Number 52, Sadly Simple

I didn't mean to write something sad and depressing, but that appears to be what happened here.  I thought I might be creating a super efficient creature, called a Simple, whose needs were much fewer than that of humans, and who might be quite a fun character, but it went another way!

Sadly Simple

Most people say that simple’s best;
‘Try not to complicate things, lest
It gets too hard for you to cope.’
They’ll say you might not have a hope.

‘Keep it simple’ they all say,
And Simple says to them, ‘Okay!
Whatever you are giving me
I will keep it if it’s free!’

But let us not misunderstand
This question on the other hand;
Simple’s not what simple seems,
He’s not a creature of our dreams.

Let me introduce him here;
One leg, one arm, and just one ear.
Simple doesn’t need a pair
Of anything or anywhere.

One finger and one thumb are quite
Enough to use a pen and write,
He keeps a look-out with one eye
It is quite easy if you try.

With only one of what he needs,
It is less often that he feeds;
He doesn’t need three meals a day,
It’s economical that way.

He only has to buy one shoe,
One trouser, and one glove will do.
One hair means that he needn’t buy
A shampoo, cut, and no blow dry.

Simple has an easy life;
He’s married to a simple wife.
They concentrate on simple stuff;
All they need is just enough.

They have no interest in books,
Neither of them ever cooks;
They eat from packets, watch TV,
They say it’s easier you see.

In many ways it might be true,
Given that he doesn’t do
More than he has to every day,
Simply done in every way.

When he goes down to the shops,
Obviously he simply hops,
And being Simple also means,
That when he’s tired he simply leans.

Because the Simples eat like that
Both are becoming really fat;
Their simple ways are not as good,
As some people said they would.

Simple always tends to do
The simplest things, and always few,
He doesn’t want to have to wonder
If he'll thrive or he'll go under.

The things he likes are pretty cheesey,
He only cares that they are easy,
No sophistication here;
He’d rather something cheap than dear.

He talks in words that aren’t too long,
That way he doesn’t get them wrong.
You’ll find he always will agree
And won’t argue with you or me.

So as you see it might not be
That simple’s best for you and me,
And that’s the reason that we are,
More complicated now by far.

And Simple simply will not go
Very far, he doesn’t know
The things that you have learned at school;
And clever’s better as a rule!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

Number 51. Supply and Demand

There can't be many truck drivers who were learning about the iambic pentameter in their cabs on Friday while on a tachograph break.  I was.  I was waiting for a trailer load from the Channel Islands at the Portsmouth ferry port to have the VAT paid which took all morning.  I am reading The Ode Less Travelled, by Stephen Fry, which claims to be the only instruction manual ever written for poets. I had already written Supply and Demand, the previous day, while waiting to be loaded at Gist in Hemel Hempstead, and decided to apply Stephen's exercise in creating lines in iambic pentameter to it.  This is the result.  If you are wondering what the iambic pentameter is, it is the metre or meter and therefore the rhythm of the poem.  In this case it begins on a low accent and can be thought of like this; and one and two and three and four and five,  or ti tum ti tum ti tum ti tum ti tum.  Pentameter means it has five beats.  Read it like that. 

Supply and Demand.

I'm telling you I really am quite rich;
I’ve made a great amount of money, which
Instead of spending loads of it on me,
I think I’ll give away to charity:

It started very many years ago;
The secret is quite simple when you know;
I recognised an opportunity,
The limit of it was infinity!

Demand just now has got to be so great,
That I have had to take to working late,
It seems that people cannot get enough,
Of my quite extra-ordinary stuff!

It comes in truck loads, either boxed or loose;
Some of it special, some for general use,
Some thin, some thick, some straight, some of it curled,
And every day I ship it round the world!

Demand I’ve found has never much declined,
In fact the trend has always been inclined...
Despite my clients’ efforts to reduce
Consumption, towards ever greater use!

I try to manufacture ethically,
To satisfy their too pathetically
Unfettered appetites, that make them think
They always need more of it or they’ll sink.

The truth is that we all of us would be,
Much better off, (of course excepting me),
If manufacture were right now to stop,
Or off the cliff the market were to drop!

Because there is a danger with this stuff,
That if you have a bit more than enough,
Each day you find you’ve got a tangle new;
Before you know it, it will strangle you!

So what is it, what is this stuff I make?
What ever could it be for Heaven’s sake!
What is this business that’s in such good shape?
I’ll tell you now, I simply make Red Tape!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

So as I work my way through Fry's book I'll have to revisit my earlier work and apply his various lessons to them all, and ensure they conform to an appropriate meter, so that they don't annoy you the reader.

Meanwhile, I am very pleased with the article that appeared in the Midhurst and Petworth Observer this week, perhaps you learned about me there, and if so, thank you for looking me up on my blog.

Number 50 The Creech

Today is 27th June and it is day 63.  I am up to number 50 and therefore 13 behind.  However, an article may be about to appear in the Midhurst & Petworth Observer, possibly tomorrow.  This, and the possibility of some other publicity is encouraging me, and I hope to catch up a bit over the next few days.  I have redesigned the blog a little and will try to add some functions which will allow you to post pictures with your comments, if you feel inclined.

