by Paul Whybrow
Climbing Trees
I'm a bit afraid of heights,
such as standing on a cliff,
or on the top of a tall building.
But I'm quite alright in an aeroplane,
though that's really high up—
having a comfy seat and a window helps.
I'm not that keen on ladders,
as they wobble and creak too much.
But I'm better with going up a hill
and looking down at a toy-world.
I don't see the point of climbing rope,
for there's nothing at the top.
What I really like is climbing trees.
Shinning up the trunk, be it shiny
and smooth, or rough and furrowed.
Reaching for the next branch,
straddling the big ones, dangling
my legs at the ground below.
It's like hugging a friend, clutching
onto a tree, as it holds my weight
safely, so strong and secure.
It's a different world up there,
a whole planet of greenery,
private, yet open to guests.
Birds, insects and animals all live there,
and other plants too—ferns and lichens,
mosses, ivy and creepers cling to their host.
While this little monkey-boy clambers
about, happy and thrilled just to be part
of something so big, secret, perfect and whole.
What's So Funny About That?
I'm just learning to tell jokes.
Remembering how they go is hard,
as they have to be in the right order,
and the punchline is important.
It's all about timing, my Dad says,
so I'm finding ways to pace myself,
watching people listening to me
as I tease the joke out, making them
think I'm going one way, concealing
the surprise at the end that leads to laughs.
This is called misdirection, my Dad says.
Magicians do it too, but in a different way.
It's nice to make people happy,
and they like you more afterwards,
which might help me quite a bit.
I'm not that popular, you see, a bit shy
and quiet, unless I pretend to be a joker.
Then they listen to me, are eager to hear
what I'll say next, hanging on my words.
But the joke has to be good, or they groan
in disappointment and turn away.
At least the bully's stopped hitting me,
as I make him laugh, so humour has its uses.
Children find different things funny to grown-ups.
We giggle at naughty things, and I suppose they do too.
I listen to their jokes when they drink at parties,
but I don't get what they're amused by.
"You'll understand when you're older",
my Dad says, and "you're not big enough yet."
It's something called 'Adult Humour',
so I guess I'll have to wait a while.
I'm busy enough now anyway.
I need to find some new jokes,
my old ones are worn-out from the telling.
Do you know any? I'm desperate….
Hiccups
My tummy is getting quite sore.
I've been hiccupping all morning.
Something 'went down the wrong way',
which is making my throat jump about.
I'm squeezing out silly noises,
that I really don't mean to make.
It makes people laugh—me too, a bit.
But I'm tired of jerking like a clot.
Is it my stomach that's wobbling,
or something rubbery in my middle?
It feels like I've got a trampoline
inside me, bouncing air up and out.
I've tried lots of cures that people
suggested, like they know what's what.
I've stood on my head, held my breath,
drunk a glass of water upside-down.
Recited the alphabet back-to-front,
been frightened by Mum going "boo!"
But I'm still doing frog-burps
and shaking like a jelly in a bowl.
Nothing works, I'll be like this forever.
Become famous for hiccuping the longest.
A silly freak who can't control themselves.
A hiccuping machine who can't turn themselves off.
What's that you say—I've got a big spot!?
Have I? Let me see—where's the mirror?
I'm miserable enough as it is….
I can't see anything—there's nothing there.
But look, I've stopped hiccuping!
My belly is quite still and I'm all calm.
You scared them away using embarrassment.
How clever of you—how did you know to do that?
Fibs & Lies
'The truth will protect you.'
Is what I was advised.
But it didn't protect me,
when I told my brother he was smelly!
I know not to tell lies,
for I'll get into trouble
when I'm found out.
I'm rubbish at it, anyway.
But there must be some way
of getting through life unhurt
from simply telling the truth.
Some people get upset by it.
I'm told to be more diplomatic,
to use a bit more tact with people.
Not just say the first thing which
comes into my mind, even if true.
Does everyone do this?
What's the difference between lies and fibs?
And what are 'white lies'?
Are there any other colours?
Is paying someone a compliment a way of lying,
especially if they don't deserve it?
Being polite is one thing,
but that might mean biting my tongue.
Advertising's confusing me,
for they sell things that don't work
as they promised on the commercial.
I feel like I've been fooled.
