In a land of whimsy and tail-wagging glee,
A puzzled pup chased his tail with pure glee,
Round and round he spun in circular delight,
His fur in a tangle, oh what a sight!
Barking and yelping with laughter so grand,
Trying to catch that elusive tail with his paw in hand,
But alas, it slipped away with a mischievous twist,
Leaving the pup in a dizzying, tail-chasing bliss!
Hello Mr Robinson.
Hello Mr Cutler
have a cup of tea
then
we’ll look at Mrs Robinson
who’s lying dead
next door.
(the next day)
Hello Mrs Robinson.
Hello Mr Cutler
have a cup of tea —
sorry about yesterday.
In a land of whimsy the verbs they did prance,
Conjugating merrily in a wild dance.
The past, present, and future entwined,
Creating chaos in the grammar of their mind.
Irregulars and regulars all in a mix,
Twisting and turning linguistic tricks.
Subject and object in a tangled orgy,
Their journey through time as erratic as can be.
In the end, agreement was reached on their fate,
As the verbs settled down in their conjugate state.
I always loved the lyrics of Inside by Stiltskin. Complete nonsense, but they make a strange kind of sense.
Swing low In a dark glass hour
You turn and cower
See it turn to dust
Move on a stone dark night
We take to flight
Snowfall turns to rust
Seam in a fusing mine
Like a nursing rhyme
Fat man starts to fall
Here in a hostile place
I hear your face start to call
And if you think
That I've been losing my way
That's because I'm slightly blinded
And if you think
That I don't make too much sense
That's because I'm broken minded
Don't keep it...
Inside
If you believe it
Don't keep it all inside
Strong words
In a ganges sky
I have to lie
Shadows move in pairs
Ring out from a bruised postcard
In the shooting yard
Looking through the tears
Out of a black slate time
We move in line
But never reach an end
Fall in a long stray town
As the ice comes down
River starts to bend
And if you think
That I've been losing my way
That's because I'm slightly blinded
And if you think
That I don't make too much sense
That's because I'm broken minded
Don't keep it...
Inside
If you believe it
Don't keep it all inside.
This might not be nonsense, but I wanted to share it anyway.
In springtime when the flowers bloom,
The bees dance in the afternoon.
Their buzzing hum fills the air,
As daisies sprout without a care.
The sun shines bright, the sky so clear,
Butterflies flutter, spreading cheer.
The trees sway gently in the breeze,
As squirrels frolic among the leaves.
Rainbows appear after the showers,
Bringing joy to all the flowers.
The birds chirp a melodious song,
Welcoming spring all day long.
The world awakens, bursting with life,
Amidst the beauty, free from strife.
And so we revel in this season,
Where magic lies in every reason.
Oh, spring, we cherish your embrace,
For in your arms, we find grace.
I ate
a zetato.
It tastes
like potato.
But sharp
as a vrabbage.
Set a monument for me,
built of sugar, in the sea.
It will melt, of course, and make
briefly a sweet-water lake;
meanwhile, fishes by the score
take surprised a sip or more.
They, in various ports, will then
be, in turn, consumed by men.
This way I will join the chain
of humanity again,
while, were I of stone or steel,
just some pigeon ungenteel,
or perhaps a Ph.D.
would discharge his wit on me.
The wind was rough
And cold and blough,
She kept her hands within her mough.
It chill’d her through,
Her nose grough blough
And still the squall the faster flough.
And yet although
There was nough snough,
The weather was a cruel fough.
It made her cough —
Pray do not scough! —
She coughed until her hat blew ough.
Ah, you may laugh,
You silly caugh!
I’d like to beat you with my staugh.
Her hat she caught,
And saught and faught
To put it on and tie it taught.
Try as she might
To fix it tight
Again it flew off like a kight,
Away up high
Into the skigh.
The poor girl sat her down to crigh.
She cried till eight
P.M., so leight!
Then home she went at a greight reight.
Oh that my lungs could bleat like buttered peas;
But bleating of my lungs hath caught the itch,
And are as mangy as the Irish seas
That offer wary windmills to the rich.
I grant that rainbows being lulled asleep,
Snort like a woodknife in a lady’s eyes;
Which makes her grieve to see a pudding creep,
For creeping puddings only please the wise.
Not that a hard-roed herring should presume
To swing a tithe-pig in a catskin purse;
For fear the hailstones which did fall at Rome,
By lessening of the fault should make it worse.
For ’tis most certain winter woolsacks grow
From geese to swans if men could keep them so,
Till that the sheep-shorn planets gave the hint
To pickle pancakes in Geneva print.
Some men there were that did suppose the skie
Was made of carbonadoed antidotes;
But my opinion is, a whale’s left eye,
Need not be coined all King Harry groats.
The reason’s plain, for Charon’s western barge
Running a tilt at the subjunctive mood,
Beckoned to Bednal Green, and gave him charge
To fasten padlocks with Antarctic food.
The end will be the millponds must be laded,
To fish for white pots in a country dance;
So they that suffered wrong and were upbraided
Shall be made friends in a left-handed trance.
It was a fine October morning
In April last July
The Sun lay thick upon the ground
The Snow shone in the Sky
The flowers were sweetly singing
The Birds were in full bloom
When I went down the celler
To sweep the upstairs room
The time was Tuesday morning
On Wednesday just at night
I saw ten thousand miles away
A house just out of sight
The doors they opened inwards
The front was at the back
And it stood alone between two others
And it was whitewashed black
I'm Joan, an English grad from Manchester, UK.
I fell in love with nonsense poetry when I read The Owl and the Pussycat by Edward Lear and have been trying to write nonsense myself every since.
This is my little space dedicated to the art of nonsense and poetry and nonsense poetry.
I'll try to share some nonsense every week. One day I might subject you to some of my own.