Wordflair Community of Poets and Writers
The Tortoise Who Saved the World
The tortoise who
saved the world
is a laid back kind of dude.
Hurry to do anything, no,
but if a plan is required, he’ll oblige
with thoughtful countenance;
quite the articulate hand, and prefers
to be addressed as “Shelley.”
You want to know who
WWII’s Enigma code,
and who first accurately predicted
global shell warming
on worldwide scales, hush,
I’ve probably said much too much.
Who do world leaders turn to
in times of undeniable crisis
when things get slowly out of hand?
Well, he doesn’t have a little
on a porpoisely made desk
When it flashes,
he’ll always pick up (eventually)
even while in the middle of eating
evening salad at the Savoy,
he has discerning tastes,
“A leaf a day keeps the carnivores away,”
as he is known to say
over a carrot juice or two.
The leaders have come to expect it
to ring a few times, but is the wait
'Pick up, goddamnit!'
I jotted this down while waiting,
and still the colonel refuses to greet that
‘Damn turtle wannabee’ as Shelley.
“You really must, sir, he likes it,”
- Assistant to the president.
Only Needs a Stamp
Mr Chas Jones of Comfort,
I write to you sir, regarding
your recently received letter.
The content of which was alarming.
Of the many snakes that squirmed
from its verbiage, know that they
were promptly set ablaze on my fire,
where they wriggled
like serpentine exclamation marks!
I also dealt more than adequately
with the odious gases, having read
such a spillage before on numerous
occasions from your evil tongue.
I can only add that the sixteen shillings
that you seen to think I owe you,
are merely a figment of your fever,
perhaps you’ve been overdoing things
on the fiction front?
Curse all you will sir but I’m going
to withdraw my subscription to
Reader’s Digest forthwith.
Damn you to hell, sir!
Ps. I did enjoy the story about the
“Tortoise who saved the world”, but felt
the pace a little laboured.
Yours, Ms E Pilkington (retired librarian)
Into the castle grounds
comes the courier
and the Dark Lord himself
tonight prevails, prevents
all messages from entering,
adding danger upon danger
and terror to the skies!
Onwards the white owl flies,
from rampart to icy rampart,
into the conjured snow,
back-turning malevolent winds,
how they measure
the determined beats
of his loyal, weathered,
pale outstretched wings.
These protected castle walls,
with broken ledges unlandable
and windows as slippery
as Slytherins turned red-faced
from rained counter charms;
so tossed once more to the
rump of the tower grounds.
Yet, some things do swerve
past the evil minded defenses
time after time again to be
repeated in cheered sentences,
qualities of hope, friendship,
fine feathers and
"You do exaggerate, Hedwig,
This is the Dursley's!"
coughed Harry shutting out the hail,
three groupie sparrows,
a robin interpreting every word,
two tawny teenage owls,
and a puffed-up boasting bird.
And to continue with this tale
of what safely did land
(I'm sure you understand)
a wet, Gryphindor owl,
and a soaked note from Ron,
carefully flattened to dry out entire
by an electric muggle fire.
Candice cat is a cat of means,
which often means
being extremely mean to mice,
and believe me the rodents
have learnt to steer well away,
even a tasty Irish cheddar
won’t tempt them, except in winter
when they draw straws
behind grandfather’s clock.
The ‘losers’ tossed nimbly into air
before reaching backdoor stair,
cries shushed with a brushing tail,
a fine whisker away from cheesed grail,
letting them think they’ve escaped,
but alas they never do;
Candice is just too accomplished.
She watches their eyes bulge
as paws slice heads deliberately
in 4/4 time of a conductor, leaving the ears
which are spat out black tobacco later,
a little sadistic streak her fur has,
it’s in the dark hair roots.
Candice prizes tinned sardines
with stiffened mice tails
instead of regular pull-rings,
and other ingenious feline things,
she listens to Mozart on the garden wall
when the neighbour plays piano,
with eyes half closed, all a purr,
claws practising timing.
Her lair is clothed with fragile bones,
wizened frogs’ legs, undigested kidneys
and other very strange business,
with an upturned plastic bowl
that presents, in pastel letters
“Candice, my sweet kitty.”
Every blade walked by,
a whisper caught in the fields.
Last night I thought
of trees framing a lost refuge,
leaves like circling hands, ensuring
all did not collapse away
to some imagined non-existence.
Grasses swam hush time around,
bent their fixed evening
my way, and then wild carpeted
in empathy once more.
a night scene leaned in from above
and openly listened; each star
an acknowledging blink.
Past times in nature nodded back,
quite stopped me in my tracks
and I had to walk from here to there.
Every blade walked by,
a whisper caught from the fields.
A Straight Line Has No Corners
Days lead into days
of straight ahead lines,
I am just an ordinary,
old schooled legionary
out of time with his world.
In a century imagined
I'd never see,
scarred from too many battles
they've alas crumbled,
given themselves unwillingly
to the sea, not wanting to be
rediscovered, "Carpe Diem"
thrown upon its head;
a plaque under the waves.
I've Viewed the statues
of the Gods and Goddesses
from sideline standpoints,
caught fish swimming through
their armless elbows,
necklaces of pearl, azure,
just precious weights
to submerge in transition.
There's emptiness within
those marble set features,
the missing limbs, chiseled lips,
from subtle to strong Roman noses
once so carefully formed,
now broken, askew;
as if that's what they always
On the new shoreline
you stood beside me, my love,
posed in their place, smiled.
Shook the old world from your hair
like Neptune's daughters
discarding tridents for a nets,
and it was no use denying,
we soldiers were captured
by a different pace, along a path
which really didn't matter
how direct it was.
You can't fight every war,
sometimes you just have to live.