Tag Archives: light verse

Forgotten God

Forgotten God

He swallowed a light bulb.
Waited. Nothing happened.
His heart did not glow.
His brain did not shine.
Must have been a fake one, he thought,
like a robot dog not keyed to whine.
He chewed on an atom bomb,
sure it was bad for his teeth.
He did not like its taste.
Wrote down – will only bring grief.
He drank a draught of sulphur,
felt like a volcano cone.
Began to question
why he always ate alone.
He munched upon a washing machine.
It tumbled on his tongue,
which first felt wet then dry.
His head hummed like a launderette
till he was fresh and spry.
He went into the bathroom,
first to check his weight.
Thought, next time he would order
only half a ton of rusty trucks
mashed upon his plate.
Now he was a forgotten god,
he did not know how to behave.
But then, no one cared a fig,
passed him by without a wave.


Hugh Minn

Hugh Minn

Hugh Minn was human so he lived on Earth,
been living there ever since his birth.
He may have preferred to live somewhere else but he never said.
Who knows what goes on in Hugh Minn’s head?

Pastry pale, like he worked in a bank,
he was in the navy till his boat sank.
One day he heard feet shuffling about on the floor of his loft.
He stepped up a ladder, nervously coughed.

He asked who was there but got no reply,
beamed his torch in the loft to aid his eye,
saw a small bulbous man in a silver helmet and dark blue smock,
thought if he was from space, he’d chosen the wrong place to dock.

The alien seemed to think the same, vanished into another time.
Hugh Minn stepped down the ladder, and that’s almost all there is to say
about him in this present rhyme.

“What have you been doing up the ladder?”
asked his neighbour, Sydney Smout,
who as ever looked perplexed, well wrinkled with doubt.
“Heard a noise in the loft,” answered Hugh Minn.
“You know you cannot lose if you try to win.
Met a multi-dimensional time traveller,
landed in the loft by accident.”
“If you say so, Minn,” said his neighbour,
who seemed to know what he meant.

“If you live in a forest you’re bound to see a lot of trees,”
he added, as he fumbled in his pocket for his keys.
“Another way of seeing it, come to that,
if you live among high hills you’re bound
not to see much lying flat.”

Back in his room, Hugh Minn sipped a mug of tea,
studied his book of astronomy.
Meanwhile, the alien flew home safely in his craft.
Over his Earth encounter, he smiled and laughed.

Stuffed Mushroom

Stuffed Mushroom

Sometimes I feel like a stuffed mushroom,
however a stuffed mushroom is supposed to feel,
and when I feel like a stuffed mushroom,
life seems stodgy, not quite real.

Last night I lay awake, attended to the wind.
It moaned in my back yard,
threatened trees with hard fist blows,
like it did before the first Ice Age,
unaware of its indifference
to what happens on the human stage,
reduced me to a lettuce leaf curled on a plate,
too exposed, vulnerable to stay in that state.

Sometimes I feel like a squashed lemon,
a fruitless mush of split dry seeds and bitter peel,
and when I feel like a squashed lemon,
I cannot rise up to kneel.

I am on a slide down hill
or in a lift going up to the top of a tower.
It depends how I listen to the news.
I submerge or put on my shades, continue my cruise.

Sometimes I feel like a fresh turnip,
uprooted from the field but still close to the earth,
and when I feel like a fresh turnip,
I stand bold and know my worth.

Burt Wendell

Burt Wendell

Burt Wendell was a mariner,
a mariner was he,
and he was never happier
than when he was at sea.

He found the ground too permanent,
too solid and too tame.
He preferred waves in merriment
and states too rough to name.

No tall typhoon could sink his ship,
no whale or hurricane.
He knew how to mend every rip
on the watery main.

He was married to a mermaid,
met on the south sea shore,
he claimed in every inn he stayed,
his hearers asked for more.

Burt Wendell was a mariner,
he sailed the ocean wide,
from the Arctic to Africa,
on cold to tropic tide.

The Life Of A Crab

The Life Of A Crab

From the outside, it may seem drab,
the life of a crab.
But if you like salt water and sand,
it’s really quite grand.

Rock pools on a rocky coast,
what crabs like the most,
furnished with seaweed, shells and fern,
room to crawl and turn.

Eels spy with telescopic eye,
gulls screech to defy.
Can get a bit fishy round here,
when not oyster clear.

Crabs can follow the seahorse trail,
signs left by a snail,
to coral courts hid by the sea,
where the mermaids be.

From the inside, it’s never drab,
the life of a crab.
Like Barnacle Bill Buccaneer,
it wells with good cheer,

Never Had The Blues

Never Had The Blues

Well, I woke up this morning,
and I never had the blues,
even though the wind was from the east,
and it was bad on the news.

I am not broken hearted,
and I never have been poor.
Nobody treated me badly,
I’ve never been shown the door.

My woman never left me,
and she never let me down.
Live on the right side of the tracks,
not the wrong side of the town.

Till the late of the evening,
I lend my ears to the blues.
Got a really good collection
for a ragtime river cruise.

Well, I’m not at the station,
I don’t need to catch a train.
I don’t hear that lonesome whistle,
nor does my soul peel with pain.

My father’s not a drunkard,
did not lose his life to booze,
and my mother never left me,
so I never had the blues.



The platypus is real,
not an invention of nonsense verse.
His life could be better,
but as ever, many times worse.

A bit like a beaver,
has no snout but a beak like a duck.
Lives in Australia,
for how long depends on his luck.

Alert as a wombat,
quick as any kangaroo can jump,
he sits by a river,
watching the water pearl and pump.

The platypus is free,
not hindered by law or worried thought,
his acts are by instinct,
in the cold trap he is not caught.

If I were a platypus,
I’d never complain,
never make a fuss,
in hot sun or rain,
happy I’d remain,
cheerful as a platypus.