Tag Archives: light verse

History Class

History Class

Whatever was has gone, what is to come will pass,
the main lesson I learned in history class.
The Charge of the Light Brigade,
I am glad I never witnessed that,
but I would have been amused by past experts
who claimed that the world was flat.
I am glad I avoided the Roman invasion of Britain,
and the battle of Waterloo.
I don’t mind not being a Round Head of Oliver Cromwell
or one of Lord Nelson’s crew.
I am not sad to have missed Queen Victoria’s coronation
or not to have met the inventor of glue.
What is will pass,
like all I learned in history class.

Advertisements

The Man Who Had Not Heard Of Brexit

The Man Who Had Not Heard Of Brexit

See that man in the high backed chair.
He will be there when we’ve all come and gone.
No one dare ask him a question,
though he’s the only one who knows what’s going on.
He’s not baffled by the universe.
Calmly he sits with his tea and scone,
him as a riddle he thinks upon.

I met a man who’d never heard of Brexit.
I said, have you been living on the moon?
He said, no, I just couldn’t take it.
I’ve been listening to a different tune.
I said, what does it sound like?
Is it one you can sing or hum?
He said, no, the only way you can hear it
is to listen to another drum.
I said, if you want to know about Brexit,
just watch the news and it will be on.
He shook his head and climbed on board his rocket,
and in the blink of an eye he was gone.

Insect Possibilities

Insect Possibilities

If I were a moth, I’d flit between lit light bulbs,
bat my wings on lamp shades,
act on instinct till my instinct fades.
If I were an ant, I wouldn’t be anti-social.
Other insects wouldn’t bug me.
As long as they did not disrupt the building of my ant hill,
I would let them be.
If I were a grasshopper, I’d be an insect athlete.
In any twig and herb hurdle race,
I’d be happy to compete.
If I were a bee, I’d be happy in my hive,
even though I wouldn’t have the brain to know
that I was alive.
If I were a spider, I’d have the look to frighten humans
when they saw me crawling in their rooms.
I’d have the skill to weave a web to catch a fly.
I wouldn’t live long but I wouldn’t have the brain to know
I was born to die.
If I lived in America, as an insect, I’d be called a bug.
They would try to swat me if I legged over a mat
or nestled in a rug.
If I were a wasp, I’d buzz around in kitchens,
the bane of human ears,
and snout about in dust bins,
as if I lived for years.
If I were a caterpillar, I’d become a butterfly,
a cabbage white or red admiral.
It would seem my summer never would go by.
If I were a termite, I’d have no wings for flight,
but I wouldn’t mind, as long as I had rotten wood to bite,

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.