What's new NanU?

FOREVER LOVE




I love my old runners
nothing is half as much fun as
putting them on
Oh! they fit better than a glove
i'm truly, madly, deeply in love
Everywhere they go, I go too,
Dublin Carlow Timbuktu,
joined at the heel we feel for each other,
not like brother and brother,
more like lover and lover.



Through thick and thin
they make me grin
snow or sun ,walk or run
we go our own way
near-to, or faraway
together forever,
parting? Never!
I'm keeping these
so please, please,please
don't ever let them fall in
to the needy greedy wheelie bin.








You say that they stink
that they pen and ink
but I could never think
such a thing, the joy they bring
smells only of roses
so block your noses
they are here to stay,
me and my runners going all the way
keep yer Bardots at bay
I wouldn't even swap for Birkin
It's not your leg I'd be jerkin
I'm not ferkin about
I'd throw her out
and run back to me runners
the ultimate stunners.



My feelings I cannot hide then
I love to slip inside them
So soft to the touch
I adore them so much
I'd lick them clean
only they've been
In The Palace Bar
their urinals by far
the leakiest I've seen

Instead I blow them a kiss
if they're covered in piss
ah life is such bliss
in my Gratis runners
all winters all summers
atumn and spring
they're just the right thing
for my size 9 feet
looking cosy and neat
im in leathery heaven
i'd buy another seven
pairs if I could
but they would
never be quite the same
you see
I'm a believer in monogomy
so this pair are the only pair,
the perfect pair for me.

Please don't let me be misunderstood.

I'm just an asshole whose intentions are good, oh Lord ,please don't let me be misunderstood!

Well, I've feckin done it now. Yes, drink was involved. I'll be here sunday 4 pm taliking to ace radio presenter Niamh Bagell on her final Sunday Scrapbook show and I'll be listening in to know WTF I said
http://www.liffeysoundfm.ie/live.html

Double bopple bop labofranco

Now you see, the thing is, is it? Yes! I guess. Anyway how could you be supposin what I'm proposin? The thing is. The real thing is that. 'That' is the real thing, not this, nor those, nor rhubarbstyillification. And anyway. Could it be. Is it, it?. Well know, or now?!

But mainly the thing is that it's time for another Poetry Bus prompt and tis funny for the prompt is never prompt, tis always late, due to me.
But buses are rarely on time. They are gloriously unreliable. Lord bless us , save us, and guide us from reliable prompt people and their regimented ways of measuring tapes and stopwatches and rain guages.
Enough is never less than sufficient and we are sufficiently ontime, though I must waffle on a bit to deter the half-heartedly sensible casual poetry traveller er er er um tiddly um pum tum.

Many glorious felicitudes to the multitudes that embarked on last weeks journey within, without the aid of breathing apparatus, beyond the afflatus of our own creative genius.

Brava, bravo, and alfa tango foxtrot, charlies gone and left the begonias in Kitty's, and so on and so forth of firth type thing. So!
This week, and forsooth verily the following week, tis the turn of intrepid scientist and bilingualist at leastish among other varied talentios tis the turn of NanU

who is a bubble gum, bubble blowing champion , capable of blowing a hot air balloon sized bubble from chewing 1016 packets of hubba bubba at once.This balloon sized strawberry flavoured behemoth actually floated NanU into outer space where she made contact with bubble gum loving aliens from the previously undiscovered planet Kashyyk,inhabited by wookies who loved chewing gum but only had Tobacco, hence the nickname of the most famous wookie,Chewbacca, who later went on to star in the hollyforest blockbuster 'Straw Woes'a film about a milkshake cafe that ran out of plastic straw supplies.

Terrorised at an early age by a horde of stampeding long haired guinea pigs Nan U sought revenge by becoming a scientist dedicated to using guinea pigs as, well, er, guinea pigs.

A keen amateur boxer NanU is lightweight, middle weight, flyweight, butterflyweight, bantam weight, wanton weight, put on weight, lets wait , wait a minute Mr Postman, golden glove champion for 3 years in a row row row your boat gently down the stream.

Get ye gone to her place to see what all the fuss is about. She'll be bravely driving for two whole weeks so be kind to her and mop her fevered brow.Being a clever scientist she has cleverly implanted the prompts into the right hand sidebar of her blog
HERE

EEjits short day of the Poetry Bus soul.

We're skating on thin ice,one world above , one below.Break the ice,down we dive to deeper and darker waters, we will not drown, deeper breathing in and out, inhale exhale,poetry is oxygen, ponder and think and delve and dwell deep within the chambers of ourselves for a little while.

More passengers welcome, see full prompt in previous post.Meanwhile across the globe breaths and chances have been taken and the dark muse kissed.