So here is an invitation:  Anyone who would like to do a drawing, sketch, doodle, illustration, oil painting, water colour, pen and ink drawing of anything at all to illustrate on or other of these rhymes please do so and send them in to me.  I will try to include as many as I can onto the blog, and when a book finally comes out the best ones will be included.  If the function to do so isn't there yet, please e-mail them to me at bowleyfarm@gmail.com

Perhaps you are at school and would like to introduce the idea to your class as a project, or you are doing illustration at college and would like to showcase your work.  I can't promise anything, but it is certainly my intention for this challenge to gather publicity and momentum, and hopefully go around the world eventually.  And most of all I want a fully illustrated collection of stories to be published.  The illustrations could be yours!

The Creech.

May I introduce to you,
A proper little ‘How d’you do’?
Maybe you’ve glimpsed him in the gloom,
Creeping nightly round your room!

Don’t worry, do not be alarmed,
He will not let you be harmed!
He really thinks you’re quite okay;
In a funny kind of way.

Late at night he prowls around,
Taking things that he has found;
Things that maybe you don’t need,
But he does very much indeed!

He’s the one who's got your shoe,
You know the one, it’s kind of blue.
Last night he very quietly took,
Two pairs of knickers and a book!

That scooter you no longer use,
The hairdryer that blew a fuse,
The breakfast bowl you always had,
The Furbie that once drove you mad!

All these things and lots of others;
Not just yours, some were your mother’s,
He came to secretly remove,
In a way you couldn’t prove.

He is the Creech who lives below,
The biggest puddle that you know.
He only comes out in the night,
When everyone is sleeping tight.

Half fish, half duck, half dragonfly,
The Creech is never wet nor dry.
He wears odd socks, and your pyjamas,
And wool from someone else’s llamas.

But the truth is he’s a thief,
And he lives close by underneath
The puddle in the road, that you
Have always liked to jump into.

That is where you’ll find your stuff,
If you look there hard enough;
All the stuff that’s disappeared,
That you thought was really weird.

Odd socks, odd toys, and silverware,
He has taken to his lair;
He needs these things so in he pops,
It’s not like he can use the shops!

He is a Creech, he’s not like us,
He cannot drive, or use the bus.
He has to sneak around at night,
When there isn’t too much light.

He doesn’t want to frighten you,
Doing stuff he has to do;
So if you see him creeping by,
Keep still, keep quiet and please don’t cry.

Just remember what it was,
He took away with him because
If you need it back one day,
He will hear it when you say;

‘Come on Creech, please bring it back’,
Whatever thing it is you lack.
Ask him in your mind, don’t shout;
He knows what you are on about!

The Creech knows when you really must
Have something back you thought you’d lost.
And that is why next day you’ll see,
It laying just where it should be!

It’s right there just behind the door;
You looked there several times before,
You thought it all was in your head,
You know now it’s the Creech instead!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

Number 49, Siesta

Siesta.

I saw a man leave on a train,

He went and then came back again.

It wasn’t like he’d gone for long,

More like he’d gone to somewhere wrong.

I saw a girl get in a car,

She stopped before she had gone far,

Parking it before the fork;

I don’t know why she didn’t walk!

I saw a boy jump on his bike,

Then go as slowly as you like.

He leaned it up against a wall,

As if he didn’t go at all.

I saw some children in the street,

Stopped still with plimsoles on their feet.

They looked like they'd been having fun,

But now it seemed they couldn’t run.

I heard the clock attempt to chime,

At midday; only making nine.

The sun beat down from overhead,

It seemed the whole place now was dead.

I tried to walk across the road,

But all my energy had flowed

Into the gutter with the heat,

And lay me down there in the street.

It wasn’t until after three,

A shadow gently covered me.

Somebody somewhere made a sound,

And slowly life resumed all round. 

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

Number 48, Flipping Moles

Flipping Moles
There are mountains on my lawning, that have just appeared:

They weren’t there first thing this morning, don’t you think it’s weird?
Yesterday the gardener came to do the mowifying,

He said he left the lawn quite flat, d’you think perhaps he’s lying?

I am not exaggerating, when I say to you;
Someone’s been elaborating my idyllic view!
I love to gaze out to the sea, beyond my garden walling,

But now what is it that I see?..avalanches falling!                                                    

Skiers, climbers, mountaineers, cable-cars and goats,

Not my fish pond fountaineers, nor the usual boats!

And now my gardener will complain; he’s much more work to do;

Mountains always create rain, and I've got quite a few!

While mowerising something flat is pretty much a breeze,

A mountain or something like that, is not so very ease!
I know, I know, what you are thinking; I am being silly,

It’s just a mole who has been sinking, holes and made it hilly!
Making mountains out of molings is what I hear you say,

These hills are really great big rollings, getting in the way!
What kind of mole could make this lot, all in about an hour?

I think there must have been a plot by some suspicious power!

