The Random and the Nonsensical

This week my sister asked my three-year-old nephew what he’d like to dress-up as for Halloween; the obvious (and easy to purchase) answers would have been a ghost, a vampire or even a werewolf, but Josh (full of the randomness of youth) replied with: I’d like to be a parrot.

This ability to be random and nonsensical seems to be child’s play for children; it comes naturally, without effort, and has the power to make us older beings laugh. And for me, this is what some of the best children’s poetry does – it makes us smile and it shows to the children that read it that poetry can be silly and fun.

After searching my computer and flicking through the entire contents of my filing cabinet, I finally found a nonsensical poem that I wrote a few years ago. Therefore, I thought I would share it, and hopefully bring a little randomness to your Wednesday.

  

Poetry on Toast

It’s said poets are peculiar creatures

with a few distinctive features:

a pallid skin from lack of light,

enormous specs to fix bad sight.

They’re more elusive than a yeti

and make great sonnets with spaghetti.

I know this sounds a little odd,

but not as strange as purple cod.

Their page is lightly buttered toast;

lunch is the meal they love the most.

They find their letters in a can

and warm them in a frying pan.

They stir the thick tomato sauce,

pretend to be Inspector Morse.

Investigate the pan for clues

and down at least a dozen brews.

When bubbles start to form and pop,

they bounce like frogs, hoppity-hop.

They plonk the letters on the plate

and start to work at eager rate.

They find two As, a M, a P,

an O, an I, a broken T.

But missing Es disturb, distress

and leave the poet in a mess.

Without an E she is a pot

and every note becomes a not.

All bears are quickly turned to bars

who look at you with angry stars.

And soon all meaning slips away;

it’s packed its bags and gone astray.

It’s left the bread, it’s slammed the door.

It’s gone – the meaning is no more.

The poets soon begin to shout:

I’ve got nothing, zero, nowt.

And in great haste, and under strife,

they grab a fork, a spoon, a knife ...

They gobble words with great delight

then sneak away to think, to write.

Thank you for reading,
Lara