Let the leaves fall and tumble to the ground.
Let the leaves gather and crumble all around.
Let the leaves wither and settle in a pit.
Bring along a donkey and add a plop of s**t.
Eat a bite of apple and bury half the core.
Sprinkle on some water, and then a little more.
Wait for half~a~dozen years until you get a crop.
Come back with that donkey and cart them to the shop!
Wild cats prowl in the jungle.
Big cats prowl in the zoo.
But when pussy-cats prowl down dark alleys,
you should know a thing or two
about the nature of their hunting
– hunting rats…and mice…and birds.
To imagine they’re discerning
is – by nature – quite absurd.
He muttered as he buttered : “God!…where did that knob just go?
It was solid for a moment while I scraped it to and fro!
“It was creamy, rich and lovely and it looked like yellow silk
then it thinned away to nothing, melting into lemon milk.”
One-can’t-eat-one’s toast-and-butter when the butter’s not on top
and the butterer’s uncertain if he buttered it or not.
It causes problems with the jamming. Should one jam – or should one wait,
then add more butter as a topping when the toast’s cooled on the plate?
I could sit in a bower
like a lonely wallflower.
I could read in a bower
for an hour.
I could withstand a shower
with a bit of will-power
in my ivory-tower
of a bower.
It would be a brave chap
– for he’d risk a quick slap –
if he had a mishap
and fell into my lap
as I took a quick nap
while I blocked out the crap
in my drowsily flowery bower.
The cassowary packs a punch,
he’ll kick you with his vicious toes.
You’d think he’d butt you with his nut,
but that’s not always how it goes!
Two neutron stars collide
with a heavy-metal boom
rockin’ down the universe
a billion years too soon…
‘n we’re surfin’ on the after-shock,
pullin’ gravity waves,
for a killer-nova rave.
Mostly, when I purchase things
and carry them back home,
I empty out my shopping bag
as soon as I’m alone…
to find that’s not the end of it
– I have to start to sort
boxy-packs and cellophane
from all the things I’ve bought.
Then, when I’ve ripped away at wrappers
four-five layers deep,
I cop the blame for chucking stuff
I wasn’t meant to keep!
If I shot off to space in a rocket
what would I carry from earth?
Would I take all the rhymes of a rapper?
Or the bling that a rapper is worth?
Would I carry a rose, or a mango
…some seeds…and an elephant hair
to re-grow a quirky menagerie
for company while I’m “out there”?
No – I’d rather take bottles of memories
with snifters of musk and champagne
to remind me my robot controllers
can’t fathom the best of my brain.
Waiting in here is a mystery poem.
If I shake it, I loosen the words.
Then, as soon as I open the top of the box,
the lines of a rhyme will emerge.
Someone accidentally re-titled the website-heading on last week’s ‘umbrella’ poem…into
Tamil script. The detached umbrella image subsequently googled off on its own – even as
far as to an Icelandic site! So I need some international help to restore its provenance.
Anyone? Thank you in advance. It belongs back with its original eco-news-e-verse