I’ve Mont Blanc by the garden shed,

And K2 near the gate,

The Andes occupy the bed, where roses were of late!
If I look up I just can see, if the sky is clear,
The very top of Mount Fuji ,
From where I’m standing here!                                                                                 

My wife has gone to phonify, to ask someone to come.

I wonder if it’s only I, or neighbours too have some?
Someone must surely specialise, in solving things like this,
But maybe they don’t realise, how big a job it is!
And while the man is getting here, I’m going to sit and moan;
I’d not have bought this house, I fear, if I had have known!

                                                                                                           

Number 47, Aliens.

 

Aliens!

Jack and Jill went up the pub,
To get a pint of bitter;
Just one, they said, then home to bed,
They told the baby sitter!

But one pint led to several more,
And Jack and Jill got sloshed.
Meanwhile the kids had closed their lids,
Asleep, well fed and washed.

The baby sitter wondered if,
The pair were live or dead.
By half past two she clearly knew,
She had to go to bed.

The baby sitter charged a fee,
Of twenty pounds a night.
They were so late that at this rate,
She’d treble it alright.

Next morning there was still no sign
Of any Jack or Jill.
The time went by, and by and by,
Adding to her bill.

She made some breakfast for the kids,
To school she took the three.
Then calmly she went off to see,
Where Jack and Jill could be.

The landlord at the pub recalled
Them pitching out at one;
He was vexed about what next,
He saw to them was done!

In the car park near the road,
An alien had waited;
Jack and Jill had stood quite still,
Their drunken breath abated…

The landlord said he shouted out,
But could not make a sound,
He saw the pair just floating there,
Three feet off the ground!

Suddenly there was a flash,
And everybody vanished;
The landlord said, inside his head,
The lot of them were banished!

And don’t come back, I don’t need you,
To make me a laughing stock,
I know the press will make a mess;
And me they’ll love to mock!

Indeed they never did return;
The kids were quite upset.
The girl who baby-sat that day,
Today is still there yet!


© Stephen Saunders

                                                                                                                                   

Number 46, Barefoot.

I think this is day 55 of the challenge, and with this being number 46, I am nine behind.  A manageable deficit I think, but not to become complacent I must try to catch up.  I downloaded Apple i-books last night on the suggestion of my friend William, and plan to publish a rudimentary first edition of The Incomplete Works of Steph'nonsense soon.  I am leaning towards this as my pen name, and will add sophistication to it if and when I develop any.   Meanwhile I am looking forward to seeing something in the Midhurst & Petworth Observer in the next week or two.  I am hoping this will lead to a few followers. 


Barefoot.

Who doesn’t love a mystery?
Something lost in history,
Or something in our lives today,
No explanation we can say.

There’s something I don’t understand;
I see it up and down the land,
Something that daily puzzles me,
I just don’t know how it can be.

Every day I drive a van;
Of litter I am not a fan,
But one thing casually thrown out,
Is what I am talking about.

Who is it suddenly can lose,
Either, or a pair of shoes?
Never trousers or a hat,
Shoes or boots and only that.

I see them all along the side,
Of every road where they’ve been shied.
Some old, though some still in their prime,
Are abandoned every time.

I sometimes throw my old shoes out,
Like you or anyone no doubt,
But someone seems to wait, till they
Are in their cars, well on their way.

Then at a moment they think right,
And maybe in the dead of night,
They haul out normally just one,
Just to bewilder everyone.

You’ll see a trainer, then a welly,
Some look new, others smelly.
Today I saw a black dress shoe;
Who could have lost it, was it you?

Next time you go somewhere by car,
You do not have to go that far;
See if what I say is true,
Play the game of ‘count the shoe’!

Perhaps some people get so pissed,
That walking home they have not missed
A shoe that fell off on the way,
But surely not the motorway?

For one thing that I seem to see,
Is that the vast majority,
Are not on single rights of way,
But on a dual carriageway.

So the thing I want to know,
Is not that people like to throw,
The things away they do not use,
But why of all the things; just shoes?

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

Number 45. The Howl of the Pussy Cat

This one is really daft, complete steph'nonense. The idea was to parody the same rhymes as the original by Edward Lear.

The Howl of the Pussy Cat.

With a howl the Pussy-cat went to see,
What on Earth was stuck in her throat.
She’d eaten a bunny, it was not very funny;
It was stuck like the horns of a goat!

The howl was heard far above,
The noise of a passing car.
Oh foolish Pussy, give it a shove,
What a foolish Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a foolish Pussy you are!

Pussy still howled, it sounded quite foul,
It was a terrible thing!
She felt so harried, that the howling was carried,
Like a vulture away on the wing.
It sailed away, through my ear, in a way...
I can’t stand, I should say, Heaven knows!
Even if they could, nobody would;
The way caterwauling goes,
It goes,
It goes,
The way caterwauling goes!

Dear Cat I am willing, to shut up your shrilling!
You will? said the cat, Yes I will!
So off to the vet the very same day,
Where to start she was given a pill.
It was hidden in mince, so she didn’t wince,
While the vet dived in with a spoon;
And then in his hand, just as he’d planned,
He fished out the bunny bone soon,
Bone soon,
Bone soon,
He fished out the bunny bone soon!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

Number 44. Slow Down!

