The Earlier and Later Adventures of Willy Wart


The Earlier and Later Adventures of Willy Wart

( Author’s Note: This is a sequel to my earlier work, Willy Wart Wandered W Way, which I posted beforehand for the perusal of fellow blog folk. It is not necessary, however, to read the first work to understand this one. Indeed, you do not need to understand or read either of them.  The reader, as always, has his or her own requirements and options, which are as essential to them as a hump to a camel or a beak to a pelican. )

Willy Wart wandered Wrinkle Wood,
cold, raw as a rook’s caw.
Wind tangled hair without a hood,
wondered why was there for.

The farmer down in Donkey Dale,
red faced as an autumn gale,
said Willy Wart belonged in jail,
boiled up, like a kettle on a stove,
made a right rural fuss,
chased him with a big black blunderbuss.

Signs saying: No Trespassers Allowed,
Willy Wart never understood,
when he walked in Wrinkle Wood.
If trees and berries could grow free,
then, he reasoned, why not he?
When Gregory Lunk, gammy gamekeeper,
threw a black sack, like a thunder cloud,
to make him fall and scuff his knee,
as he legged it home to have his tea,
back in Windflower Cottage, like a crow,
he flapped in the door,
too hastily to be slow,
felt like a manky mariner,
glad to tread the sea’s shelly shore.

Willy Wart walked into the kitchen,
cold as the caw of a rook,
unwanted as a hole in a sock.
“Why are you late and so pale?”
asked Wendy Wart, his mother.
“And why do you look so shivery,
so shaken, as if you had had a shock?”
“I nearly got run over by a steamroller,”
answered Willy Wart,
with a face too sad to mock.
“A steamroller, no,
a steamroller rolls too slow.
No one ever got run over
by a steamroller, no,”
said his mother,
looking at her steamy apple pie.
“Don’t believe me then,” said Willy Wart,
with his black damson eye.
“I believe the lad,” said Wilfred Wart,
his father, when he came home from work.
“I have always said that Willy Wart
is truthful, like a Turk,
though that to me sounds awful queer,
especially as there are no roads round here.”
“Thanks, dad, ” said Willy Wart,
weary now of his downcast way,
and as he climbed the wooden stairs,
he heard his mother say:
“What is it, Willy Wart,
what is it you want to know?
Will it all come to naught,
what you planted, will it grow?
O, what is it, what is it, Willy Wart?”

Now Willy Wart had read in a book,
so he knew he was not mistook,
that of all the vehicles on the go,
the steamroller was first at moving slow.
And in his dream in his bed,
he left the way of W,
and entered the way of Y instead,
and became Yann Ying Yung,
yet young yearling yoked youngster,
yodelled yonder yore, yelled yeasty yearly,
until he entered the way of Z,
and became Zed Zero Zebra,
zenith zeolite, zapped zany Zanzibar,
zed zealot, zedoary zebu,
zinc Zodiac, zoo zone,
zipp zigzagged back into bed,
happy to be back in way of W,
as he wondered where the way of X fled.




Willy Wart Wandered W Way



              Willy Wart Wandered W Way

Willy Wart wandered W way,
walked wonder woods,
world wrecked wreckage wreathed wreck,
watched worldly worm wrestle wren,
worked writer writ word,
wisely wore weevil waste.

Wasp winked. Wombat wombled.
Whelk whiffed, whale waded,
warned witch, warmed whortleberry wine,
won winnings, whinny wet weddings wedlock,
wee weed whelkin whelp.

Wendy whined when Willy Wart
wedded Winifred.
What womb waste wailed woe.

Wolfram Wolverine, wood wizard,
woke wormwood worm, wyvern wise,
went withershins without withy.

Witness Wendy Windflower,
weekend wrong wimple,
withheld wages, wishy washy,
wisp with Wistaria Wiseacre.

Wallace Windlestraw
wedded Wendy Windsor,
went willowy Wimbledon,
will-o-the-wisp Winchester,
wicker wife, wigwam widower,
whosoever who’dunnit,
wholesome Whitsun Winnie
Windweed Whizz Whitforth,
wedged within whiting whitleather,
Whipsnade whipster whiskey whisker,
whilom whinstone,
was whippet warp whippoorwill,
whisk whence whenever.

Wen Wheatear wronged Willy Wart,
wharfowner whangee,
whacked Welsh wellingtons,
webbed Wednesday wedding weep weather,
wore weasel weeds Wealden wealth,
wax wavy wattle waul wave.

Willhelm Wardour, wardrobe wright,
Waterloo warrior, wench wheedled,
wanderlust warren, wall wired waltz,
wan wampum walleyed
Walloon Wallaroo.
Why wrought wrong wry wrinkle wrist?

Whopping webbed walrus, witty woof,
wave washed wharf.
Whimsy woman washed white wool,
wealthy weapon wean wane.
Wake winds, welkin whelp.

Willy Wart watched wrath wraith
wrangle wrap.
Why wrought wrong wry
windy winsome winnow,
whence whetstone wherry
wrought wrong way
wedge ward what weave?

Walter Wise Waffle,
worked Whitehall,
weighty Westerner,
weekend wine wimp,
waltzed Winnhilda Warpspeed,
wardrobe wide wealthy widow.
Went wallpaper watching,
was wanton windy Wednesday,
whistled, whispered wildebeest,
wholesome whoopee.
Winnhilda whined,
Walter winked,
wrung woven web weirdly wrought.

Wilbert Woodwose, wrinkled wheelwright,
waltzed Winnie Windup, Waitrose worker,
went willow woods whortleberrying,
waked wondrous water wells.
Wordsworthian wanderer,
walked wild wilderness without woe.

Willy Wart waged war with wind wipe,
wattage whacked world Y way.


