The Flukes of Dry Beds

“It’s sometimes hard to pick a bed and
most seeds have no choice in the matter.”

“It can even be hard to lay comfortably in a bed of your own making.”

“It can be the easy option to toss and turn a life of
endless mornings in another’s lumpy bed.”

“It can be the hardest option on earth to change the bed,
even by fluke …”

The Flukes of Dry Beds
In the sun-fried fathoms of a once fantastic friend
A few fluke fantasists were drying on a bend
One fluke read out his fan mail from his final feather bed
Then woke to find that in the light he’d met his morning, dead.
The flukes forwent the festal fuss that followed his farewell
Cracked bed forlorn feigned sorrow, felt his fellow feelings well.
Then tolled its final foldaway to fight fears of bed-hell
But filmed the footage for the folks that forayed Cable-Tel.And when hot’s footsteps stopped upon the crumbly top infill
The bedyard’s former patter tongues fed feet their half-quadrille
As phagophantoms all flocked in to take fluke’s eiderdown
A flow of funny water slightly freshened all around.Some new fantastic friends awashed with fantasies, no frills
Brought pennies from a heaven fall of fluid from the hills
By fluke for fluke and River Bed cold comfort flooded brook
And all forgot the sacrifice their fellow flukes partook.

 (Comments Closed)
Ryanwazhere – that third stanza is incredible
GrantoftheHoBB – Thx.
When all my stanzas go as well, I’ll publish or I’ll not wait till I die and bring in an Editor/ Co-writer for re-writes.
Ryanwazhere – Cheers!!
Ryanwazhere – Another compliment – positive attitude. Bravo. Hazaa!

Hannibal Quack

Hannibal Quack


Image from the Tomlinson & Jesse Archive
Hannibal Quack
Had lost his knack
For eating other ducks.
He’d nibbled a few
Of ‘ducklings’ new
He’d eat their toes
And parson’s nose
But now in bed
And over-fed
He’s nothing rich
Within his head.
Hannibal Quack
Turned on his mates
And ate them all –

Through love, not hate.

He’d fly with them
Up high to view
His meal’s four sides
Before the chew
But now in bed
His wings are dead –
Still only greed
Lives in his head.

A Picture pinned
upon his wall
Depicts his ‘family’
waddling tall
Now side by side,
his skin, their bone,
Are laid in rest
(as picture shown.)

This scene’s in my
web gallery
To show what can
but need not be
As surely now
we’re all inbred
To store more sense
within the head.

( © Grant. Pub. 1998)

(Comments Closed)

Robert Lindsay – Another comical poem Grant.. brilliant tale-telling.