Number 44

Slow Down!

Riders on horseback really hate,
Car drivers leaving it too late
To brake when they are driving fast,
And rushing as they squeeze on past.

We live a long way up a track,
And driving down is quite a knack.
You have to take it very slow,
Or hit the bumps if you’re too low.

So today as we went down,
Slowly heading out to town,
We were prepared the same of course,
To meet a rider on a horse.

But we were not prepared for what
Was not a rider at a trot.
It gave us all a major scare;
Someone was galloping a mare.

Full tilt they came into our view,
There wasn’t much that I could do:
The track was narrow so I dropped
One wheel into a ditch and stopped.

The rider had no chance to alter
Course or speed, or use the halter.
All she could do was hang on tight,
And charge on past us to our right.

It was a very close affair,
There almost wasn’t room through there.
They nearly crashed into the front,
And we’d have taken all the brunt.

The rider would have been thrown clear,
The horse though would have been, oh dear...
Dead I suspect, lying beside
The car with us all squashed inside.

So please, remember that the shoe
That fits us sometimes fits you too.
It isn’t always cars at fault:
A charging horse is hard to halt!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

Number 43, The Customer is Always Wrong!

Number 43. 

I realise that this is a bit of a rant, and could upset some people, for which I apologise.  However, my views are only that, and clearly they are not shared by a great many people in respect of this subject. I sincerely hope that they continue not to share my views as long as they live, while more and more young people who haven’t formulated them yet do!

The Customer is Always Wrong!

There was a time when only men,
Dared have tattoos, and even then
They seldom ever looked much good,
As if they really ever could.

No doubt there were a few exceptions,
Drawing positive receptions.
But mostly they were poorly done,
And pretty soon the ink had run.

So all you get after a bit,
Is a smudge, or part of it.
Nothing left that you can tell,
Nothing you can still see well.

When you’re young it might seem cool,
To show off to your friends at school,
But one day when you’re getting old,
You will not be quite so bold.

You will be stuck with something that
Reminds us you were once a brat!
When now you wish to be more serious,
You’ll think you must have been delirious...

Ever to have said okay
To fashion pressure on that day,
And let some person ruin you,
And turn your skin to nasty blue.

So has it not occurred to you,
When paying for a new tattoo,
To ask someone of greater years,
If they’re still happy having theirs?

I can tell you there are no
Good examples that I know,
Of doodles that in time will prove,
That they can nature’s work improve.

No lovely girl is made more pretty,
By a scribble or a ditty,
And if you’re plain there is no chance,
That tattoos will your looks enhance!

There are many better ways,
That you can use on special days,
To make yourself a bit more pretty,
Than drawing love hearts on your titty!

You’re always on a loser at
The tattoo parlour, you know that,
Don’t contemplate it very long;
The customer is always wrong!

© Stephen Saunders

If you have already got one, I hope you are forever thrilled with it, but please girls, don’t have any more.

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

Number 42, Walter Mitty

My wife has caught the bug and written some more rhyming recipes.  I'm all set to put them on this blog, but she's leaving me!  She wants a blog of her own.  So blog off then!  In the nicest possible way of course.  As soon as it is set up I will put the link to it somewhere. Here though is number 41:  It is a true story, it happened on Thursday.

Walter Mitty

You don’t half meet some types some days,

Whose stories really do amaze,

Especially strangers who arrive

To buy your car, (or just test drive).

The other day a bloke came round,

And while he’s lying on the ground

Having a gander underneath,

He tells me how he caught a thief.

I don’t know why he boasted thus,

But he went on to make a fuss

Of making sure I heard enough,

And recognize that he was tough.

He looked a dangerous piece of work,

Not your usual little nerk;

Short and squat and not quite right,

With a Bulldog’s underbite.

He said he used to be a wrestler,

And deep inside some grudges fester.

Black belt Karate, second Dan,

He nearly killed his wife’s old man.

Her divorce was coming through,

The bloke turned up, what could he do?

He challenged him right there and then,

Then knocked him out and counted ten.

I’d only met this man a minute,

But his head had too much in it.

He told me how he threatened to

Snap his fingers clean in two.

The husband ran, or so he said,

For fear of finishing up dead.

And now this visitor of mine,

Takes pleasure spinning out this line.

It turns out this was long ago,

But his life story I must know;

All about the work he does,

On private contract for the fuzz.

But then he further had to say,

One day he nabbed young Reggie Kray!

He was a plod in Hackney there,

And had to then arrest the pair.

No doubt you know of whom he’s talking;

The famous Kray twins he’d been stalking.

The baddest gangsters Britain’s had,

And this bloke got them, what a lad!

Of course he was a top marksman,

And led them off into the can,

With not so much as a by your leave;

He got his men, and a tale to weave.

Dog handler, Sweeney, high speed cars,

Putting people behind bars,

Now retired it seems to me,

He’s really just a Walter Mitty.

But now he’s telling me about

Nine cars he has that he takes out.

He rallies, races and he shows them;

Famous drivers? yes he knows them!

