(Man walks, in poetic fashion, down a hill)
I’m new to this group, I like poetry.
Poetry, the people’s game, the art of words arranged nicely and a lot of other things, why bring it up, why in this day and age bring up poetry? Of all things, poetry? Who even reads poems anyway? Many people. Good, that’s that one out of the way. I am a poet amongst other things, those things being a general artist, film blogger and a wizard, Harry, and I feel poetry is still and will ever be one of art’s backbones. This is because of its nature as words, as language, a poem doesn’t lose value in any form if its words remain, only in translation and global languages are variations which keep it new and exciting to unravel. I may be wrong, and tell me if I am, but until then, this…
A nonsense poem:
(The Man With No Nose – Joshua K) –
was born two feet taller than most.
His nose never grew, not at all, not like you,
and his armpit hair curled from his toes.
Bizarrely, still nobody knows,
why the man was missing his nose.
Or why he lived in a box, at the end of a shoe,
on the beach at the start of his road.
He’d seventeen eyebrows, in a line down his back,
and a pet parakeet named ‘Sir Archibald Slack’.
Two doves in a glove, three worms on a rose
and none of these knew why he had not a nose.
He’d looked for answers in France,
asked them all in Nepal.
Found none finer in China,
none more sane than in Spain.
Sat with a man in Japan,
who’d worn rice paper clothes.
Yet, none could suppose, his lack of a nose.
Doctors and surgeons.
Sea-parents and urchins.
Nose makers and sailors.
A deaf record retailer.
And each of his quests had been
nought but a failure.
There’d been a few in Peru,
three fleas in Torquay,
(the dog they owned too)
and a talking TV.
But, nobody knew, why his face was askew.
Why his absent most nose, was there not to see.
Poor Humphrey Barnaby Rose,
who lived in a box, on the shore of a coast.
How did he smell? Like a man in a shoe,
who’d searched the whole world for his nose.