Grace became the nanny for
  A family in Kerry;
A mansion near Killarney where
  The granny lived on sherry.

The parents led chaotic lives
  That threatened to unravel.
The unrelieved upheaval came
  From constant foreign travel,

Busy sealing business deals
  Or sailing seas on yachts,
Getting tangled up in nets
  And complicated plots.

The kids ran wild with Grace, whose nerves
  Were frayed around the edges.
Sam and Sue put keys in cakes,
  Or so the cook alleges.

They'd try their best to leave a room
  Arranged in disarray,
While Grace despaired, but all would change
  As brunch began one day.

The plethora of crackers placed
  Upon the silver platter
Were swiftly aimed at Grace's face
  And thrown with feeling at her.

Something snapped inside her head.
  Her fury overflowed.
A dark, forbidding mood impaired
  Her caring nanny mode.

She started throwing bread at them.
  She only lost their trust
When she threw wholemeal bread without
  Removing all the crust,

So they threw jam and Parma ham
  And Parmesan, ungrated.
At times like these, when armed with cheese,
  They're frequently elated.

They'll improvise and try to use
  All weapons within reach.
Sam threw shells and batteries
  He'd gathered on the beach.

Grace fought back by throwing books
  And magazines left scattered.
She looked at all the titles though
  Their contents hardly mattered.

The war went on till lunch was served.
  They stopped for soup and salad,
A time for trauma-laden troops
  To sing a mournful ballad.

When they surveyed the mess they'd made
  They felt both pride and shock.
Even Gran had fled to hide
  In her grandfather clock.

Carpets, curtains, rugs and walls
  Were scarred by shards of cake.
They'd smashed to bits the priceless vase
  They dearly hoped was fake.

Chairs had suffered injuries.
  They'd soon be amputees.
They'd have to get new wooden legs
  But they'd get used to these.

Sam and Sue agreed with Grace
  When she proposed a truce.
She cursed the crackers and the force
  Of madness they let loose.

They signed their names to seal the peace,
  The first accord of many.
They promised they'd forget the fight
  And blame the mess on Granny.

Many weeks went by before
  She exited the clock.
Inside she'd found some diamonds and
  A terrier called Jock.

(Another change: I'll be updating this site every three weeks from now on).

I've decided to update this site once every two weeks instead of every week.

Benjamin's bed was a massive four-poster
With just enough room for himself and his toaster,
His microwave oven, his block of blue cheese,
His stock of black treacle and green herbal teas,

Stacks of rice biscuits and fresh macaroons,
Boxes with numerous knives, forks and spoons,
Packets of sugar and bowls of molasses,
Cupboards to store his fine china and glasses,

Small tins of tuna and bags of sultanas,
Baskets with ample supplies of bananas,
Bottles of sweet maple syrup in crates,
Flapjacks and pancakes on thin paper plates,

A suitcase with cake tins and moulds used for jelly,
Salad and coleslaw from his local deli,
Mushrooms from his uncle Sean's latest crop,
And cheesecake with cream and a cherry on top.

There wasn't much hope that he'd ever get thinner
When breakfast in bed lingered on until dinner.
Whole days would tend to blend into one meal.
He'd find himself eating his porridge with veal.

Cornflakes were mixed with homemade mayonnaise,
Along with linguini on some rainy days.
But he vowed to eat with his loved ones instead
As he had a sad Christmas dinner in bed.

He did a good job at transforming his life.
He now cooks for his seven kids and his wife.
They're glad that he's now nearly always awake,
But they're sick of eating his broccoli cake.

The setting sun adorned the bay
And gentle winds were westerly.
Mr. Moran called to say
That Esther was requesting me.

I'd only known her for a week.
In Flora's quiet cafe she spoke
To compliment my strong mystique,
An aura kindled by my cloak.

She joined me for a cup of tea
And some of Flora's carrot cake.
We spoke about the bourgeoisie
And poetry by William Blake.

Before I left to flaunt my pose
And walk my aura by the sea,
I said I'd help her weave the prose
To tell a tale she had to free,

A story trapped inside her mind,
To feed her readers fine rewards,
Like cheddar fed to those who've dined
On fodder sliced with bloody swords.

She said she'd wait until she felt
Her words could flow in streams that swell,
A mental thaw when snowfalls melt
And feed the streams where salmon dwell.

She'd summon me to her abode.
When Mr. Moran called I went
And heard the words that thawed and flowed
To flood an empty document.

I typed as she described the scene:
Lovers lost in morning mist.
I thought it sounded saccharine
Until her tale threw up a twist.

This couple were two apple trees
Who shook their leaves to speak in sound,
Though both of them knew Portuguese.
Their roots spoke German underground.

Esther claimed to be the child
Of these two trees with tender souls,
Who danced when autumn winds were wild
And used their fruit to play lawn bowls.

She'll stand for weeks on orchard paths
And she'll retain a blissful stare
When Frisbees, balls and frightened cats
Get stuck in her amazing hair.