Only Waves





           Only Waves

When I’m submerging,
I know I’ll rise again,
I’ll see the skies again,
I’ll go on.

I’m like a dolphin,
blue fins in ocean deep,
who wins but cannot keep,
only waves.

Only waves,
tugging away at my heart.
Only waves,
we are yearning at sea from the start.

I’ll keep on searching
for my own coral cave
beneath the breaking wave,
silent shore.

Cast on the tempest,
hurled on a whirling crest,
cascading with no rest,
I’ll endure.

The Irish Ferries




      The Irish Ferries

 ( Lines written in memory of Lizzie Christian, a Liverpool flower seller. )

It’s cold, my deary, it’s cold,
said the flower woman,
speaking to the sailor man,
on his way down to Liverpool Bay,
who had only come to say,
he could not stay.
Where do you go to, my bright cherry?
Do you go to Dublin dock,
to board an Irish ferry?
she asked him, to unfasten his lock.
Will you sail away on one of the Irish ferries?
More lovely the sound of them
than a basket of berries.
Will you buy some roses
for the flower woman’s daughter,
to let fall on the waves of the grey sea water,
and watch them float out on the Irish Sea?
Will you promise your true love
there is no one else but she?
Will you sing goodnight, ladies,
goodnight, ladies, goodnight,
as you sail from Liverpool harbour?
You only came to say,
you could not stay.
Sail out from Liverpool Bay,
on board one of the Irish ferries,
more lovely the sound of them
than a basket of berries.
Sail on, on board your Irish ferry,
my bright cherry,
singing goodnight, goodnight ladies,
sing on, sing on, my bright cherry.

My Father Was A Sailor


                            My Father Was A Sailor

    ( For my father, Eric Dodd, born August, 5th, 1923, died, January, 2009. Published in his memory in the Liverpool Echo on Tuesday, 11th, August, 2009. )

My father was a sailor in the war,
was twenty two at its end.
On the deck of his corvette, saw the ships,
the convoys he helped defend.

The Great Pyramid of Egypt, he saw,
vast seas for whales to wander,
the stone guardian angel with her lamp,
anchored in New York harbour.

In time of peace, to England he returned,
worked as a plumber by trade,
water ways of pipes he fixed, cleansed and cleared,
of a house a home he made.

My mother said she met him at a dance,
smiled to think of days gone by.
He was good to her and that matters most.
Far and faint, the seabirds cry.

He left us here, to voyage out, alone,
skilled to steer his ship to shore.
My mother waits to greet her sailor home,
summer stars outside her door.

Baskets brim with apples on a table,
a brown pot steams with fresh tea.
On a plate a cake of nuts and cherries,
on walls, portraits of the sea.

And in a berry bush chirps a robin,
by a hedge a ladder leans.
A shed shelters tools to tend a garden,
truth tells itself what it means.

All is clear, in golds and greens.

Hiram Bingham








        Hiram Bingham

In search of ancient wonder,
Hiram Bingham set off to explore
for Inca Manco’s mansions,
and in a hut by a river shore,
he met Melchor Arteaga,
who, intrigued, joined the expedition,
showed them the secret valley,
stone steps led through a fruit plantation,
up jungle to mountain peak,
found white buildings, broken, but still grand,
they stood like drums to dance on,
platforms for the feet of gods to stand.

Oh, happily Hiram Bingham
searched for Manco’s mansions.

Hiram found the high temple
of the condor god, wide winged and wise.
There he knelt, and he gave thanks,
to find Incas of the ancient skies.
The Inca children loved him,
performed the condor dance, gave him gifts.
In Manco’s mansions, he lives,
where mist on the Urubamba lifts.
Narrow bridge of creepers,
he walks, over the hidden canyon
of river Apurimac,
he wears the cradle of gold medallion.

Oh, happily Hiram Bingham
lives in Manco’s mansions.

Hiram loved all mysteries,
went off in search of explanations.
Happily Hiram lives still
with the Incas of Manco’s mansions.

Oh, happily Hiram Bingham
lives in Manco’s mansions.

Hiram in Inca heaven
loves to watch the bird men land and fly,
has attained his condor wings,
knows the flight freedom of the sky.
He lives in Vilcabamba,
the lost city in the sky he found,
his house called Machu Picchu,
with wife and children, the wheel turns round.
Search for him not in Peru,
in the Andes, now well mapped and scanned,
free of the plumed serpent god,
he dwells in a fairer, higher land.

Oh, happily Hiram Bingham
lives in Vilcabamba.


S.E.T.I. Man



       S.E.T.I. Man

I work for S.E.T.I.,
been doing it for about six years.
The government pay me,
I twiddle knobs while supping beers.
My wife and my children
think my job’s some kind of joke,
I say it’s got us a nice house,
it’s better than being broke.

I’m a S.E.T.I. man,
S.E.T.I., S.E.T.I. man.

We send out signals,
but we got none coming back.
They say if I don’t make contact
with any benign aliens,
I would get the sack.
A friend of mind told me,
he would call to let me know,
if he ever had a close encounter
with a U.F.O.

Because I’m a S.E.T.I. man,
S.E.T.I., S.E.T.I. man

The Search for Extra-terrestrial Intelligence
may sound rather odd.
My auntie Mary said: Give me a call,
if you should ever contact God.
As for me, I hope ever to meet an E.T.
If I did I hope he’d be the kind of person
I’d invite home for tea.

For I’m a S.E.T.I. man,
S.E.T.I., S.E.T.I. man.

We built star scanners,
space radio stations tuned in key.
Planet map planners
sketch in our great observatory.
I get stimulated by the message we wait for,
from solar wheel panoramas,
star folk on the cosmic shore.

Yes, I’m a S.E.T.I. man,
S.E.T.I., S.E.T.I. man. 


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