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These are ongoing, new, unpublished poems which I hope you will enjoy.
Oh, and by the way.......I throw down a challenge to all. Try reading out loud 'The Pruttles Space' at a good 'up tempo'
rate without faltering, falling over, biting your tongue or getting a nosebleed....go on, try it, I dare you!
It can be done. I did it. Such a feeling of accomplishment!
Well worth the three months in the asylum.
The Dorling
As the sun sinks low in the evening, as the Westling
seeks it's bed.
As the moon peeks through the curly blue, as
the Harlops turn to red;
And just when you think the Girtles done, finished
her silken web.
This is the time the Dorling flits, from the
ivy-clad stone tower.
Round Morfids rooves, past Kibbles grooves, through
Gertles fine spun bower.
She swoops and dives through silken threads.
Through moonbeams silver shower.
Happy and free she flies abroad where night-time
rainbows glow;
And at the end a light she'll send to Dorlings
far below,
A signal that they're safe and clear from Higger's
axing blow.
Safe from Jerds and Higger things that little
Dorlings dread.
When night-time's done, back home she'll come
to her ivy covered bed.
And there she'll lie 'till next eve's sigh
Jewels the Gertles web.
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The Pruttle's Space
Dindle on it's trippy toes,
That's the way the Pruttle goes.
Tripsy Pruttle in and out,
Loosly winding all about
Kipple denjees, Pruttle's way
Dinting in the open day.
Singing whirlies to the sky,
Pruttle sithies flying high.
Hopsy tat around the place
Shifting Pruttle's dinting space.
Hopsy tatting by the foss.
Pruttle's shumbling, really cross!
Dindle on it's trippy toes,
After Hopsy Pruttle goes.
Screaming "NIBKINS!" all about
Pruttle flushes Hopsy out!
Doodling Sam
I'm a happy little chappy and my name is Doodling
Sam.
I'm not sure where I came from and I'm not sure
who I am.
I don't know where I'm going or whether I should
go.
But I can whistle through my fingers and roll
my eyeballs so.
I could swim across the ocean,
I could wear a Scottish plaid,
I could run around the heavens on this little
writing pad.
I could fart the National Anthem,
I could piddle on a dime,
I could burble on forever in this silly little
rhyme.
Perhaps I'm just a scribble from someone's ballpoint
pen.
Perhaps you'll never see me or hear from me again.
But I'm a happy little chappy and my name is
Doodling Sam.
At least that's what is written here....that
must be who I am!
Curry Anyone?
"Have a baked Slakkit!" my grandmother cried
"Or would you prefer one puffled or fried?
Though the green one's aren't good, quite bitter
inside"
She passed me the tin.
Dimmed eyes stared out.
I said
"They're painfullt thin,
I thought Slakkits were stout?"
"They were when we caught them, a bonny fat weight,
But they worried a lot, not knowing their fate.
They're really quite nervous and hard to placate!"
I looked at their skin,
green, yellow and blue.
I said
"I don't like them thin,
A stout one would do"
"Well, fat ones are good. but thin ones are crisp
if baked to a frazzle in juices of Kisp;
And...anyway, stout ones stutter and lisp"
"But this is a sin!"
I wanted to shout.
I said
"They're disgustingly thin,
I can only eat stout"
"We have no stout Slakkits!"
my grandmother cried.
"Insolent child, my patience is tried.
I think you'd be better
roasted or fried!"
I ran home to dad.
I cried and I cried.
I said
"My granny is mad..
Wants me roasted or fried!"
He stroked my head calmly "Stop fretting, don't
worry.
We'll stroll back to grandma's there's really
no hurry;
And
I'll make sure she knows....you'd be best in
a curry!"
The Groppling Ziddle
Ziddle groppled in the trees
Until the trees were bare.
She groppled in the undergrowth
And pickered here and there.
She stirred the moon
Around the gloom,
Avoiding Riddles Stair;
And when, at last the Flugs were set
Upon the Great White Flare,
Ziddle echoed back once more
And groppled them with care.
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