The early bird catches the bus, first up is...

a double whammy from Jeanne the ovaltiney
HERE and
HERE

Jules the Jewels is next
HERE

Rachel The Quick Brown Fox
HERE

Helen The Pleasure Dome
HERE

Feckin hell, complete caramel, it's Annell !
HERE

Izzy wizzy she's been busy
HERE

Kitty clay take it away bonkers Bagnell!
HERE

From Kitty to katy,breathtaking from EMERGING WRITER!
HERE

Dana the storm bug is cloudbustin
HERE

Karen's behind the curtains
HERE

Heather's sippin time
HERE

Can you keep Mairi's poetry secrets?
HERE

Have you bin enchanted by Chris?
HERE

The night puts a sock in it
HERE

Mr Kipling does make exceedingly good poems
HERE

Is it a bird, is it a plane? No! It's SUPERDAVE!
HERE


Ouch! OOh! Ughh! It's last gasp Canada Kat
HERE


For whom the bell curves, a pack of twenty from Titus
HERE

Bubba blesses us with a curse
HERE

Jinksy is stardust, she is golden, see her shine
HERE

Et en fin c'est Nuts pour fruits, je crois
HERE







And here's mine.


Dog day Sunday.

Rhythm yes,
harmony of sorts
a gospel choir of thoughts.
Life’s breath, yes,
but laboured, shallow, scarred.
I see, I hear, I fear,
full moons and jet planes,
darkness on the borders.

A beat, yes,
blood pumps
squeezed tight, tighter.
I tread these mind graves
softly, the hour short,
but not yet up, not yet out.
Life’s Clock ticks still,
perhaps Chances left,
extra time, injury time,
to fight fire with fire,
and live life, with love.

Behold, tis the Mighty Poetry Bus!

Beware the ides of March and the tides of turn, in fact it is (apparentlio) my turn to take a turn at drively the world famous, poteen powered pooetry bus, me own bleedin charabungle!
Iam currently thermally, as well as intellectually, challenged, and the main problem ( with only the onset spring as the affordable solution) is that the komputee is in the coldest room in the house.
Did you ever see The Poseidon Adventure where they had to take deep breaths before plunging into the watery stuff to emerge over the other side where they wanted to be? Well that's a bit what it's like going to the komputer- get wrapped up, take a deep breath of heat and head in and do what you can as quick as you can while your fingers and toes are still your own and not blackened and needing amputation.

And so and thus, and this is why I am blog-lite of late and not getting round as much as I should and ting. But anyways many profuse thanklos to Emergely writo what did the prompt last week so typically thoroughly and professionally, and artistically to boot.And also thanks a plenty to all who were good enough to get aboard and I hope I will read all the pomes ADAP or ASAP even.

So the brillo EW hands over the keys to moi, totalofeckloeejly.

TFE is a fig leaf of his own imagination, a three legged racer and demi god of milk jelly. He talks about himself in the third person as the other two are invariably asleep, or in prison. A love child of the 1930's TFE was the first person to walk on the moon without the aid of a pair of idioms. A precocious prodigy he produced a prodigious amount of poo and thanks to his time-travelling cot that he fashioned from rusks, used nappies, and pram wheels, could play Beethovens sixth before the fifth had even been written.
He attributes his nihilistic tendencies to being brought up by a marauding gang of marxist bank robbing beavers who adopted him as their spokesperson after being abandoned by his parents in Roches stores at the tender age of 36.He dreams of dreaming and delays falling asleep by getting up 3 hours before before he goes to bed. His ambition is to have an ambition.


And so to this weeks task. Write a poem. Don't think, just feel. Sit yourself down,stay quiet, find silence, concentrate on your breathing, feel your chest rise and fall, your heart beating, blood pumping.You are alive, so alive.Breathe in and breathe out,count those breaths, slowly look into your heart, your soul, how are you? Who are you? Are you happy/sad/ lost/ found/ confused/ certain.Are you where you hoped to be, do you know yourself? Are you who you were? Who might you yet be. Where might you be? Forget what your brain tells you that you know,and forget what your brain tells you to think, listen to your breath,tell me how you feel and why you feel it. How many breaths have you taken in this life? Think of them, focus on them. How many breaths are still to be taken? Disengage the brain and write from the heart.Close your eyes examine your breath, examine your life and feel!



A cool toon as a reward.Boy George looks like a giant toddler!

Poem for the Emerging BUs

Phil Daoust was right.

Minchin pretentious rhyme bitchin

With eyeshadow blue

I'd love to read that review

black eyeliner Barbie Doll Hairdo

dogmatic diatribe is such doggy doo

Look at his feet without a shoe.

A boorish bore

a polluted beach

should never preach

you're not a Sandy Shaw

Tim, Tim,Tim, it's such a sin, sin, sin,

you Think you know where it's at?

You, you, you, you,

Twat.

Emerging Poetry Bus

The worst organized weekly prompt returns.Resting on our arse but never our laurels...or our hardy's. Onwards we must go, haphazzard, rambling, ragged and irregular, for form and rules and regularity are for bowels and we all know what they produce.

