So Spake Simple Simon
Is it right and proper to treat us fools so bad?
We are but simple souls, not completely mad.
This world is but a complex place full of traps and snares
That can catch us all out if we’re taken unawares
Even Kings and courtiers find themselves caught out
So, what chance do we have who know next to nought
We are so often laughed at as we try to understand
Why it is that others have all the wealth and land
And when we ask for twopence for to buy some food
We are told we’re stupid and we’re not doing any good
And when we would go fishing so very far from sea
We practice in a bucket. It made such sense to me
And as for seeking plums for to make some jam
Whilst I was a searching, I was chased by a ram
That landed me in thistles; not pleasant you’ll agree
All that was in the larder was dry bread for my tea.
I could go on for ever about injustice and ill use
How those who care not for others avoid the truth
Who only see the world through their selfish eyes
People who are less fortunate are those they despise.
The ovens sigh, the knives confess,
we season sin with gentleness.
Each soul, when carved, reveals a taste—
the butcher’s art, the baker’s waste.
The world’s our larder, stocked with schemes,
its saints are sweeter than they seem;
the sinners, tough—but well-marbled,
faith rendered down, ambition garbled.
O mercy, what a menu night!
The moon a lid, the stars alight—
each heart a roast of mortal heat,
each dream a spice too rare to eat.
So lift the cleaver, kiss the flame,
for hunger never dies of shame;
and whisper, as the bones release,
It isn’t m-rder—only peace.
:: 02.04.2026 ::
Feeling low best way to alter is kneeling at the altar of the Taco my romeo
Halter stealing TexMex slaughter dealing burrito or nacho cos ends with “O”
Clever clogs in boho vlogs falter say hey “Cilantro” but it is a herb so no
Yanks know tanks finest order for lothario or marauder's below the border
Crow say tally ho a true aficionado go gung-ho for mojo halo of Mexico
Mole is not a relic a culinary medic as holy as a cleric just like Pozole
Wholly done slowly not being hasty most things tasty ends in an “E”
Alright in the larder not from the Armada friends Guacamole or Tamale
“A” senorita might say forgot Enchilada and Quesadilla or Conchinita
Sages simmer sauces for ages so many stages as the flavour rages
The most pure for many I’m sure would quip the tip “al Pastor” Taco
Their cocoa gusto & avocado bravado so come on everyone go loco
Forget the crime.. sublime..prime chime once upon a time in Mexico
It's insane how vain they've been in the Bazball reign
Disdain campaign won't refrain restrain slain again
Won't explain just say we'll double down entertain
In the Bazball larder one ingredient just go harder
Their riposte we lost because we did well over train
Despaired repeat defeat flared cos were too prepared
Inane taking the pis* our abyss Aussie bliss... Bris Bane
Hunger
Not even a crumb in the bread bin
No trace of nice icing in the cake tin.
I looked in the larder
Dark, so I looked harder
Its shelves bare and empty no trace,
Its previous good food had left stains.
So where do I go to find something
My appetite crying to eat?
I could go in the garden and sit on its seat
And hopefully somehow some fragment
Of nourishment somewhere would fall.
A crow could fly over
With food for its young ones
And carelessly drop me a crust.
I’m glad my Redeemer
Never lets me go starving
Never lets me dry up in my soul.
It’s true that he sometimes sends feelings
That make me feel needy and thirsty
But always He’s waiting to give.
He knows my deep need
He knows how to feed
And somehow he’ll work in my soul.
Somehow he’ll make me feel hungry for Him
And prove to me there in my uttermost strife
That He, precious Jesus, my Jesus,
For me is the Bread of Life.
dressed for murder
Autumn leaves have made the track in the forest a wonder
to walk, the summer is over, and now the best time of the year beckons.
Stillness, a squirrel is busy collecting nuts; they have seen me before
and see no reason to stop their task.
A black snake scuttles across
the track and appears annoyed, like I should have disturbed
The natural order of things: snakes catch squirrels.
It was a serpent that ed up Adam and Eve`s dream of Paradise,
a small bungalow and a few pigs, was that too much to ask?
Up north, they kill seals, they eat our fish, so we kill them and women
They were beautiful coats, especially baby skin fur, but that is ok,
The sea is our larder.
The dragon was a cute little fellow
He was small and green and kind of mellow.
We had fun with him as he grew larger
Until he burned down our house and larder.
Then, the dragon was not cute any more.
The city quaked as he gave out his roar.
He burned then ate our gossiping neighbor,
No longer a pet but an invader.
So, if you find a lost baby dragon
You’d best be rid of it in some fashion.
Death constantly begs for a bit of you,
for just another small bite.
From the crib to the grave
death begs for morsels.
It is a house dog
its purpose
is to guard the larder.
Patched up limbs
get stronger then weaker,
bones get adjusted
to a back-and-forth
dismantling.
When life has drooled
out of its brain,
when the larder is almost empty,
then does it come
for one last can of worms.
It tastes awful,
but it loves you.
Death would be only a shadow
on an X-Ray
if it did not love you.
