No Matter (The Sock Song)

Williamleeone asked: “Have you seen my sock?”

I reply with the lyrics of a song I wrote a couple of years ago for a prompt, “Science”. I’ve never given it a chorus, and I’ll let the reader decide if it stands alone as a poem.

Matter doesn’t matter much to me
I’d rather look at stuff that I can’t see
And whilst this may seem like a paradox
It could explain what happened to my socks

Everything is in superposition
Neither here nor there until volition
And when you look it all snaps into place
Instead of hanging out in outer space

Nothing is the matter you might think
Your table, chairs, your cooker, kitchen sink
Empty space, mostly, all of that
Even you, your dog, your hamster, cat

Some days, when I choose to entertain
Assuming that my guests have half a brain
I’ll feed their minds with Schrödinger and Bohr
Until their fascination cries out, “More! More! More!”

And then I’ll pull out my best parlour game
Plancking – but it might not be the same
As lying down all flat like a beached whale
It’s similar, but on a smaller scale

Much, much smaller than the eye can see
But matter not, that’s how it’s meant to be
I do like thinking right outside the box
And it helps a little when I lose my socks
Yes, it helps a little when I lose my socks

Featured image: Me and the Poetic Moose busking at The Art House, 2013.

Disclaimer: I am not a scientist.


Braving the Shave

The time has come for me to do something I’ve always had a desire to do – I’m having my hair shaved off!

I’m also toying with the idea of having a henna tattoo on my head once the hair has gone! Watch this space!

I’m doing this for a very worthy cause; Macmillan Cancer Support.

If you’d like to support me, and, more importantly, Macmillan, a small donation to the cause would be marvellous, and my appreciation would know no bounds.

Donations can be made via my Brave the Shave profile page.

I’ll be writing and recording a commemorative song and a poem to go along with a video of the whole experience, which will be posted on YouTube and here, so you can see the result.

Please give generously – you know it makes sense. Thank you xxx


What could go wrong?

I have a gig on Saturday;
that’s only a few days away!
I’m supposed to be at my best.
Instead I’m getting rather stressed.
I have a raging cold sore on my lip,
so, if anybody has a good tip
for removal of said abomination
(which threatens world domination)
please now speak
or forever hold your peace.
(I’ve got an awful feeling that on the night
it’s going to steal the limelight!)
It’s an eyesore –
not the cold sore –
the spot just below my eye!
Ruby red it is – I daren’t cry,
I might make it worse.
Instead, I turn to verse.
(Taking extra care in my mind
not to be the least bit unkind)
A week ago, I felt (and looked) great.
I was excited – couldn’t wait
to serenade with my song.
Now I also have an ulcer on my tongue,
reminding me that I need to rest.
(You couldn’t make this up!)
Then there’s the dress.
It’s a little gingham number – size 10.
I bought it last year – well, it fit me then!
I’ve put on quite a bit of weight.
Oh dear, I’m going to look a state
with nappy pins holding me together;
and ribbons to complete the tether.
My character will look a fright,
but all will be well on the night.
It’s a good thing the act is comedy –
I could hardly be taken seriously!
I’m hoping my impediments
will detract from the evidence
that I haven’t been too good
at practising as much as I should

Wish me luck!

How I think I'll look
How I think I’ll look

Lyrics are not poetry

Poetry is boring me
I think I’ve lost my muse
There aren’t so very many
Words that you can use
To get across a feeling
To touch one deep inside
I used up one just yesterday
Today’s just wants to hide
Some poems are too fluffy
Others gone too quick
Others think they’re funny
And some just take the mick
I think I’ve gotten word blind
Each one looks like the next
With tones of sea and cloud and sky
And flowers oft bedecked
And then there’s the romantic ones
Filled up with words of love
I’m guilty as the next poet
I’ve writ all the above
I need to take a break, methinks
Besides, I’ve things to do
Like writing lyrics for silly songs
Could that be poetry, too?

LC, the Lonesome Cowgirl

LC, the lonesome cowgirl
She’s kinda deranged
LC, the lonesome cowgirl
She’s really pretty… strange

LC’s got herself a gig
For Independence Day
She’ll have you squealing like a pig
If you let her get her way

LC needs to write more words
And practise her geetar
Just three more lines (mostly absurd)
Is all she needs thus far

She’ll make you laugh, she’ll make you cry
She’ll have you shake with fear
But still you’ll love her all the while
She’s weird, but most sincere

She’ll sing her tale of tragedy
Regale you with her truth
Her dark and honest travesty
Is sure to raise the roof

LC, the lonesome cowgirl
Lost her horse or found a rope
She’s coming to a place near you
But is she ready? Nope!


LC’s Facebook page



I await a word…
or two – or, better –
Three is the magic number.
Four is too much to ask;
wherefore, I would respond,
as one would, with one.
Which one? Too telling.
Day to day, my one is two;
the dark, the light,
the me to you,
the me for you.
One, two, three, four,
five alive are we.
To be, or not to be, six, in two.
Can you see the rainbow?
Can you hear the music?
Can you feel the energy?
The pot of gold; the sands of time –
in harmony.