Tag Archives: humour

January Sonnet

January Sonnet

O but January thou art dreary,
thy days seem too long, more than thirty one.
Drunkard with your belly cold and beery,
the inn will find its cheer when thou art gone.
Like a titan with a blunted toe nail,
by the icy ocean bewail and moan.
Thou makes the fortunes of the farmer fail,
spread frost enough to make a giant groan.
The old knight stares at his frozen finger,
his chilly chest postpones his quest till spring.
No minstrel can be a merry singer,
not when thy snow stills the tongue, stiffs the wing.
O most wintry month, don thy cloak and go,
butt your way through the wind ye belch and blow.


Ocean D3 B3: Vitamin Vital To All

Ocean D3 B3: Vitamin Vital To All

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Franz Kafka Knew

Franz Kafka Knew

Franz Kafka knew,
he knew it was bad.
He could see through,
so clear it seemed mad,
until he grew
too stern to be sad.

They made it grim,
the machine men in charge,
they who had power
to wield loud and large.
They hit the table with a hammer,
to silence the regular folk
with their petitions and appeals,
to make them fail, quail and stammer.

So he wrote his tales,
one of a man
who woke as a spider,
another of a man
roughly arrested and put on trial,
never knowing for what crime
or who was the decider.

Let us for a laugh,
imagine him sat in a café.
He orders his meal,
his stomach is cold,
his hunger feels real.
He tells the waiter,
his onions are over fried,
and his peas are burned.
The manager listens,
but does not recognise him as a customer,
so his pleas are spurned.

He walked the streets like everyone else.
His coat got soaked when it rained.
His feet cold in his shoes,
he grew pale when he complained.

Franz Kafka knew,
he knew it was bad.
What he thought true
was what made him sad.
He was too sane to say
who he thought was mad.
Franz Kafka knew,
but what could he do,
except write his tales,
concoct his own brew?
Franz Kafka knew,
he knew what he knew.
Franz Kafka knew,
he knew what went into the stew.
Franz Kafka knew.


Second Album Blues

Second Album Blues

First album took him by surprise
when it became a hit,
even the critics liked it
for its fresh feel and wit.

Now he knew the second album
had to be as good,
if not better than the first,
otherwise you were a one hit wonder,
left in the desert with no oasis
to quench your thirst.

In cellar clubs and coffee bars
they all knew him as Clyde.
Said he always had his tunes
on his solitary ride.

Still talks like a Beatnik
though they were before his time.
He had to hit the road
in the hope to write a rhyme,
and though he’s not American,
he says he’s down to his last dime.

He often wears dark glasses,
calls musicians cats.
Says things like, the air in here is eerie,
like a belfry with no bats.

He told his producer,
keep the shirt but loose the shoes,
laughing in the luxury
of second album blues.

Time for the horns,
a fancy fret work solo on guitar,
then to be a walking cliché,
and head out to the bar.

He felt detached from history,
it’s what happened on the news.
He was happy to be that cat in the corner,
dealing with his second album blues.

Once he dragged his dusty boots
along a dusty road,
now he was on an ocean cruise,
leaning back in his creaky chair,
strumming out on his guitar
his second album blues.


The Fall and Eventual Decline of Fungal

The Fall and Eventual Decline of Fungal

Fungal Maximillian O’ Flurtigan was half Roman and half Irish, but the twain never met, not even socially. The Roman side of him liked straight roads and the ruins of military encampments, the Irish side of him liked Guinness and people who could talk faster than a whistle tune. It was Julius Caesar who convinced him that he was half Roman, not face to face, but when he had to study him at school. One of his soldiers must have been his great grandfather, he thought.
“Best keep it to yourself. Better to be completely Irish,” his fellow drink downers in his local pub, The Thirsty Thistle, told him when he brought up his hybrid nature and his dual nationality. Part of him fancied living in a villa on a hill under a perpetual summer sky, the other part longed to master the fiddle and live in a white cottage by the sea shore. Sometimes he felt like an accident that did not wait to happen, other times like a corked barrel of vintage beer. That was the only interesting thing about him, really, as regards holding the attention of strangers. He stood at the bar, his hand grasped round his almost empty glass, late one evening, and became aware of his fall and eventual decline, like that of the Roman empire. His life would end, as all must, he knew. He hoped his fall would be slow, painless. A sudden thud on the kitchen window would disturb him one afternoon, maybe. A rough wind would blow him away.

Haiku Is Hard To Hack

Haiku Is Hard To Hack

Haiku is hard to hack,
Oriental skill most poets lack.
May come easy if you have the knack,
enough of them to make a stack.
Records of moments on the track,
Zen stabs you cannot get back.
The paper is white, the ink is black,
capture light that lit the crack.
Be a pilgrim with stick and pack,
scribble in your hermit shack.
Seek why haiku is hard to hack.
If whittling down to haiku is too hard a time,
you can return to the old root of rhyme.

Poet master smiled.
Unseen webbed feet glides the swan.
Haiku hard to hack.

Avant-Garde Busker

Avant-Garde Busker

This concert is not worth the ticket,
I can assure you all.
I can’t even play my instrument,
and my songs are poor beyond recall.

My music is not classed country western,
folk rock, blues, jazz or pop,
and if you want to hear my best song,
you might as well tell me now to stop.

I have no musical education,
certainly no music degree.
My songs have no real foundation,
and I rarely sing in key.

I’m really more like an avant-garde busker,
singing my spontaneous rap,
and as you walk by for the sake of high art and pity,
please put at least one penny in my cap.

I’m not interested in social comment
or proclaiming myself as the new poet prophet of the pen.
If you like the music you are hearing,
you can always walk by me again.

This song for me is quite revolutionary,
unaccompanied by my acoustic Yamaha guitar.
I’m playing on my tone bank computer organ,
worked by a battery to make me a star.

For my muse, I compose my rumpled rondelay,
I would like to sculpt her, spirit, skin and bone.
Her grace would occupy sacred space,
if I had the skills, the tools, the stone.

Donovan sang of Atlantis
and of the hurdy-gurdy man.
Some of us were moved by the message,
but few knew how to follow the plan.

Call me an avant-garde busker,
trying to be free of the trap,
and as you walk by for the sake of high art and pity
please put at least one penny in my cap.

At least one penny, at least one penny,
at least one penny in my cap.