All that begging,
until at last, loyal death,
(your trustworthy companion),
clings weakly to its
selfless hunger.
In a city of crippled angels,
young boys laugh
as they throw stones
at a starving cur.
Dawn curls her lips shyly this foggy morning
Gone is the twinkling of her pearly white spring
Gone are the greedy songbirds herded away
Their perches now bare of whim and whimsy
Cherish your larder as does the ant who dances
Welcome warmheartedly all of Gravity's prances
He has furies of voids to fill, each moment anew
For the seeds that pull through with you, renew
Is it about time I turned a corner,
And mix with more friends and not be a loner.
Grow with confidence push myself harder,
Nourish my body with trips to the larder.
Walk with my dog who I call Dora,
She's a French bull dog your gonna adore her.
Fill my day with plenty of action,
It's a great motivator and a helpful distraction.
Feel better in myself and people would know,
I'm back to reality with a smile and a glow.
Not to forget a past life on pause,
3years of bad trauma the probable cause.
Bringing up the horrors I saw,
The death of my partner who I miss even more.
The mother of our son and a good one at that,
But it's the time missed with him and where his life's at.
We had so much to do,
And places to see,
Grow old together and cuddle with me.
So hard to forget and realise its no more ,
I love you so much and that love will just grow.
ODE TO MONEYLENDERS
Oh, what designs can one possess
Lending succour to those with naught
Such desperate need one must confess
And how hard one must have fought
When courtesy has no more currency
With those to whom one is indebted
And there is a sad loss of coherency
Then additional loans must be netted
Limited choices never were the best
Yet lenders all may seem attractive
In selecting just one from all the rest
One does have to be quite proactive
Yet each time, the first steps are easy
Later payments getting ever harder
Mounting dues can make one queasy
It can be hunger and an empty larder
Interest becomes the pound of flesh
With debts spiralling out of control
Raw need and sympathy never mesh
As timely repayment is ever the goal
Whether institutional or private loan
More than money may be involved
Property as capital soon sets the tone
And any timely exit is rarely solved
Pleasant outcomes appear quite rare
Borrowing is always a slippery slope
With risk of ending in a pit of despair
And yet for some, there is still hope
Alone and hungry
left leg aches like a broken peg
in the mugginess of its left slipper.
Not a good day for fixing anything
but the sealed and over salted,
the quickly warmed and spooned
that can be mixed into a taste-less medley
with other sundry comestibles.
The pantry,
(a recessed place with shelf-space),
is a dimly lit store for long kept canned products,
a once carelessly gathered and undated harvest,,
a compulsive cartload
that should never have been bought
opened, and cooked
in any company but strictly my own.
In that larder molders a canned fodder;
here anemic asparagus stalks wrapped in tin
are jammed together with diced jalapenos,
or glossily illustrated kidney beans.
Tomato and noodle soups are haphazardly piled
atop of various loosely defined
stewed meat offerings, including canned Spam
naturally.
After the so-called cooking
(more a revealing of a much mushed-up
mixture of misnamed contents),
I sit down with the steaming plate
allowing the metallic aroma to entice
peckish yet suspicious taste buds.
Fed now with the quickly chewed-over
I’m both glad and grateful
that this ten minute feast
can be wolfed down in so much less time.
A solitary child really,
Shotgun under arm,
Wandering the flood plains
On Billy Bulson’s farm,
Hammer uncocked,
Chamber free of charge
Enjoying the sensation
Of wandering at large.
Not shooting for pleasure
But out to fill the pot.
Today we could manage
With just what we’ve got,
Not getting any pleasure
From any single kill
Just hoping it was clean
And done with some skill
It’s an overcast morning
Sun fighting to break through
Grass wet underfoot from
A heavy morning dew.
It’s Saturday today so
I can take my pleasure
Walking these fields
Slowly at my leisure
Weapon broken barrelled
Now I’m back on the road
To ensure I’m complying with
The shooters safety code.
My next walk will be
Just a little bit harder,
Supplies are getting lower
In the family larder.
Any Weekday morning
I’d be in a bit of a rush
Racing up Church Lane
To catch my school bus,
Part of my double life that
Brings me so much joy,
Village country bumpkin and
City Grammar School boy.
The snow was fierce that weekend
It never let up, kept falling and falling
The drifts were getting higher and higher
The wind chill was getting lower and lower
It was brutal outside, wasn’t it?
Mama rabbit did not mind
They had plenty of carrots and lettuce in the larder
She had put them up in Mason jars the summer before
Anticipating this kind of winter
She read the Farmer’s Almanac, didn’t she?
The baby bunnies were getting older now
They would soon want burrows of their own
She was knitting them February blankets
With giant red hearts, for she loved Valentine’s Day
And Woman’s Day which she was reading as she knitted.
She was a multi-tasker, wasn’t she?
He blunders around grocery stores.
Impulse buying - compelling.
Back home
he looks at the bagged,
wonders why,
wonders
if he will also charge around
tomorrow.
The larder, the pantry
the stacked cans
of all kinds of Spam
gleam untouched
but one day -
you never know.
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