It is a scary thought for me,

Retired copper if he be.

And being very indiscreet,

One wonders how he kept his beat.

I wonder also how this man

Affords the things he says he can.

He wants my car he’ll ring tonight,

When he’s checked it’s all just right.

So later on he telephones;

The car’s too pricey now he moans.

He’d offer half the asking price,

Well, I thought, how very nice!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

    

Number 41; A Special Pasta Recipe.

I'd really like to be a bard,
But I've been working much too hard
At other things to make a living;
My time to other work I'm giving.
And while in consequence I'm tired,
Her indoors has been inspired:
So here's the very first report;
Of my wife's rather good effort.

© Stephen Saunders

 A Special Pasta Recipe

Making a dish is quite a treat,

You get to cook and get to eat;

And when you share it with your friends,

Good conversation never ends.

Around the table you all sit,

And eat and talk and talk and eat.

A lovely bowl of pasta is

A good way to accomplish this.

Take two red peppers, core and cut

Into four quarters each, so that

They’ll neatly fit under a grill

For them to bubble up and peel.

The skin goes black, then take them out,

Wrap them in cloth and wait about.

Give them five minutes if you can

They will be cooler for your hands;

To peel the skin off this will aid

And will an easy task have made.

Having put peppers to the side,

Take one big onion and divide

In half, then skin and chop and chop

Into small bits, then drop by drop,

Add olive oil to a pot,

And heat it up until quite hot.

Then add your onion, garlic chopped,

And peppers cut from toe to top.

Fry on low heat, until thereon

Next stage is ready to go on.

Grate four tomatoes into bowl;

Use grater with the biggest hole.

Start grating at the juicy end,

The skin will end up in your hand.

Throw skin away, put pulp in pot

With onion, garlic and the lot.

Add little water; you and I

Don’t want it to become too dry.

Let bubble up, lower the heat,

Consider sausage you will eat:

Spanish chorizo, wild and hot,

German frankfurter mild and not.

The English banger sweet and soft,

A feature which is often scoffed.

Whichever sausage is your lot,

You put them now into the pot.

Four bits per person, hungry lot?

Make it some more, it is your shot!

Add little water, you and I,

Don’t want it to become too dry.

Now this is done and cooking slow,

See that the pasta gets a go.

Egg papardelle is my plan,

And lots of water in big pan.

The water salty as the sea,

To rolling boil must brought to be.

Fistful per person, hungry lot?

Make it some more, it is your shot!

Boil for four minutes and then drain,

Make sure some water will remain…

...clinging to pasta; you and I

Don’t want it to become too dry!

Share out the pasta, share the sauce

Enjoy the food and praise the Boss

And there you are, the first receipt;

But don’t forget to season it.

I know the grammar’s stretched a bit,

But you try rhyming food to fit!

© Krystyna Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

Krystyna has gone on to write many more of these rhyming recipes.  She plans to put them to rap tunes and have the children at Johnnie's school create it for a show.  It might make an excellent TV programme; cooking to Johnnie and the Food Rappers! 

I would publish them all here, but I don't want to undermine her efforts, or take any credit for them.  She will publish them separately.  See them at http://kitchenrap.wordpress.com/

Number 40. May 11th, Always Sunny in Sussex.

May 11^th, Always Sunny in Sussex.

I’ll mow your lawn

So it’s neat to sit awn,

And the stripes make you feel like a Major.

I’ll bring out the booze,

And teach you to lose,

By making you agree to a wager!

You’ll probably bet

That it’s sometimes wet,

On May the eleventh now and then.

But on that very day,

I can pretty safely say;

In fifty years I’ve known not when!

This year ‘till May ten

It poured and just then,

In the morning the sun burst on through.

All day it stayed dry,

I knew perfectly why;

And I could have had that bet with you.

If you take a look,

It’s a good day to book

A party, or an outdoor event.

Check back on the years,

If you have any fears;

You’ll find it's an effort well spent.

So next year remember,

(Not in November),

But when you’re tired of April showers;

If for weeks it rains,

Till it overflows the drains,

There’ll be sun on May 11th for hours!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
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Agent / publisher wanted.

Number 39, Mrs. Bing.

Mrs. Bing.

Mrs. Bing cannot remember,

All the days that hath November,

Forgetting almost everything;

She only knows she’s Mrs. Bing!

She is the one they always said;

If not screwed on would lose her head,

Scatty was a word they used;

And teasing her kept them amused!

One day she went out in the nude,

Forgetting that it’s rather rude,

While causing people some surprise,

The boys could not believe their eyes!

She turned back when she reached the gate,

But by now it was much too late;

A lad had used his mobile phone,

To e-mail photos to his home!

His dad worked for the local paper,

And thought the pics a proper caper;

Next day Mrs Bing appeared,

Exactly in the way she feared!

But by the time it hit the shops,

Mrs. Bing had clean forgot;

Something else was on her mind;

Her door key she was trying to find!

It therefore came as quite a shock,

To find the shop had got in stock;

The paper with her features printed,

On many copies freshly minted.

