Detect the fault lines
in a stubborn peanut shell
Wet-nose the whiskery cat
Feel the points he makes
out of soft pads
Let the large leaf ant
explore your jungle
Unite or untie your ganglion knots
Sniff a crocus
keep your focus
Category Archives: Nonsense
Shirt tales
Don’t comment
on my dirty shirt,
if you please.
I am not inclined
to change it,
lest I have bad luck again.
This morning, the sky
favoured me with gull droppings.
At lunch, it was blueberries
without a bib.
Then, coffee,
spilled by the infernal cat,
who likes blueberries too.
We come from the sun
We come from the Sun,
they say to me,
from the wrong side of my ear.
But why?
Why for?
I mumble in cotton.
For answer,
they show their hands,
oven-mittened.
See. See our thumbs.
They are wide.
Splayed and strong.
We will gentle you,
raise you from the gorge.
Life is but a dream.
***
Art by Michael Richardson
A theory of nonsense
Is there a Forever
Who can scope the great mind
A yolk in an egg
Then what is beyond the egg
Monkeys and typewriters
ad infinitum
Think your deep thoughts
and they surely will write ‘em
Stories of ours
will be amber-ingrained
and lain among flowers
all freshened with rain
Ghost writer
All murky she sat,
with her palindrome pen,
as she flavoured the localized ether.
And her Hallowe’en cat
was asleep once again,
as it lay on the carpet beneath her.
When she’d written her prose,
and its vapours arose,
she danced (for the spirit was willing).
Her compadres were lazy,
and the rest had gone crazy,
so the market was hers for the killing.
[Art by Bryan Baugh]
a working man
Old Man.
He come every day
at twilight time.
I hears the bony drum,
cicada’s hum.
He wear raggedy clothes,
canvas cap,
yellowy beard.
And his work he does.
Cranks that gear handle
round and round.
Powers up the tiny lights.
Pinpoints
in the pinwheel spiralled
sky of night.
The cunning linguist
Gimme those geometries,
those triangles and squares,
Dimensional anomalies,
to tesseract my cares.
Compasses and sliding rules;
protractors are the rage.
And, adding and dividing tools
put answers on the page.
So, at my desk, I’m bent upon
the solving of equations.
This genius that borders on
the softest of invasions.
Once, in a blue moon
What happens up there
on that day-faded see-through moon?
(A long long sail,
by any nautical standard.)
No one is certain.
My scholarly theory says
there are silent factories
dug down deeply.
There, they make cups and saucers.
(But not the kind you think)
The Engineers think and design.
The Builders build.
And, many thousands wield fantastic brooms
to vex the flow of hourglass moondust.
There are roads that ramp up and break the surface.
They are correctly camouflaged,
and, all along the watchtowers, tall sentries can be seen.
They have white dreadlocks,
round spectacles, and binocular eyes.
When The Day comes,
the fleet will be ready.
My Auntie Gravity lives there.
the thyme has come, the walrus said
The fish in that sea
they came seldom and sparsely
they were most of them babies
of a fingerling’s age
But, Rose married one, see?
and don’t judge her too harshly.
‘T’least he didn’t have rabies,
and time‘s long without wage.
Haha.
Cunning, no less
whiskers are self-aware
we think
they train themselves
and have a care
and so avoid the sink
the sharpest razor
surest hand
might catch them in the pink
but the smarty ones
just bend, don’t stand
and miss the poet’s ink.
