Cliches are boring to hear
Like, why is that spoon in your ear?
We must make things new
Or give a fresh view.
I will stir my tea now,with a spear.
My father kept spoons in his hat
For often he wore a wool cap.
When Ma wanted teaspoons
He told her he’d resume
When all of the spoons were quite flat
Your love is a rose,I am sure
But why not use a new type of flower?
My love is a frog
We sing in a bog.
Then we sing once again on the hour.
cliché
Line breaks: cli¦ché
Pronunciation: /ˈkliːʃeɪ/
1.1A very predictable or unoriginal thing or person:each building is a mishmash of tired clichés you’re a walking cliché
2Printing , chiefly British A stereotype or elect
Mid 19th century: French, past participle (used as a noun) of clicher ‘to stereotype’.
Love shines from your eyes
and makes your face
so beautiful.
Smile has a rare beauty
Like a foreign flower
transported into a bare garden.
Though it’s winter
it’s summer in my heart
as I lose myself
in the colour
of the sea within you
Birds,unlike humans, can fly across the barriers
Avoid the checkpoints,need no identity papers, permits
Or gold star.
Brothers,why were you separated?
Why could Palestine not be left as one
where ,as in Andalucia before the madness
of Inquisition,you lived together 500 years of peace
Until Christian conformity and suspicion
Tormented and killed you both?
It is we you should be fighting against
Not each other
Are you our own Roman Games?
You ,in the Arena we watch on our screens
We can turn them off but you,brothers and sisters,
are still there.And your children.
What remains for any of us?
logorrhea log-uh-RI-uh, n an excessive flow of words, prolixity [Gr logos word + roia flow, stream]
We assume that words are used to communicate but when we are with someone who never stops talking we realise it is not communication in the usual sense..Usually there is an interchange,a sharing of thoughts but I knew one person who drowned one in her words.I believe then it is,ironically, a way of keeping people at a distance.I found it wearing.
Have you ever met loghorrea?
Which is rather like diarrhea.
It’s a long stream of words
With no end ,till absurd.
So if you have it then please keep well clear.
It may be a type of desperation;
An error in fruitful communication
A fundamental disorder;
A horse with no ride
Alas,utter demonisation.
We try to forget those who harm
With words which cause us alarm..
For it rankles within,
May even cause sin.
Like a snake which may bite or may charm.
A festering wound must be cleaned
The poison is otherwise a fiend.
The cut may give pain,
But while pus remains
Septicaemia lurks unredeemed.
And as with the body,the soul
Poison will spoil thus the whole.
We must loosen our hold;
Our resentments unfold.
To perceive all, we must become bold
.
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The New Yotker
Don Risotto
Dead on the Nail
Far From the Shabby Cloud.
Oliver wished.
Anne of Green Fables
Pilgrims’ Coatless
Robinson’s views are?
Gulliver Unravels
Tom Moans
Do you miss/kiss her?
Trysts with Brandy
The Quorum
Lemma
Frank with Wine.
The Green Light.
The Bed on the Screen.
The Life of Bath.
Where Angels Fear to Wed.
Not Anger,Abby.
In The Middle Grease.
England’s Rabid
I was un-ready for anything,
with no charms, like a bee.
Each fresh day is torture..
When you don’t hate me.
I was as tame as a mango,
I was alright in my mind.
Each night was a daydream
Where you were so kind.
I was harmed by your molars.
They were sharper than whales.
Each claw brought the moon out.
As you cut your nails.
Rolling stones gathered
Your heart is not mine.
I’ll give you what you wish for.
It ‘s a half true design .
.
As long as the clock speaks
As long as the rose.
As long as the bike pumps..
I’ll remember your nose.
As long as my patterns;
As brief as they are;
As long as my brain’s dead…
I shall parsnip a star.
I love a good proverb.
I love no cliches.
When you find some Wisdom
Do not never pay.
Justice long as a ruler,
Sharpened to a screw.
When you are more kind,then
I may leak what I brew
.
As long as the flat Earth
As wise as it’s broad.
The moon in the water
Heard the crow caw.
Please hear my tall story
Sing with my cello.
I may fail at the Wife Class
But I can still say,Oh,no!
I went to the Church belle,
And asked for a clue.
The finger on the dial
Keeps pointing at you.
How my heart sings 