Some things embarrass Mrs Bing,

But after studying the thing,

Her discomfort had slowly eased,

Till she became secretly pleased!

The photos showed her in a light,

That made her really look alright.

And though it made the boys all snigger,

She clearly had a cracking figure!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
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Agent / publisher wanted.

Number 38, The Great Clock of Where?

The Great Clock of Where?

Have you seen in Wisborough Green,
Something we should celebrate?
Something that’s so cleverly made,
Something that’s special and great?

As you approach there once was a tree,
Which a few years ago must have died.
And largely ignored by you and by me,
Is the great stump we all drive beside.

The remains of the tree were ten feet tall,
As thick as Lord Nelson’s column.
But now it's something you’d have in your hall;
Something sensible, serious and solemn.

Where once was a tree and a mighty stump,
There now is a grandfather clock;
Carved with great skill from the standing lump,
Perfectly formed, but a mock!

Each time you take the A272,
To Wisborough Green going east,
You’ll see it clearly in front of you;
And it’s right twice a day, at the least!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
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Number 37, The Stupid Weather

Number 37

The Stupid Weather

It’s raining, it’s pouring,

It’s starting to get boring,

I’m going to bed a sleepy head

I hope it’s dry in the morning.

It’s global, it’s warming

Or so they have been warning,

But flaming June had better come soon

Before the nights start drawing.

It’s mid-summer day, but no way

Temperatures are soaring.

It’s ten degrees so if you please

I think the ice age is dawning.

The climate's changing, temperatures ranging

From one extreme to the other

One day it is hot, the next it is not

And everyone has to take cover.

I long for the day when we can make hay,

And the halcyon days of our summer,

But all that we get is ever more yet

A chill that's making us number.  

What happened to winter, spring, summer and fall,

Seasons we trust, and reasons that must

No longer apply, although we still try

To make some sense of it all?

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
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Agent / publisher wanted. 

Number 36, Streuth it's Christmas!

I wrote this a few years ago; one of the ten that predate this challenge, and of course it is a song rather than a poem.  I have a simple tune in my head for it, but if someone would like to compose a fantastic number one hit for it for the Christmas charts, get to it!  Maybe we can make our fortunes!

Streuth it’s Christmas!

Happy Christmas everyone,

Not too hot for you out in the sun?

Come on let’s strip, take a skinny dip;

There’s plenty of time before dinner!

Christmas comes but once a year,

And always in the summer here;

It’s not the turkeys who get scared,

It’s the shrimps that need to be prepared!

Down on the beach it’s 32 degrees,

Put another shrimp on the barbie please!

It’s sunny, it’s hot, it’s a beaut is it not?

We’re down on the beach for a barbie;

Cold beer, pass it here, Christmas cheer, another year,

Everyone’s having a party!

And everyone knows that it never ever snows,

Because Christmas always comes in the summer,

With sky so blue I’d say to you;

A white Christmas would really be a bummer!

It’s sunny, it’s hot, it’s a beaut is it not?

We’re down on the beach for a barbie.

Cold beer, pass it here, Christmas cheer, another year

Everyone’s having a party!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
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Number 35 No Aliens.

This one still needs work and I shall revisit it as I do with all my rhymes to tweak and change it here and there.  However, perhaps it conveys some of my thinking: The idea that there is a God is difficult for many people to grasp, especially those who rely on scientific proof of everything,  and it is equally difficult to believe that all the matter in the universe exploded out of a singularity (a single sub atomic particle that was so densely packed that it contained everything).  Out of nothing either way, therefore. But with no God in the equation, the scientific argument requires us to believe that one day, for some reason that had not existed until then, this miniscule thing, presumably floating in an empty universe went bang in a very big way.  What was the reason, why the particular moment, and most of all, how?  And for there to be a reason for it happening there had to be something, some force, some difference between conditions leading up to the bang, and the moment that triggered it. What was that force and who or what exerted it? In order for it to happen there has to have been a pre-history to it as well. These things may well be provable scientifically, but right now they are asking a lot of any brain to comprehend; rather more, I would say than believing in a supernatural power, which many people call God.  Indeed, it is this that led Wittgenstein, one of the greatest philosophers of the twentieth century to make a very succinct and powerful statement to shake the scientists.  He said, 'The question is not how the universe is, but that it is'.

So scientists ask us to go along with the idea that life, soul, love, intuition, consciousness, conscience and many other intangibles were also contained in that singularity, merely to evolve and create the wonderful complex and beautiful world we see, for no reason at all.  But the only explanation for the singularity is that all matter was contained and compressed by gravity into something so dense that not even light could escape.  But in order to do so, why was it there in the first place?  Wittgenstein's question again. Not how, but that it is.

It requires a much greater degree of faith to believe that, than it does to believe that these things are God and the Holy Spirit.  So, my poem contends that if we are simply an accident, mathematical probability decrees that there will be other similar results in other places in the universe. But if we are, as the Bible says, created on Earth in the image of God, then we are alone.  Nowhere does it say that we are merely one experiment among many.  There is as much proof of the existence of God, to those willing to see it, and to those who are prepared to devote their intellect to the difficult subject, as there is scientific proof of the origins of everything around us. Of course, science can explain a great deal, just as historical records and the Bible can too. It is a subject well worth deep consideration with as open a mind and heart as possible.  Either God created us out of nothing, or nothing created us out of nothing. Take your pick.

