I (sometimes) call myself Mr. Pondersome. I'm a rather wordy, weirdy person. I say hullo a lot. I write a lot more. While you're here, why not give some of it a read?

Monday, 31 March 2014

SITCOM CITY (a.k.a. A Poem I Wrote Over the Course of Months - Still Not Happy)

I know a guy
in Sitcom City.
He knows bookshops,
coffee shops,
clean bars
where single women congregate
alone, free and

I knew him from his laughter

that follows him, swallows him.
He never learns 
but that's the line,
ratings are high
in the limits.

He can't guarantee much,

he might even ruin you.
Your chances are weak
while the writing is kind.

It's this city, he'll tell you,

this rosy city
with its made-up figures
that dance among the arcs
of men like him
and some women too
though he's never met them.

I'm not sure if he cares about

the cigars he can
always afford or
the friends he
often fails.
The rain comes out through nozzles.

Everyone's open

while the city is clear.
The women smile,
await their cue
and go.
He sets them off.
We watch.
We've seen them.
We've seen this one.

The titles.

The laughter.
Run it or can it.
He's smoking jokes
and here we are
only listening,
listening hard.

THE BRANCH AND THE BABY BOOTIE (a.k.a. An Image from a Dog Walk)

          The hedge was messy at the bottom: twigs and leaves nuzzled into the cracks on the pavement. There was even an overgrown branch, curved and upturned, that hooked on to people's trouser legs as they passed by.
          One day a pink baby bootie slid out from one of those trouser legs. The branch was almost ripped apart. It fell limply on top of the fallen item until another leg snapped the branch clean off at the end and kicked it into the road.
          The branch continued to grow. It gouged its way into the bootie then slowly retracted, footwear still attached. In the wind, it kicks.

SHE COMPOSED HER OWN EPITAPH (a.k.a. A Rather Bleak Cut-and-Stick Poem I Made to Stem off Boredom)

She composed her own epitaph
to 'Black Los Angeles'
before the judge,
that child,
used her rage to seize
the endless hours.


he says,
is art.
Compose and you
kill it.

BOTTOM OF THE ATTENDANCE SHEET (a.k.a. An Exaggeration of Things I've Actually Written as an Exam Invigilator)

Tom arrived five minutes into the exam -
he had no extra time.

Corin turned up half an hour late -

she had no pen, black or otherwise.

Rufus went to the toilet for fifteen minutes -

he came back with a limp.

Corin asked for a calculator -

she was doing the history paper.

Emma was called out of the exam -

the man said he was a teacher.

I stepped outside the room briefly -

noisy hallways - adults this time.

Corin tried to trip me up -

she still had her bag beside her.

They all finished ten minutes early.

BASEBALL VOWS (a.k.a. Marital Sentiment Corrupted or Chipped Away into Confusing Sports-Like Talk)

My daring,
Oh, my daring battercap,
you teak me every day.
Each wood is as sweat as
the leaps that deliver them.
You growl,
I growl.
Your hind,
your delegate paddle,
lay it in mine
and let's fend our feature,
our feature that shuts up and be earned
the spouting bubs we've become through
funding each other.