Always thought God's an odd bod
Untruths like hoofs stuck in a clod
Over us aloof just run roughshod
So don't give love above the nod
No proof where Angels ever trod
More encores from the laws of sod
Each church on a perch made a wad
Will besmirch then constantly prod
Tribal bible merch from God squad
Us all in the lurch bait on their rod
We're all just peas in the same pod
No merry on sherry on vicar's quad
Fickle like feather tickle of Ken Dodd
As through the strife of life we plod
Always been more rocker than mod
But still we are all carriers of the hod
As yes ultimately we're all on our tod
Because yes confess there is no God
It was bound to happen some day
Life somehow always turns out this way
If you haven't already heard the bitter news
Minnie 'n Mickey have checked into 'Last Breath Views'
They call the place a convalescent center
but you know it's for to die that mice enter
I'd like not to paint a picture so bleak
yet the Mouseketeers are circling the wagons this week
Annette Funicello, Dianne, and even Jimmy Dodd
seen 'em all actin' mighty k'vir and quite odd
So, if you'd like to wish M-'n-M a final goodbye
hustle on down to the 'Views' for one last cry
I am looking forward to a margarita tonight said my friend Ms. Jett.
She gave me a cagey wink, and I smiled, not having a reply yet.
What kind of a day could it have been? What kind of an ominous start?
It was 9:20 a.m. and she had not had her class yet; they were in art.
I wondered about her enthusiasm, thought it was a bit odd.
“Invite me too!” whispered another teacher, named Miss Dodd.
I lied and said we had no more room at our friendship table.
Miss Dodd is almost always angry, and this is no fable.
No one liked The Old Crone Nose she was simply so odd
Warned to stay away from her by our prissy mothers
Befriended by another woman Crazy Old Dodd
Now neither of them needed any of us others
Touch that screen
Touch that scream
Can you hear
Can't you hear
The women scream
It's the hand on the pussy
Of a beauty queen
So quiet
Does she purr
Beautiful machine
It's not a purr
Not a purr
It's a scream
I do here
I do hear
I am listening
I am
Dodd-Frankly my dear
He don't give a damn
This book contains the solving of the paradox.
It was found with keys and locks in a stone chamber.
The lid took an age to remove.
The text is very fine, high. Not human written.
Its language alien, translated into that of early Earth,
first civilization speech.
Its scribe, perhaps humorously,
describes itself as a bird.
Its plan to fly away once its task is done.
Scholars would admire it for its poetry only.
Attempt to locate its author in some pre-Biblical time,
somewhere in what became Sumeria.
Its first words I quote:
Book bird wrote. Begin.
From land crane cry, from oceans whale song,
wind and silence else.
Creation seems simple till the mind attends to itself,
considers the rope riddle, craves its untanglement.
My word path the paradox will present and solve.
In a hut on stilts, above marsh reed and water, I write.
It goes on so, for many pages.
The book is silence made solid.
It disturbs, excites, like thunder,
more searing to the soul than inferno's gate,
holds the fear of shoreless ocean,
when open, no secrets then.
Source: Philip Dodd, Myth Poems / Art on Myths & Fairy Tales FB.
the council had sub-contracted, to Beresford & Dodd,
the collection of rubbish in the street, and the workforce
had reacted, (badly);
now a week without an empty bin and it's smelly,
fly-blown breathing;
we knew the boss was Catholic, so us neighbours wrote
a "letter-prayer" and we called the TV in; they filmed
our pious throng, as we worked through our heavenly song;
" Beresford and Dodd, who take away the bins of the world
hear us!"
"Beresford and Dodd, who take away the bins of the world,
hear our prayer"
"Beresford and Dodd, who aren't taking any bins at all,
talk to the dam union!
"It is right and fitting!"
***************
so was it the prayer, or was it God, or TV gave the nod, to
Beresford and Dodd ?
well, we're really not that sure, but now the air is good!
thanks to the union, Beresford and Dodd.
I just can’t get to sleep
Am so tired that I could weep
Can’t get this poetry out of my head
I have to get up when I’d rather be in bed
The words go round and round and sleep evades me
I have to get up, write my poem, have a cup of tea
Then I stumble back into bed
Leaving my poems to be read
I am beginning to seriously wonder
If this poem writing lark is a massive blunder
Should be in bed in my ‘difannyous’ nightie*
If you saw me in it you’d think I was flighty
Instead I’m sitting on my sofa
Looking like a bog eyed gopher
Pen in hand and scribbling away
I see night turn into another day
* this phrase comes from the British Comedian Ken Dodd
the actual word being diaphanous
Will not go into what I really wear LOL J
Jan Allison
28th March 2014
"911, what is the emergency?"
"Police here. An accident at The Hill. Jack was hurt. Send the EMS immediately."
"EMS. May I help you?"
"911 here. There was an accident at The Hill. A man injured."
"EMS here. How bad was he hurt?
"911 here. I'll check with the police."
"911 here. Police, how bad was he hurt?"
"Police here. All I could get out of Jill was he fell down and broke his crown. I
didn't know we had Kings in this country."
"911. EMS here at the scene of the accident. There is no one here. Did the man
that called in give any more details?"
"911, here. No I'll check with the police, EMS."
"911 here. The police report they had a call reporting Dame Dodd was seen
practicing medicine without a license. They arrested her. Seems she was
applying vinegar and brown paper to the head of someone that fell down and
broke his crown. Sorry I couldn't be of any more help, EMS. 911 out."
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