




Juneday Twenty: Gloam

The lolling lion

A slow heavy fast night of clammy claw

CS Lewis wakes up the coffee hour

Good banks for the rich: bad banks for the poor.

Loose head props a sea of waxy flowers

Lolling on the blue, crucible altar;

Swimming the foamback Bosphorous caprice

Carpetted riviera road floor.

Catch the earlybird bullet to Nice!

Consideration: transportation is

Unavailable at this holy hour

Also calculate the lonely crowds of rose

That spend so much time wallflowering

Patiently awaiting a tender pruning.

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