Scary Stuff
I remained crouched behind the bushes in the hope that they would leave soon,
A frisky breeze tugging at my hair, clouds smudging the face of the moon.
I could hear the sound of waves breaking on the rocks below the cliff face,
And the distant lights of a fog-bound coastal village could dimly trace.
“Still no signs of life,” I muttered to myself, somewhat impatiently,
And squinting at my wristwatch, I wondered how much longer they would be.
I tugged at the collar of my coat, drawing it up around my neck,
And on hearing what sounded like voices, slowly raised my head to check.
“Finally,” I thought to myself, body taut like a stretched rubber band,
For the icy night air had chilled me, and great danger lay near at hand.
I snatched at my backpack, torch in the other hand, preparing to go,
While keeping my eyes on the shadowy figures emerging below.
Shortly they made their way down a rock strewn path leaving the cave behind,
And leaving me to nervously wonder what a search of its bowels might find.
Once they reached the shoreline below, and a waiting boat (discreetly moored),
I hurriedly headed for the cave, where no doubt contraband was stored.
The entrance loomed forebodingly, and fearful thoughts flittered ’cross my mind,
Hence the further inside I ventured, the more often I glanced behind.
It seemed to meander for ages, and my fears became more intense,
And darkness that my torchlight pierced, became increasingly pea soup dense.
I was about to turn back when the light of my torch fell on a crate,
And then another, and another, begging me to investigate.
Worried about my dimming light, I quickly explored the smugglers’ haul,
’Till the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, for I’d heard someone call.
I darted behind a crate, stabbed at my torch, my heart pounding wildly,
Visions of a messy end heralding a highly strung symphony.
The voice was getting louder, closer — in fact, someone was calling me,
“Get up you lazy thing, you’ve been dreaming, it’s nearly quarter to three!”
By Lance Landall
Woosh!
Oh, you’re so mischievous, Maestro Wind, you really are, you create quite a stir,
And there are times when you take things too far, get carried away, unkindly err.
It’s one thing to tug at the washing and tangle it up, or to loosen the pegs,
But quite another to yank clothes right off, and to strengthen when, “No!” somebody begs.
You get terribly boisterous at times, we’d rather you settle down, be a breeze,
We’d rather see you waltzing pretty little flowers or slender branches in trees.
Yes, we don’t mind you rustling the leaves, rippling the grass, even swaying power lines,
But please, do we have to put up with all that moaning, and those irritating whines?
Quite frankly, you’re a tease, can’t seem to help yourself — I guess it comes naturally,
But hey, not when we’re having a picnic — it’s bad enough fending off flies, a bee.
And say, couldn’t you give us warning, not suddenly appear, or turn blustery?
And there’s no need to toss things about — that’s dangerous, acting unreasonably.
Yes, Maestro Wind, it’s about time you acted more moderately, less impishly,
Though it wouldn’t be so bad if it were just occasionally, infrequently.
But dear oh dear, you’re often bothering us, and as for those gales, they’re most unfair,
And so too, I must add, those annoying cuffs when I’ve combed and lacquered my hair.
By Lance Landall
Down Below
I say, little worm, what’s all these holes in my lawn? Are they yours?
Are you responsible? If so, you must have amazing jaws.
And given the amount, you’ve clearly been very, very busy,
Or could it be that you happen to have a large family?
You’re such a wriggly, squiggly thing — slimy too, actually,
And so devoid of features, which doesn’t help with poetry.
I hope you have a helmet, because I have to mow the grass,
And over the top of those holes will be making a low pass.
I’d watch out for those starlings too, lest they grab you with their beak,
For they often visit me, and wriggly little fat worms seek.
I guess they need their dinner, but I wouldn’t rush to their aid,
So keep your helmet on, and your head down, and act unafraid.
Pardon? Worms are good for one’s lawn? Then I’d hate to see you go,
Though it’s rare for me to see you, given you’re mostly down below.
It’s simply all those holes I’m seeing, and squiggly little mounds,
Yes, that underground activity that intrigues and confounds.
By Lance Landall
Smitten
The moment that I entered the room, I knew that she was the one for me, and my heart skipped more than a beat or two,
And when her gorgeous green eyes locked on mine, my poor heart thumped so eagerly that I was afraid of what it might do.