Actors are just pretending to be someone.
So, are they telling lies to everyone?
If I did that, I'd be in for a telling-off,
but they're famous, rich and well-liked.
I'm getting more and more confused.
Fibs and Lies are the way some things work.
What do you think about this sorry situation?
Go on, tell me the truth….
Big Black Birds
Ravens are the biggest,
huge, jet-black and historic.
They live at the Tower of London,
keeping our nation safe.
A pair live at my grandfather's farm.
Bosses of the coniferous wood,
flying out to chase trespassers off
from their air-space with loud 'kronks'.
Rooks build stick-nests high in trees,
named after themselves—rookeries.
They look like they're holding the tops
of the trees together, a part of the avenue.
Baggy pants around their legs and a bald
face that looks a bit pale and sad.
&nb
sp; Bluey-black rooks follow the red tractor,
hopping through furrows chasing the worms.
.
Crows are all over,ragged wings scraping
the sky here and there, from graveyards
to shopping centres, the clever crow
watches for chances to find food.
So bright and observant, black crow
remembers faces of people it hates.
Bossy, protective crow chases hawks
across the clouds, cawing and nagging.
Jackdaws are cheeky,keeping us company,
living on houses and hanging around.
Some live in our chimney, dropping
twigs in the fireplace. Chacking and chinking,
wheeling in squadrons to grassy places.
Hunting together, finding grubs in the soil.
Co-operative, coordinated teams of friends.
Pretty grey eyes watch us and themselves.
That's Rather Grim
That's rather grim,
What she did to 'im.
With an axe and knife,
She took 'is dear life.
Cut 'is head orf 'is neck,
Threw the rest orf the deck.
Stuck 'is bonce on the bow,
Her crew they went "Wow!"
Shaky Sally the Pirate Queen,
She's cruel, vicious and mean.
You'd better do what she orders,
You hairy unwashed marauders.
She'll make you walk the plank.
You'll be forever in the drink.
Food for the fishes, as your ship
Sails away to the sound of 'er whip.
Captain Sal, she's in charge of 'er men—
Bloater Bill, Dagger Dan, Salty Sven,
Rummy Reg, Flintlock Fred, Pepper Phil,
Knotty Ken, Tinpot Tim, Windy Will,
Cutlass Clive, Eye-Patch Edgar, Roper Ron,
Grogger Gary, Scrubby Sam, Jolly John,
Musket Mike, Netter Nick & Limpet Laurie—
She's 1st mate, do as she says or be sorry.
Pilchard Paul,'e's the one who lost 'is head.
Which is stuck on the prow, salt-splashed and dead.
'E shouldn't have been so naughty and cheeky,
For 'is noddle's now wrinkled and leaky.
Shaky Sal shouts a course, full of fierce hope
Edgar scans the horizon with brass telescope.
They're thieves on the sea, searching for plunder.
Clouds dark overhead, sailing ahead of the thunder.
Being Little Is Useful
I may be small,
but I have my uses.
Mum lifted me up to look
on top of the wardrobe
for something she'd lost.
My Dad's car keys fell down
the back of the sofa,
right under the cushions.
My flexible little arms
wriggled them out.
Big brother mocks me,
but needed my titchiness
to sneak into the school-office
to get his smart phone back,
while he distracted teacher.
I crept into the cinema,
ducking beneath the ticket-office
window, into the lobby,
on through to the show.
But I paid for an ice-cream.
Being young and petite
makes me a 'half'.
Cheaper to get into places,
as I don't take up much room.
Which makes me good value.
I don't really mind being
so dainty, though I try not
to look up people's nostrils
or under tables and work-tops.
Who wants to see what's stuck there?
Yeuk!
Something In The Dark
It's all black outside.
A completely dark night.
I can feel a breeze blowing,
Hear the leaves rattle above.
I don't want to move,
So stand stock-still,
For I know that I heard
Something BIG move nearby.
It must have heard me too,
For it's not moving either.
I wonder what it is?
Does it know what I am?
Which one of us will move first?
It won't be me, I know that.
But could it be sneaking
Closer and closer to me?
My torch batteries are quite flat,
I wish that I'd changed them—
I'm such a big twit.
So, I stand here and shiver
And strain to hear what's
Trying to hear me.
Perhaps I could run.