So forget bowels , take your vowels and your constantinoples and fashion poems with your own bare hands. Unless you are a bear in which case use your own bear hands, or paws,to use the zoological term.

Last week saw an amazing prompt from, and an amazing response to, Jeanne.So a big thank you to her and all the stalwart diehards that braved the cold to clamber aboard.

this week/next week, type thing, tis the turn of Emerging Writer, Kate Winslett.
Kate is famous, not only for her record breaking ears (they can stretch right over her head) but also as an olympic gold medalist. A keen winter sportswoman she has competed in the last three winter olympics,winning gold in the luge,silver in the snowballing, and bronze in the brass monkey hurdling.She lives in a semi detached, 5 bedroom igloo on the outskirts of Carlow.

Her favourite foods are, caviar , smoked salmon,truffles, and paprika flavoured noodles from Aldi.A keen amateur neurosurgeon she likes to practice her skills on close family and friends,most of whom have survived, albeit in a slightly impaired manner.

A victim of a drive-by poetry reading, Kate has a horror of tweed jackets and small crowds.She likes to travel and has visited many exotic locations including Ballbriggan,Limerick Junction and Hounslow.Her dream holiday would be two weeks in a treetop house in kenya or Skegness. Slightly accident prone after a few drinks she once broke her arm in three places...The International Bar, McDaids and Slattery's.

So t5here you have it, now get ye gone to her wonderfully informative blog HERE

Jeanne's poetry bus.

Not just for auld lang syne

Don’t talk,

whatever you say-

say nothing.

The snakebitten poison of past,

a bone-eating cancer.

That past is still what it used to be,

the past made us,but

it does not rule us.

Past tense,

future bright.

Forget love, forget hate, forget past,

that’s another country

We must be go-aheads

No longer go-betweens

for loss and disruption

the veins of communication

the shot-up messenger

bearing false comforting plenitude.

We can sing a new way,

sing tomorrow’s song, today,

your hand in my hand,

for the future,

for this New Year,

for hope in your mind

and in mine,

for the promise of this newborn year,

no longer just singing by rote

for the sake of auld lang syne.

again!oofWe're bwartyfraeytxcsqz!

HAPPY NUDE YEAR TOUT LE MONDE!

Tis bus time encore, le premiere bus de la nouveau yearo. We are human turkeys stuffed with mince pies and booze so I'm getting jeanne to go past the bus stops to make us jog a bit and burn off a few calories.

Many thanks to Muse Swings for last weeks driving and to all who got aboard. Not sure that I've read them all yet as I've been too busy shoving food into my face and trying to drown in a vat of drink.

But that was last year, now i will be a lean mean fighting writing machine no food, no booze, no clothes, no breathing.

And to kick off the new year who better than Jeanne Iris Lakatos of Connecticut in Americaland.
A seasoned naturist Jeanne owns and runs Connecticuts oldest naturist grocery store and chapel. Licensed to sell vegetables and conduct naturist weddings Jeanne performs the sales and the ceremonies herself. I went along to one a few years ago with a relative that was getting married, some of the guests and the grooms brother were very late and I came within an inch of being The Best Man.

When not working in the store Jeanne likes to indulge in her passion for Inuit throat singing which she performs with a local Inuit skiffle group call the 'Igloo highwaymen' She learned the ancient art on a naturist expedition to the North Pole where she met an old woman who used create incredible music using just her vocal chords and the arse of a (dead) polar bear as a resonator.
Blessed with an inherant cosmic talent for communicating with birds of all kinds Jeanne is an ex (six time) world champion competitive duck herder. She has also successfully talked three armed gangster Magpies out of a hostage situation with a rich sparrow.

So there you have it. It's the Nude year, so get yer kit off , get over to Jeanne's place and write a poem. I bet you've never written one in the nip/starkers/birthdaysuited/butt naked, before.

HERE

Into 2011 and Still (the best but) the worst run blog prompt in the universe. Never fear peeps,You can rely on me to be unreliable.

Muse Swings The POetry Bus

THe last Poetry Busof 2010 and the worst physical present ever given to me was ...shoelaces! On my birthday. But what can you say about shoelaces that doesn't rhyme, chime,or be sublimely offputting for all things footing?

Shoelaces put me through my paces
they said more in the spaces
than the eyelets would allow
how?
Well,
Shoelaces caused me two faces one that cried 'How lovely'!
One that, well, just cried.
I've lied.
I didn't cry at all,
I loved them.



Well that was that and this is this, whatever this may be and it's this that I hope for...only better.


Past present

The greatest gift
The worst
Don’t give your love to me
I will break your heart
because despite the music
despite the stained velour
I could take your soul
but not your hand
180 degrees or 360
Centigrade or Celsius
There is no us, only me
I give fake, give lies , give
the glitterless prize,
Take hope destroy joy
The vainest of vices
I sense weakness
like all kissable
Incendiary devices
I’m going to blow up
In your face