And when she strode my way, and her eyelashes fluttered beguilingly, I’m sure that I turned a sports car shade of red,
So grateful that all the lights were dimmed, and what on earth to say to her, running around like a greyhound in my head.
And when she cooed, “Hi,” in a way that had me melt like an ice-cream on a summer’s day, I stammered, “Yes,” in return,
And oh, deep down inside that furnace wildly being stoked within me, flames of love began to uncontrollably burn.
And politely ignoring my, “Yes,” though somewhat quizzically I thought, she attempted to make me feel quite at ease,
And all the while, amidst her chatting and my agreeing with everything she said, how I wished that her I could squeeze.
Oh, yes, she really had me smitten, and when next, together we were sitting, I just didn’t want the night to end,
And wildly hoped that she, (so innocently searching my awe struck eyes of blue), the rest of her life with me would spend.
And when she said that she’d see me again, and assured me that such she wanted too, oh boy, was I over the moon,
Excitement barely containable, and levitation almost obtainable, and I, dreaming of some honeymoon.
Well, as further agreed outings passed by, and I, still comatose on cloud nine, wedding bells began to ring-a-ling,
And
hence that day when locked in a cosy embrace, (just to keep her warm,
of course), when I popped the question and waved a ring.
And when she cried, “Yes!” (eyeing the eighteen karats), and yours truly hugged and kissed, I submitted more than willingly,
For the moment that I entered the room, I knew she was the one for me, and that a sparkling ring would help her such see.
By Lance Landall
Botheration
It seems that when summer appears, and the back door’s wide open, that blowflies think they’re being invited inside,
So in those blowflies come — as if on cue — when the truth of the matter is, that they’re all meant to stay outside.
And once inside, its seems they can’t remember where they came in, buzzing from room to room, agitatedly,
And should you be sitting quietly reading, they buzz you like kamikaze pilots, and mercilessly.
Well, given such strong provocation, frustration inevitably sees you swinging your arms here and there,
And in your hand a cushion, perhaps — anything! — they having succeeded in getting you out of your chair.
Swipes to the left, swipes to the right, and seemingly to no avail, though should you deliver a fatal blow,
In comes another — and yes, after you’ve settled back into your chair — for somehow these blowflies seem to know.
Maybe its body odour — I really don’t know — but for some reason they keep coming back to where you are,
And this, despite you conveying via your frenetic movements that you’re not saying welcome but au revoir.
I guess they can’t read sign language, nor understand modified English, not that one should curse or lose their cool,
For unintelligible words and bizarre body movements tend to suggest one’s either drunk or a fool.
Well, it could be worse, I guess, for though they’re indeed a bother, they’re hardly the same threat as a bumble bee,
Which, when it comes to open doors in summer, (though not as frequently), has the very same mentality.
And yes, some sort of directional flaw, or is it that they simply refuse to use the same open door,
That is, the door that they came through without so much as wiping their feet — another thing that one can’t ignore!
By Lance Landall
The continuing saga...
The Blowfly
Yes, the blowfly — oh, how it pesters, and I don’t know why — when I’m sitting reading or writing quietly;
That is, minding my own business, hot drink awaiting my slurping — and it buzzing round me insanely.
Oh, how it races around the room in maniacal fashion, no rhythm or rhyme to its manoeuvres,
And so inconveniently, rather than when I’m up and can do something about it, come when one hoovers.
When I'm up? Well, there’s often a cat on my lap!
Why they buzz about the room in such a fashion beats me, and who knows where blowflies get all that energy,
Oh, if only I could harness such, though I’m sure I’d wear myself out, as I do flailing maddeningly.
But often to no avail, they too fast for my cushion, (don’t tell the wife), or whatever else I can grab,
Which I guess provides some exercise, (looking on the bright side), and helps me to shed any unwanted flab.
Now, I’m not a violent man, lest such horrify, but there’s nothing more annoying than a fat blowfly,
One that refuses to settle to my advantage, causing frustration to intensify.
For until it is bid farewell, (one way or another), there’s just no returning to one’s former peace and rest,
Thanks to the intrusion of what can only be described as an infuriating maniacal guest!
Yes, the blowfly...did I just say guest?
By Lance Landall
