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
He’s nothing rich
Within his head
Turned on his friends
And ate them all
– made no amends
He’d fly with them – Up high to view
His meal’s four sides – Then start to 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
Still side by side, his skin, their bone,
are laid in rest as picture shown.
This scene’s in our web gallery
To show what can but need not be
This webbed-foot tale of ‘quacks for tea’
Is ancient law and not for thee
For surely now we’re all inbred
To store more sense within the head.
On the other side of Stripe Street, Outside the Yellow door,
There stands a man
with blue stripped pants
Each day at half past four.
He falls asleep upon one leg
His chin held by his hand
As a taller capped man cycles by
as if it had been planned
He never sees the sunflowers
And never smells their scent
His legs are clad in coloured bands
His arms ‘experiment’
I dream this cycle re-occurs
The reason ‘why‘ I yearn
But when I question mum she says
“It’s books you wanna learn”!
And with that trite and school-like quote
She makes her misdemeanor
For in my instinct I well know
The portent of a dreamer.
For dreams come first – then rationale,
Then schema, funds and action
“The real-life stuff that factors growth
And punter satisfaction.”
On the other side of Stripe Street
I’ll reach that Yellow Door
To make my stand and find out what
My fellow man waits for.
I was looking at a few people sitting in town
Who were looking at people walking around.I then looked at people striding with passion
Following the trends and wearing the fashionThe poem came about when I stopped looking and started to see
That everyone’s walking-their-talk like me. It’s good to reach the writing stage when the mood of the age penetrates the pen which stirs the ink and causes the writer to ask the ‘Who, what, why and when.”