I know I’ve not been around here much. Last year’s Brexit vote rather broke my brittle creativity. And then I got a realpaying job!
But enough of the trivia; instead, a poem!
Seasons
Spring into Summer:
Grey clouds curtain to wardrobe rail’s
Edge. Midst bright weeds blossom.
Welcome to the blank slate that is 2016.
Far be it from me to disparage
The cronies of Monseigneur Farage,
But when bills don’t add up
And with Fascists they sup,
Through the rules they drive both horse and carriage.
(A bit unkind, I think, inflicting UKIP on the poor old old limerick)
So spring is sprung and temp’rature’s riz:
I wonder where the cat furs is.
The kitty’s fluff is in the cat
Until it’s barfed up on the mat.
‘Nuff said. On with the rubber gloves, out with the floor cleaner.
At least the hens are laying again.
A rambling rover on Mars
Considered the quest for the stars:
“For each small step by men
We bots can make ten.
The great leap’s undoubtedly ours.”
(There are days, many of them, when I question my seriousness.)
I’ve recently been forming ideas that seem more fit for verse than prose. So I’ve signed up to Campus (http://campus.poetryschool.com) to see if joining a community of poets might spur me on.
We’ll see.