No Aliens.

I’m going to stick my neck out here,

And boldly state there’s no-one near.

No-one at all, not even far

Beyond the very furthest star.

No aliens, no UFOs,

No-one else who vaguely knows

Their way about the universe,

As well as us, better, or worse.

We humans here are all alone,

The Earth the only place that’s home;

The universe completely void

Of any other humanoid.

I grant the possibility,

That somewhere else there may well be

Amoebic life, or creepy things,

But not that ever talks or sings.

Mathematically the odds are on,

That we cannot be alone,

But that is only if we be

The product of calamity.

An accident, a bang or crash,

Quite by chance a cosmic smash;

All out of nought, no reason why

The world appeared by and by.

All this came out of bits of stuff,

Heated up and moulded rough.

But this is asking quite a lot,

And probably a load of rot.

It is like asking us to say

That it could happen any day:

A bolt of lightening and some rain,

And dinosaurs appear again!

Where was the stuff of which we are,

Before the bang had flung this far?

The bits of rock, the grains of sand,

Supposedly that made this land.

We’re told it was a single bit,

Much too small to measure it.

So small it almost wasn’t there;

And suddenly it’s everywhere.

That culture, consciousness and love,

Instead of coming from above,

Crawled out of the primordial slime,

Evolving slowly over time.

Take a rock and study it;

Add some heat and smash a bit.

Do anything you care to do;

It will never make a you.

And though all things return to dust,

An accidental thing we must

Believe we are, as we are told,

By scientists both young and old.

Science might answer ‘what’ and ‘how,’
But that is not the question now;
‘That it is at all‘  does test
Not theologians, but the rest.

Wittgenstein it was who said
To ask this question now instead.
So what if we know DNA?
Why it exists no-one can say.

How much less likely could it be

That God created you and me?

From out of nothing we were hurled,

Or that God designed the world?

Both are difficult to grasp,

The latter though more kind to clasp,

More meaning and more comfort there,

Less an abyss in which to stare.

So rather why not be inclined,

To think that we have been designed;

Nowhere else to have our birth,

Nowhere else but planet Earth? 

The miracle of light and life,

The love between husband and wife,

The many aspects of the soul,

That make the world and make it whole.

These things are not the things of chance;

God is the reason that we dance,

God is the reason we exist,

But soulless souls will still resist.

And as you doubt whichever way,

There is something I should say;

It takes more faith to not believe

That God is with us when we leave.

© Stephen Saunders

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Number 34, Getting Legless

This one is pretty odd, I admit.  As I have remarked before, although I write this stuff, it is as if I am being channeled, as what ends up on the paper is not really the product of any planning or forethought!  I think what happened here is that I sometimes get asked by children how I lost my leg (I really do only have one), and make up wild stories about it, and several of them got caught up together:

Getting legless.

I used to have more legs than now,

But lost most of them, this is how:

The first to go was on a farm;

The baler was what did it harm.

The next one came off when I crashed;

That leg against a bus got mashed.

It put a stop to driving fast;

Although that leg was not my last!

Another one was lost soon after;

I think the shark was drawn by laughter.

As we frolicked in the sea,

It made a beeline right for me.

A crocodile or alligator,

Inevitably got me later.

Silly though it sounds to you;

It happened in my local zoo!

Frost bite got another one,

By now I’m down to nearly none,

But luckily I had some spares,

Until I broke them on the stairs!

Not everyone is quite like me;

And you might say, that’s luckily.

But I can warn you to beware,

And of your legs take greater care.

Don’t fill your boots with alcohol,

Make abstinence your protocol;

Walk straight and tall and don’t see double,

And keep yourself well out of trouble.

Because there are so many ways,

That a leg can end its days.

I have only one leg now...

I’ll try to keep it anyhow!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
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Number 33, Doing Nothing

It's June the 4th I think, bank holiday Monday, Queen's Diamond Jubilee.  You'd think I could write something about that, but no.  Maybe I will some other time, but I have found that when I sit down to write the result rarely has anything to do with any preconceived topic or idea. Whatever appears on paper is usually a surprise.

This is number 33, and I estimate that I am on day 39.  I could be wrong, but it will all tally up in the end.

Nothing Doing.

I might have to go to bed,

Very little having said.

It’s well past late and I’ve been staring,

At blank paper; long past caring.

I sat down at half past three,

Full of good intentions me.

Before I got one sentence down,

Two friends arrived from up in town.

I gave them both a cup of tea,

And asked them if they’d come and see

My work, and offer me advice;

They both said it was ‘very nice’!

That’s no good, I told the pair

I need the truth to make it fair.

I need to hear if what I’ve done,

Is bad or good or second to none.

I gave them each a couple of drinks,

To get what each one of them thinks.

Unless it is a Trappist monk,

The truth comes out when someone’s drunk.

