'Toadstools and Jam..'

Selected Poems

'Toadstools and Jam..' This current project will

be the first of Sullivan the Poet's collections of his poetry both written and conceived exclusively for children: The anticipated publishing date for which is likely to be in the latter part of 2012...

In the interim: Selected works, as they are created, will appear below in their turn and culminate in the eventual publication of the completed illustrated collection...

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When evening comes creeping, and children are sleeping,

A whole other world starts to stir;

With moths big as house cats and hedge pigs and dingbats,

And bugaboos covered with fur!

In plasticine clotheses and noses and toeses,

The model clay gnomes all appear;

With boxes of poxes they hides under rockses,

For brewing their toadstool juice beer...

Then when the moon rises, up high in the skieses,

And coconut mushrooms pop out;

The elf eating spiders with green goblin riders,

Come skitting and scuttling about!

Fat pimply hobgoblins run wobblin’ ‘n squabblin’,

And fright things! To see how they run;

House moggies and froggies and little hedgehoggies,

Chased all round the dark wood - for fun!

Until after midnight, all fierce in the starlight,

The troll and the ogre awakes;

To fill their fat bellies with small boys and jellies,

And little girls’ fingers and cakes.

All clompin’ and chompin’ and smelly feet stompin’,

They wallops and fartles and roars;

Around your house hustlin’ and rustlin’ and bustlin’,

To snuff at your windows and doors...

So when night comes creeping, and you should be sleeping,

The moon’s in the sky high and bright;

Stay under the covers ‘n close to your Mothers,

Or you’ll get a terrible fright!

For out in the darkness, not quite out of harkness,

Are noises you’d rather not hear;

As scaries and hairies and one legged fairies,

Draw daringly, scaringly near!

© Sullivan the Poet 2010

'Toadstools and Jam..'

The gnome Armstrong Siddely was endlessly tiddely,

and pitched in the stream twice a day;

With splish, splash and sploshes, and frog filled galoshes,

he’d waddle and wobble and sway.

The local elf service, ‘came frightfully nervice,

and banned the poor gnome from their store;

“Coz he”, They said after, amongst all the laughter,

“Left tadpools all over the floor!”

He tried several ruses, to get at their boozes,

disguising himself as a dwarf;

An angler, a mangler, a billy goat wrangler,

but still he got told to “Bog Orf!”

But not to be beaten, he took to his feet’n,

splish sploshed to the home brewing shop;

Wherein he bought pipin’ and stuff for fruit ripin’,

and stoppers for things that went “Pop!”

And then there were squeezers ‘n plungers ‘n tweezers,

an’ things that would make your feet laugh!

He bought loads of bottles, and signed on the dottles,

to have it hauled round to his gaff.

He cleared his back bedroom, that had lots of headroom,

and set to the task with a will;

Though when all assembled, it closely resembled,

a very large pixie dust mill.

He filled it with water, a pond and a quarter,

and bunged in some sugar and yeast;

Then toadstools and smoked ham, and three tubs of sloe jam,

fore lightin’ a fire neath the beast!

Til all started squeezin ‘n puffin ‘n wheezin’,

an’ startin’ the fart valve to parp;

It then started smokin’, ‘n chokin’, ‘n croakin’

‘n smelled like a six week old carp!

But ‘spite all the racket, and twice cause to smack it,

it rapidly started to brew;

And from a brass nozzle, shaped like a mole’s schnozzle,

‘fore long dripped a honey like dew.

With joy Armstrong walloped, and chortled and trolloped,

as slowly fell drips one by one;

‘Til there in the dimness, all full to the brimness,

his first jug of moonshine was done

When quick as a whippet, all eager to sip it,

he raised the stone jug to his lips;

Then he said a quick prayer, that he’d heard here ’n there,

and swallowed a couple of nips.

Though it looked nice and pure, it taste much like manure,

and shot down his throat like hot lead;

Where once in his belly it turned him to jelly,

‘fore shooting back up to his head.

It blew off his bonnet and bounced him upon it,

all head first and then on his bum;

He whistled and fartled, and fatally startled,

a passing pink hedge pig called ‘Plum’.

