WRITING STORIES
Writing stories comes,Very strange to me.
As does travelling too,
The strangest of lands.
Through portals opened,
Within my poet tree.
As my friend Dougie,
Once said to me.
There's a paucity of truth,
For anyone who sees.
Like the world of insects,
The Monastical fantastical
monks. Collecting;
pollen from flowers,
As well as from the trees.
Found on the legs of the
Bumble bee, At the
Odd and even hour.
For there marvellous
Magnificent bottles,
Of drinkable mead.
Oh to able to sip it,
From a buttercup flower.
They've had an uprising,
Boards written upon.
Or so we see;
For everyone to read,
( I'm a celibate bee,
Get me out of here).
I've been to pau city,
It wasn't very nice.
All they could afford to eat,
Was bake beans with there rice.
Found it was close to scare city,
A frightful place to be.
Think I'd rather be at home,
Than working like a bee.
As for myself,
when I get home to my house.
I'd rather be a anonamouse,
Then to be anonymous.
For all the world to see,
Living life inside and outside.
A portal I found in my mind,
Within my poet tree.
Poetry by Alan J Ripley
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Written on 2022-11-27 at 03:58
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