But try to ply them as I might,

This went on late into the night.

One of them began to say...

But what came out was ‘It’s OK’.

And so I persevered till morning

When I heard the sound of snoring.

Like screwed up paper in a heap

They both fetched up there fast asleep. 

Now it's too late to go to bed,

So maybe I will write instead.

But just for now I'll skip this one,
And hope the next is much more fun.

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
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Number 32. Bare With Me!

Bare With Me!

Many people cannot spell

Their English language very well;

A name, or address often writ,

Without a capital in it!

They know not how to punctuate,

Use made up words like 'unctuate',

Does it mean apply a lotion,

Or maybe some new dancing motion?

But that is how language evolves;

A new word comes, one more dissolves.

George Bush was one who contributed,

As he got things convoluted!

Uneducatified he was,

Even though he was the boss;

The president of his great nation,

Where every verb has got an ‘ation.

Some people put apostrophes

In plural words like spuds or knees,

Then leave them out where they should be;

In children’s or in I’ll just see.

Less is employed more and more,

While fewer less and less for sure.

Less water or less sugar’s fine;

Less people is a worrying sign.

Fewer water people know

Sounds daft, so why then go

And get it wrong when using less?

It has become an awful mess.

And while we try to champion fewer,

We get more language from the sewer.

Plus, as if that’s not enough,

We’ve; no wot I mean, like and stuff!

Maybe it doesn’t matter much;

We get the gist of it as such.

But it would be that much better

If we perfected every letter:

My son’s head teacher’s quite a bird;

When it’s written and not heard,

She needs to know her spelling’s right;

Or she might get a nasty fright:

She sent an e-mail to me twice,

And though I know she’s very nice;

She had a problem, as it were,

And asked me if I’d bare with her!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
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Agent / publisher wanted.

© Stephen Saunders

Number 31. Sneezing

Tuesday 29th May today, Day 34 I think, so I am 4 behind unless I rattle a few off tonight.   I have been thinking about busking the rhymes, in Covent Garden or somewhere like that, but this takes a lot of courage I think.  I am also thinking about printing a collection of them which will always be incomplete.  So I thought of giving it a title page something like this:

The Incomplete Works
of
Behind The Wheel

Silliness, nonsense and deeply profound rhymes

by Stephen Saunders


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Number 31, Had a few probs with the computator today, so not sure what's what.  Hope this goes in OK.

Sneezing. 


I’m really fond of sneezing; I do it quite a lot,
And very often find I do it nine times on the trot!
I’ve no idea why it should be the cause of irritation,
But my wife insists upon immediate cessation!
Her sneezes only come in ones, or at the most in pairs;
To all concerned they really are most trivial affairs,
But when they creep into my nose they take on quite a status;
Seven coming all at once, and then a brief a hiatus.
Two more then follow as a rule, by which time I’ll have heard,
All I need to on the subject from my darling bird!
The truth is I enjoy my sneezing, and I feel that I,
Should have the benefit of any sneeze that might be passing by!
I don't wish to silence them, or even hold them back,
I’ve developed their expression into quite a serious knack.
But her indoors is not amused, and she regards it badly,
I know she thinks it rather rude, like farting, I think sadly.
The fact that hers are small and single is really more her loss;
Of course I wish it otherwise, but you know who’s the boss!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
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Number 30, Strapped

I spend a lot of time driving, either in a truck or car.  I drive two different trucks, and have five cars, one, the MG is for sale at this point.  Nevertheless, driving allows some opportunity for thinking, and for inspiration, which I imagine is already revealing itself, as quite a few of my rhymes are to do with the road.   I have been experimenting with recording myself reading my rhymes, and I have given myself a kind of performing name of Behind the Wheel. It seems to sit well with me.  I might go to an open mike session and try them out one day. There is one in Petersfield called Write Angle.  I've been twice, a long time ago, and it might be a good trying out spot to see if my rhymes get a laugh or not.  


30, and catching up.  I think it is day 33.

Our daily bread.

Ever since I was a lad
I’ve tried to emulate my dad.
He was never in a hurry,
Neither did he ever worry.
Somehow he was always able
To put some dinner on the table,
To pay the rent and pay the bills
On a decent house in the Sussex hills.
I’ve no idea quite how he did it
What his job was, how he hid it.
He an enigmatic bloke,
Hung out with the coolest folk!

Meanwhile life for me has been
A bit of a disaster scene;
No home that I can call my own,
No way of paying off a loan.
I have tried a million things,
Planning that one of them brings
A bit more cash to pay for stuff,
And all I want is just enough.
While hoping every scheme makes money;
What I s’pose is really funny,
Is though all these things are fun
I seem to end up making none!

But I always count my blessings,
Now my secrets I’m confessing;
Friends I have, a wife and son.
I think we’re liked by everyone,
We’re happy, healthy, not gone blind,
Got our marbles, I think you’ll find.
We go to church, and sometimes pray
For a bit more cash to come our way,
But really there’s not much we need,
As long as every day we feed,
And somehow every day we do...
We’re really very well, thank you!

© Stephen Saunders

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Agent / publisher wanted.