Poet's Corner

[Gary51]

Felis Cattus, is your taxonomic nomenclature,
an endothermic quadruped carnivorous by nature?
Your visual, olfactory and auditory senses
contribute to your hunting skills, and natural defenses.

I find myself intrigued by your subvocal oscillations,
a singular development of cat communications
that obviates your basic hedonistic predilection
for a rhythmic stroking of your fur, to demonstrate affection.

A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents;
you would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance.
And when not being utilized to aide in locomotion,
it often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion.

O Spot, the complex levels of behaviour you display
connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array.
And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,
I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend.

Poem by Data.

 

[Chesterton]

Felis Cattus? Was he emperor after Lucius Verus?

 

[Montalban]

Sensless short story:

She said she stuttered substantially. So soon she spoke, saying such spells, spraying saliva, soaking sorry spectators.

 

[Montalban]

Life is a Dealer
You’re addicted from birth
some break the habit
& fall from the Earth

 

[Thekla]

To smash the simple atom
all mankind was intent.
Now any day
the atom may
return the complement.

Ogden Nash

 

[Chesterton]

The Donkey

When fishes flew and forests walked
And grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood,
Then surely I was born;

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.

G. K. Chesterton

 

[sunlover1]

One man in a thousand, Solomon says will
stick more close than a brother.
And it's worth seeking him all your days,
if you find him before the other.
Nine hundred and ninety nine depend
on what the world sees in you.
But the thousandth man will stand your friend
with the whole world against you.

'Tis not promise nor prayer nor show
will settle the finding for thee.
Nine hundred and ninety nine of them go
by your looks, or your acts or your glory.
But if he finds you and you find him,
the rest of the world doesn't matter.
For the thousandth man will sink or swim
with you in any water.

It's you can use his purse with no more talk,
than he use his yours for his spendings,
and laugh and meet in your daily walk
as though there had been no lendings.
Nine hundred and ninety nine of them call
for silver and gold in their dealings,
but the thousandth man he's worth them all
because you can show him your feelings.

His wrong's your wrong, and his rights your right,
with that for your only reason!
Nine hundred and ninety nine can't bide
the shame or mocking or laughter.
But the thousandth man will stand by your side
to the gallows foot and after.

Rudyard Kipling

 

[Montalban]

I put my own works in, am I meant to put my favourite poet's in? (Nobody told me)

 

[Chesterton]

I put my own works in, am I meant to put my favourite poet's in? (Nobody told me)

I don't know, but go for it, I like yours.

 

[Montalban]

I don't know, but go for it, I like yours.

Ta.

Odd Socks
There was an even amount of odd socks. And even the amount, in any event was more than enough for one person’s bent.
Time after time, and after that too he pulled up the socks and put on a shoe.
The socks were worn in, jacketed by leather boots. They were worn out. Holes covered the toes.

How about a story?

The Short-sighted Sheriff Story
Sheriff Stan Sebum surveyed the skyline searching for thieving Sikh sympathisers. To make a long story short — The End.
“Smeg!” he said, cursing the distracted littérateur, for there were no more lines written for him. He dug his spurs into his haughty horse, Jennet, just as the breeze picked-up; you know, that really nice gust that brings about a cool evening change. The horse neighed which is what a horse ought do. Together they trotted off into the sun-set, having completely failed to see the pages of script lying where they had only a moment ago been just then.
The Indian, hidden moved out from his hide-out. He bent down, picking up the pages and glancing over under and around them. “I’ll think I’ll call my agent”, he thought, knowing that he could cinch the part.
“Next” cried the director. The Indian’s body strode boldly to centre stage.
“Have you any experience in Westerns, Ducky?”, the director asked.
“Me have heap big part in Dances with Wolves.”
“Excellent”, acclaimed the amiable administrator.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, nothing happened.
At the same time as nothing was happening there, in town something was happening. The people greeted their new Sheriff, who despite being an Indian turned out in all his feathered finery, fit in quite well. . He managed to fit, because there was plenty of room in those days, and as an Indian, he didn't need a reservation for a room. But there was room at the reservation.
“Sheriff Aaron Levi-Goldman” was written on the plaque placed on the door-post. He smiled, which happens when contented. He was happy, seeing his name put in prominent position. The deputy handed him his six guns. “Just two will do”, said the Sheriff as he supped at his supper, and a cool chasse.
“Does your accommodation suit you?”, the Deputy asked
“Fabo!”, drooled the Sheriff snapping out of his ponderation, “The black chinoiserie settee looks great with the pom-pomed four-poster”
“Those cattle are chattel,” cried a voice from without.
“Looks like trouble on the double”, the deputy delivered.
The Sheriff sprung to his feet, which he kept by the door. He rushed outside, (having been in), and confronted a man and woman bitterly bickering.
The digamous widow wore a fine flowered farthingale. The whiskered wino nothing but the hat he stood under.
“What seems to be the matter mater?”, the deputy asked the woman (for the man was not his mother).
“This alcoholic soak has stolen my steers. He was supposed to drive them to Dodge, I think he’s sold them”
“Not true!”, he protested, “I’ve merely misplace them”
“How many were there?”, the Sheriff asked.
“5,000”, she interrupted.
“You lost 5,000 head?”, he gasped rounding on the rotund rascal.
“Not just the heads”, she added.
“Well actually... just the heads”, the fat man farted.
“What did you do with the remainder?”, the Sheriff questioned.
“Oh, they’re okay!”, he smiled through a gummy mouth. “I left them back on the ponderosa, at Pikes Ponds.”
“Sheriff! Look!”, cried the daft Deputy.
They looked.
“No! There!”, he corrected. They turned to see a figure ride slowly into town.
Sheriff Stan Sebum sauntered, stopping by the broad building, branded ‘Big Barney’s Bar.’
“Who is that?”, someone asked.
“That’s your precursor,” someone totally different said.
“I’ll think I’ll go have parley.”, the Sheriff said.
In the bar, their eyes met. They backed away, till they could see each other properly.
“This episode’s not big enough for the two of us”, Stan sauntered slowly street-wise.
It was noon. The two sheriffs stood, facing each other down the length of the main street (the only street actually, unless you count the path that leads from the old timber shack at the back of the er...Sorry!).
Whilst most of the town’s folk were ambivalent, the undertaker salivated. Meanwhile the time ticked by.
“What are they waiting for?”, the inebriated individual asked.
“I don’t think they know!”, the deputy gasped.
The whole town waited eagerly for the following edition to find out.