‘Fore off like a rocket, one foot in his pocket,

he cart wheeled all down the front hall;

Where gaspin’ ‘n raspin’, the little jug graspin’,

he ended up all in a sprawl.

An’ that’s where the real fun, ‘cause it sure wasn’t done,

in earnest would truly begin;

‘Cause Armstrong’s left sandal, had knocked off the candle,

that sat on the gnome’s violin.

It rolled and it trundled, and waxy wick bundled,

along the hall’s wax polished floor;

‘Til it and the potion, on count of its motion,

met up at the old oak front door.

First off there were flashes, then booms, bangs and crashes,

and p’raps the world’s first flying door;

It blew off his ‘taches, his shoes and eyelashes,

and made a huge hole in the floor!

When it sudden occurred, from sublime to absurd,

a prophet of imminent doom;

That while he’d been flippin’ the jug had been drippin’,

and left a trail back to his room.

Armstrong lay in the mire, with his trousers on fire,

and sighed as he watched it ignite;

Like a blue slimy trail from a fire breathing snail,

it sped down the hall and turned right.

The sound was ferocious, its volume precocious,

and whizzbangs like stars burst on high;

For where there was ceiling, the smoke cleared revealing,

a clear and unbroken blue sky.

Now Armstrong’s fine lodging, all but for the bodging,

looked just like a pound of black pud,

The stump it sat under, now blown quite asunder,

all spread over blackberry wood.

The blast brought imp dowsers, who put out his trousers,

and loaned him some wellington boots;

a nice fur winter coat, from a well meaning stoat

and two handsome tweedy brown suits.

And if he would follow, Fred fox knew a hollow,

beneath an old sycamore bole;

Sid weasel was selling, that might make a dwelling,

a bargain at three sacks of coal.

Now all of their kindness, had brung it to mindness,

just what of a puddin’ he’d been;

How his drunken capers, his scrapers, his japers,

had made such a terrible scene.

He swore there on the spot, he would not touch a jot,

a gobbet, a droplet, a sip;

No more never again, lest his cap fill with rain,

would booze touch his gnomish wee lip...

 © Sullivan the Poet 2011

'When Evening Comes Creeping..'

'Of Poets 'n Pirates..'

“Now come me ‘earties; gather round, all ‘ere in sight o’ Plymouth Sound,

an’ I shall tell ‘ee all a tale; O’ *Janner sons before the sail;

Be talk o’ pirates, poets too, black villains and their scurvy crew,

o’ Janners present; Janners past: an’ ancient mariners – Avast!”

O’ Cap’n Drake, ‘is fearful drum, what sets abeat – when perils come,

or wormy knaves set Devon’s shore, ‘to raise Drake’s ghost asail to war;

Tho ‘membered best as admiral bold, this Tavy boy, if truth be told,

as pirate, hawk and privateer, did plunder galleons there to ‘ere!

An’ Raleigh, born a Budleigh boy, set sail afore the mast – Ahoy!

To sail where none had set afores, explorin’ after unfound shores;

An’ in between a royal spy, with cloak ‘n dagger; Proper sly,

until ‘e ended up quite dead; When good Queen Bess chopped off ‘is ‘ead!

Or Taylor Coleridge, what a lad! Tho’ said by some to be quite mad,

from Ottery; Or so ‘tis said, where poettin’ did turn ‘is ‘ead;

Of Ancient Mariners’ he writ, and Kubla Khan; after a bit,

and countless other clever poes, before ‘e snuffed it; did compose.

 Sir Joshua Reynolds, Plympton bred, though short ‘n deaf did get ahead,

‘e painted Admirals, Lords and Kings, An’ fat old men with swords ‘n things;

And ladies in them great big frocks, or nowt but powdered wigs and socks,

be fat ones, thin ones, short or tall, our Janner Josh would paint ‘em all!

Remember Robert Falcon Scott? Explorer, sailor, did the lot,

a naval officer by trade, you’d think the lad would have it made;

But in ‘is ‘ead he had a thirst, to reach the southern pole the first,

an’ to ‘is credit how ‘e tried; but came in second, froze... And died.

