Do Bears write poems?

 

Do bears write poems?

Well, a goldfish writes a sonnet

With lots of great adjectives

Writ carefully upon it

 

An owl can write a haiku

A lions limericks are top

I’ve seen poems from a fly too

But a bear – so far they’ve not

 

I wonder will they be

Better at fee verse

And what kind of poetry

Is gonna’ be their worst?

 

I know that frogs and toads

Can perform such elegy

Otters and their odes

Are all going well to me

 

But never has a panda

Attempted classicism

Maybe they’ll never understand a-

Rhyme and rhyming rhythm

 

An alligator Allegory

A Doggerel by a pug

But for bears I guess, a different story

Maybe they are just here to hug

The Bildungsroman of a Circus Clown’s Son

 

When he was born into a circus, what was done was done
He would never stop being heard of as the circus clowns first son
His baby clothes were remnants of the tents that made their homes
There were no baby walkers – just the trollies of ice cream cones

 When he was a toddler he had no mobile in the night
Instead he watched the trapeze artists high in graceful flight
And when he wanted a pet one day his parents shook with laughs
“Why son you’re in a circus – we have Elephants and Giraffes!”

 When other children started school he started juggling knives
While they were learning algebra he learnt the names of bearded wives
He wanted to fall in love one day and buy a house or two
But his father took his wig off and said “Son this is for you.”

 At just seventeen years old he had to pitch the family tent
All the glamour of the circus he started to resent
At 30 he was aching for a bank job and a bride
Not aching from untangling the contortionist inside

 The elephants made him nonchalant, a ford would just suffice
It doesn’t leave a steaming mess and it ain’t afraid of mice
When he was turning 50 he became a famous clown
The more he cheered the circus up the more it ground him down

 And finally he had a son himself – late to a young a fire breather
But she died an obvious death before they both had time to grieve her
And when the son at 6 said “Dad – should I jump through this big burning hoop?”
He said with little hesitation – “No – go work for the Tenet Group!”



Bi-polar Weather

 If I could describe our English weather I’d say it’s got manic depression
One day we’re rich with sunshine – the next a rain recession
Its bi-polar moods are swept in with the winds
When the sun starts a shining – there after rain begins
And never does the poor weather know
Whenever it is that’s the right month to snow
It opens the morning with skies summer blue
Then tricks you with downpour and wets you right through
It sees you wearing flip flops and decides it must hail
Waits for your short skirts til’ it blows up a gale
Personality disorders are a walk in the park
Well – if it’s nice enough weather and not freezing and dark!
If the weather had therapy the psychiatrist would be
Sunburnt with frost bite and washed out to sea
So it’s left up to us to beware what it bring
If it’s the middle of winter then dress up for spring
Grab your wellies and brollies, sunglasses and vest
Put on a brave face and just hope for the best!



Ode to Prostitute

 

Standing in the rain

They Went and came

Just a rabbit in headlights

A habit of love bites

I thought as my eyes caught her

She is somebody’s daughter

The sound of heels like a heartbeat

Just the rhythm of lonely tart feet

We scorn at the low life hooker

But let’s not joke and forget

I’d rather be an ice road trucker

Still, slippery when wet.

 

Battlefield Desk

 

How the warm room hums to itself a silent hum, what’s needed to be done is done

The carpet coughs under sticky bits of thread

A battlefield of wounded cloth all laid and cut to dead

Sewing machine sits governing in blood thirsty satisfaction,

done its rabid stabbing, no more grinding teeth in action

Just a tomb of plastic over the shreds of frayed up fabric

What once was a time for textile lay torn and truly tragic

Snips of paper, cold still scissors comatose, deceased

Strips of bountiful white cotton now pigmented, bled and creased

Wispy lifeless souls of felt clinging onto sharper things

All go and sew and put together soon lifeless shells and strings

Deadline comes and desks become, oh battlefields left still

All items lay defeated, severed by the silver and the shrill

One day the wind will up again and blow these scraps some place

And all remnants of a project are gone without a trace.