The Umbrella Song

I love to sing a capella

In the rain ‘neath my umbrella

To dance like Gene Kelly did

In the puddles like a kid

I like to make a lot of noise

I love the sound of my own voice

And I’m as rich as Rockefeller

in the rain ‘neath my umbrella.

You Don’t Get Asked That Too Often

She wants to hear some of my poems.

You don’t get asked that too often.

So I choose the bright ones, the buoyant ones,

the ones with a lot of bounce.

She loves ‘The Wrong Saint’

the one about getting lost on our way back from the winery

and praying to St. Francis, instead of St. Christopher,

the patron saint of travellers.

No wonder we were getting lost.

We were praying to the wrong guy.

She loves Quilton too, that one I posted,

an early Covid poem,, Quilton Loves Your Bum’

with all its jackanapery.

I used to read to her as a child,

little stories I made up,

and now I’m reading to her again,

my little story poems,

at the age of 18.

my grand-daughter, Grace.

And she still loves what I write.

Can I stop now, I ask,

a little exhausted.

It’s good to have a fan.

Too Far

After he had stormed off in his Volvo and got home to a torrent of texts, he responded with a fusillade of his own.  It was like a naval battle at close quarters, with no quarter given. Someone was going down.

He got in the last word. That was unusual, Perhaps he had gone too far. He need not have said some of the things he said. One particular insult was, in retrospect, very cutting.

He texted a partial rebuttal before he hit the sack. No response. He texted again. And again. Perhaps he had gone too far. Had she…? O God no. It didn’t bear thinking about.

He buried his head under the pillow and tried to sleep. Eventually he crashed. But the nightmares ….

He awoke at six in the morning. His mobile lit up. His arm flew across to grab it. It was from her. A volley of vitriol.

He had never felt so happy.

The Kick

I still get a kick from doing

my shoelaces up,

of threading them through the holes

of making sure that one end

is the same length as the other.

You don’t get tired of these things.

Rubik’s Cube for simpletons.

  • what simple tasks do you take pleasure in?

The World is a Cat

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The world is a cat.

It knocks things over

that should be left standing.

It turns on you with tooth and claw

even when you are affectionate

towards it.

It draws blood,

pounces with unbridled savagery

on the weak and defenceless.

It has no shame, remorse.

When have you seen it

hang its head?

Yet, the world can surprise you

with sudden turns of affection

as it rubs against you

and purrs.

  • pic courtesy of pinterest