Gnomes on domes

 

Which Bins Go Out Tomorrow?

The evening falls on bins and doubt,

A weekly riddle to figure out.

Was last week blue, or was it green?

The council’s chart remains unseen.

I peer outside, the street half bare,

A few black lids are waiting there.

Old Mrs. Clarke has put hers out—

She’s usually right (though once, in doubt,

She mixed her glass with garden waste,

A scandal neighbours still can taste).

I check my app—it’s crashed again.

Recycling’s due? Or general bin?

The food caddy smells of quiet despair,

But dare I leave it sitting there?

A final scroll through Facebook threads:

“Green this week!” one local says.

Another swears it’s plastics’ turn—

I sigh, uncertain, lessons unlearned.

So out they go, the full parade,

In case I’ve guessed, in case I’ve strayed.

And when the lorry rumbles near,

I’ll watch, with pride—or mild fear—

To see which bin the crew select,

And pray, this time, I’ve got it correct.

GP Thomson

Ennui

 The hours drift by in dull, unyielding grey,

A listless sigh upon the weary air,

And nothing calls nor bids me look away.

The morning slumps into the long delay

Of afternoon, a weight I cannot bear—

The hours drift by in dull, unyielding grey.

The books lie closed, their words have nought to say,

Their stories stale, their meanings worn and bare,

And nothing calls nor bids me look away.

The world outside, though bright, is cold and fey,

Its voices lost in echoes of despair—

The hours drift by in dull, unyielding grey.

Desire and will like spectres fade away,

Dissolving in the hush of stagnant air,

And nothing calls nor bids me look away.

So life dissolves into this slow decay,

A silent curse, a half-remembered prayer—

The hours drift by in dull, unyielding grey,

And nothing calls nor bids me look away.

G.P.Thomson

Ode to the Jobby

In quiet moments, none can flee,

The call of nature’s destiny.

A humble jobby, small and round,

The porcelain chamber makes its sound.

From lavish feasts to simple fare,

We all must leave our offerings there.

A shared humanity, strange but true,

The act we all, in turn, must do.

The papers crisp, the flush profound,

The swirls of water spinning round.

And once it's done, a brief relief,

A jobby’s journey—oh, so brief!

Though seldom praised in verse or prose,

The jobby comes, the jobby goes.

So here’s a toast to what we leave,

A universal, sly reprieve.

G.P. Thomson

Close those eyes

Close those eyes

Go gently 

As stardust calls 

Fly my butterfly 

Fly 

Fly to the light 

The bright white light 

Beyond rainbow's end

Where purple and orange 

Intertwine

Dancing as echoes

  

Fly my butterfly 

Oh beautiful butterfly 

Fly

O’er hill and dale

To the void

Until you

Fly no more

Then

Fade

Fade slowly away 

In peace eternal

 

The words we dare not say

 The words we dare not say

The words we dare not utter

The feelings that are real

The thoughts we silently smother.