But in which direction?
I might run into a tree,
Fall off a steep cliff.
It would be on me
In a moment, and
Tear me apart.
At least I can't smell it.
Can it scent me though?
Animals can sense things
Humans cannot.
How long should I stand here?
Not until first light,
For then it would see me,
Ensuring my doom.
Perhaps I'll just sneak off.
Crawl quietly to freedom.
Back to my safe house,
Into my warm bed.
Oh, why did I come out
To wander so foolishly
Through places unseen?
Hang on, what's that?
Something's touching my foot.
I think I might scream.
It feels warm and rubbery.
It can't be….
It's my hot-water bottle.
This was all just a dream!
The End
About The Author
Paul Whybrow has a young head on old shoulders.
Ex many things, including being a teacher, counsellor,
librarian, dispatch-rider, milk-man, postman, bar man,
house renovator, classic vehicle restorer, courier,
van driver, factory worker, project manager,
live-in carer for the elderly, editor, photographer,
volunteer at a community centre, play-schemes,
homeless campaigns and nature conservation projects.
I wrote non-fiction magazine articles for ages,
but turned to creative writing in the summer of
2013. I've been my own boss for a long time,
which means I'm working for an idiot and the
pay is lousy—but the holidays are great.
Paul Whybrow has a good heart inside a battered chest.
* * *
Also by Paul Whybrow
Novellas
* A Man Out Walking His Dog—A tale of mistaken identity.
* Burpwallow Holler—Loyalty in post Civil War America.
* Quarry—A gangster becomes prey in a lethal reality TV show.
* Ghosting—How a lonely biologist finds peace with the ghosts of her life.
* Is It Her?—A new start is offered to a grieving widower.
* A Blue Tomorrow—Temptation and new beginnings on a farm.
* Hearts On Tour—Small town friends support one another.
* What Would I Do Without You?—A newly-single wife begins life again.
Short Stories
* The Moon Is Out Tonight—Two soul-mates separated by circums
tance.
* Due-Date—A soul in limbo is given a new job.
* Jacqui In Space—A 20th century explorer on 22nd century Mars.
* Over And Out—Things come to a head on a 50th wedding anniversary.
* In The Graveyard At Dawn—A boy and his dog among the graves.
* Soul-Swapping—Moving souls, a demon tries to get back to hell.
Song Lyrics
* 12 Country & Western Lyrics—hope, regret and seeing things as they are.
* 13 Kinds of Blue—trouble's your only friend, ain't it?
* A Dozen Pops—love in a bubble always goes pop.
* A Dozen Rocks—head down boogie along the highway.
* Box of Love—songs of love and hope.
* Howling For You—the sadness goes on and on.
Poetry
* Love Stages—Love affairs seen at different phases.
* Love Begins—The thrill of the new, the nervousness and delight.
* Love Ends—What do you do when things go wrong?
* Love Hopes—How would you like love to happen?
* Love Wishes—In an ideal world your affair would be like this...
* Nature's Ways—Aspects of the natural world, happy and sad.
* Modern Times—What it means to live in the 21st century.
* Old Age Navigation—Ageing stinks, but it beats the alternative.
* Darkness—Written from the endless night of the soul.
* Darkness Darkness—We all have our dark side—how's yours?
* Loneliness—The poverty of the soul, when you're alone.
* Solitariness—The richness of the soul, when you go solo.
* Poems To Ponder—Thoughtful and amusing poems for children.
* Witches' Knickers—Silly and nonsense poems for young readers.
* Hold Onto Yourself—Funny and warm poems for youngsters.
* What Do You Like?—9 Erotic Poems
* Building Story House—10 Poems on creating stories
* Lost Among The Words—10 Poems about Writing
* Friends And Other Confusions—10 Poems on liking others and yourself.
* Chasing Big 'O'—9 Erotic Poems
* Squeeze It—10 Poems on Creativity and Setbacks
* We Stop Ourselves—10 Poems on Creativity, Doubt and Self-Belief
* Love Scenes—10 Poems about love
* Free To Fly—10 poems on getting through
Novels
Coming soon:
* The Perfect Murderer—a novel about a serial killer, who makes no mistakes.
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* * *
Connect with the author
https://paulwhybrowblog.wordpress.com