Dad's gone sailing.

Dad, where are you now?

I feel you near me,

Yet I know you cannot stay.

I hear you in the bird song,

'Good-bye-robi-bob' you say.

I see you in a Holy place,

That's kept so far away.

Sometimes I need to know,

So I look into my heart,

And there, I can always find you.

Traffic jam poem no. 5 (aka boiling the plum pudding poem with apologies to Banjo)

There is movement at the waistline for the lard is going round encasing every vital aspect of the girth. A chocolate here, a cup cake there, a simple honey sandwich and the ballooning, billowing blubber's given birth.

The chins look down in horror and the girls are far from pleased that this flab is taking residence down below. The hips shake in fear as does the wobbly rear; what happens if we really start to stow?

Only one thing for it then: a calorie controlled regime, to stop this bulge, this making of a beast. Don't you mean a regimen? And don't forget it's Christmas. It's the season for a celebration feast.

The consumption of the proteins, carbohydrates and the fats can absolutely not go on this way. Therefore and hence a diet starts with salad, beans and tofu and there's exercise on every single day.

Much running, rowing, biking and some weights to tone the build should halt that creeping number on the scale. This challenge must be met or else one's future's set to total transmutation into whale.

Traffic jam poem No. 4 (aka a farewell to my tortured syntax)

When I was at high school, my English teacher was one Reverend Alan Dale. One day, handing back a marked essay, he said, "Please stop torturing your syntax". I was a bit puzzled. I wasn't sure what he meant. It sounded as if I had done something very cruel.

I asked Dad about it and he said, "Well, Zimble, what he means is stop trying to fight the problem. Make what you say mean what you want it to say and keep it simple."

So here we are, twenty-something years later, with a little bit of remedial nonsense.

Oh, tortured syntax now it's time to go,
For years you've slowly sent me round the bend,
It's time for you to have the full heave ho,
No longer can you call yourself my friend.

I've twisted, turned and tweaked my words about,
My commas strafe the lines on every page,
I flip my phrases over, inside out,
Your machinations put me in a rage.

Who cares if Captain Kirk to boldly goes,
Some things a tortured syntax cannot save,
We need the prose to spark in molten flows,
Not plod like un-dead corpses to the grave.

So, tortured syntax leave this pen, be gone!
I've had you up to here for far too long!

Traffic Jam poem No 3. (aka eucalyptus oil inhalation verse)

I'b god a veby bad cold in deh head.
Id's so bad I'b dagen do bed.
My head's lige a melon.
My nose geebs on swellin'
I thig I'd be bedder off dead.
(Only joging)

Paracedamol's nod done a jod,
Egginacea's nod helbing a lod,
Berhabs I'll tage 'Plagebo',
Need lods of faith though,
Do helb me ged oud of my cod.

Well, the days have slipped away fast,
I'm starting to feel better at last,
No long slumber here,
As once was the fear,
(Only joking)
M'hooter just needs one more blast.

Traffic jam poem No 2. (aka 'back of the used envelope verse' or 'occasional insomnia rhyme')

I really love my flanny,
I really, really do,
It keeps me warm and cozy,
In a nice big plaid that's blue.

My friends all say it's daggy,
I say to them, says who,
When they tell me, take it off,
They haven't got a clue.

The lumberjacks are fine,
The footy fans are too,
For extra wintry weather,
Only blue plaid flannies do.

In the cold old days of autumn,
When May winds chill me through,
I really love my flanny,
I really, really do.

(Especially for Shado)

Traffic jam poem No. 1 (aka Zimble-ku) (28.4.06)

Vengeful clods make
Idiots fall, shake and rest
Save their souls.

Westward tide
Washes away last shadows.
Witching hour.

First sea swim
Salt on sundrenched skin
Summer surf

Funny at first
Always adding alliteration
Many buckles!