I don’t like the way the branches slouch,
my grandfather would have said.
It shows a lack of moral fibre.
Grandfather did not approve of droop
though I think he could have cut the branches
The best people slouch at times.
Oscar Wilde certainly did though he was no slouch.
And Tilda Swinton and Anne Hathaway were spotted
slouching at the Golden Globes.
I like the way Fridays slouch towards the weekend.
Poems should slouch a little too.
They should not appear cinched and pained
as if wearing a tight pair of underpants.
pic courtesy of Wikipedia
You always want the last word.
Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror, question yourself?
You like things open and shut. In neat little packages.
Even when we can’t see you, we hear you.
I’ll give you this. You go about your work quietly, not like your loud, foot stamping cousins
But there’s so many of you. You could loosen up, give others a go.
I know in some countries you go by a different name
But a rose by any other name is still a rose
And a full stop by any other term is still a full stop.
I saw it advertised in the local rag.
‘Bonsai Show’, it said.
It was a tiny notice. I had to squint to read the details.
The hall was rather tiny.
I squeezed through the entrance almost knocking my head
against several light fittings on my way in.
It looked like a huddle of hobbits around the bonsai which
were unusually tiny.
“They’re not fully grown yet,” a volunteer offered.
Like many of you, I felt like saying but bit my tongue.
The Club President gave a haiku-sized speech for which
we were all grateful.
I mingled for half an hour indulging in the small talk until
refreshments were served.
There were pies, pasties and muffins from the ovens of Lilliput.
“Would you like a short black?” the serving lady asked.
“Any chance of some wine ?” I said.
“Sorry,” she answered, “It’s in very short supply.”
I had had about enough of pint-sized jokes.
I couldn’t wait to get outside in the big, bold world.