 Ole Aggy Christie was a girl! She’d pen a tale yer toes to curl,

o’ shootins, stabbins, pois’nins too, in Cairo, Rome and Timbuktu;

Skulduggery of every shade, would colour all each masquerade,

but ‘Ercule always saved the day, and villains NEVER got away!

An’ them is but a ‘sorted few, o’ famous Janners old ‘n new,

though if or not be spoke of ‘ere, held all their native Devon dear;

Some as left an’ some as stayed, some the pen ‘n some the blade,

but baptised they in Dartmoor dew; They each and all be Janners true...

© Sullivan the Poet 2011

*Janner: Local colloquialism - Anyone born in Devon.

'McCafferty's Samidges..'

McCafferty’s samidges, inch thick with jamidges,

all topped off with honeycomb crunch;

Were all that McCafferty, just for a lafferty,

would eat breakfast dinner and lunch!

He wouldn’t eat hamidges, lambidges, spamidges,

or drink water, squash, pop or tea,

Just milk from their calferty, pints and a halferty,

at seven, six thirty and three!

McCafferty’s mumidges, smacked the lad’s bumidges,

and served him up steamed pud and fudge;

But wilful McCafferty, little riffrafferty,

no inch would that little lad budge!

With backside all numbidges, never one crumbidges,

was forced past that naughty boy’s lips;

As out spat McCafferty, like it were chafferty,

fish fingers and mushed peas and chips!

They tried early bedidges, clouts round the headidges,

and barred him from all of his treats;

Said father McCafferty, stiff as a stafferty,

“No football, no telly, no sweets!”

Mum made sandwich spreadidges, grilled cheese on breadidges,

tinned peaches and jam spread on toast;

But naughty McCafferty, said it was ‘nafferty’,

and almost as ‘yeuk’ as pot roast!

Til in the end Dadidges, sick of his fadidges,

let this little lad have his way;

And smug faced McCafferty, happy as dafferty,

ate jamidges three times a day!

But poor little ladidges, ever so sadidges,

grew HUGE and despite shrill appeals;

From plumptious McCafferty, ton and a halferty,

they roll him to school now on wheels...

© Sullivan the Poet 2011

'The Cat Lady..'

Hermione Handcart, sixty three, had horrid breath and one bad knee,

of seven husbands two were dead, the other five had up and fled;

But each left homes and pots of cash, and H possessed of quite a stash,

so now Hermione rented flats, and lived alone - with thirteen cats.

Three tabby toms and one black she, A Russian Blue she got for free,

an Abyssinian with big ears, a racing cat with eighteen gears;

The fattest ginger tom you’ve seen, a Siamese pair called ‘King’ and ‘Queen’,

a tortoiseshell with wonky knees and two grey strays with shocking fleas.

Her visitors were far and few, for fur and fleas and trays of poo,

abounded each and every room, within the claw scratched curtained gloom;

Where every cushion had a cat, and tabby toms wee’d in your hat,

or used your legs to sharpen claws, and yowled and screeched with bare a pause.

The ‘racing’ cat, she christened ‘Fizz’, around each room in turn would whizz,

at just head high across the walls, the loo, the kitchen, and the halls;

In search of heads left just so near; To passing, rake, about the ear,

just pausing once, on each third lap, to give the ginger tom a slap.

The tortoiseshell, three left, two right, would wobble, more or less upright,

‘fore bumping into legs of chairs, or pitching headlong down the stairs;

And catapulting from his bed, old big ears on the seventh tread,

as claws outstretched and knees awry, the tortoiseshell went bouncing by.

The Russian blue, a bolshy mog, who’d come off worse with fourteen’s dog,

sits glaring now beneath your seat, just darting out to bite your feet;

Or in the shadows lurks, all sly, with half a tail, one ear, one eye,

while ‘King’ and ‘Queen’ strut smug about; Or give the ginger tom, a clout.

The world’s best mouser, coal black she, would hide them under the settee,

along with squirrels, frogs and rats, and hedgehogs, slow worms, toads and bats;

With some deceased and others not, which out from ‘neath the settee shot,

the feral greys named ‘Pitch’ and ‘Patch, did nothing much but sit and scratch!

The post man left the mail next door, and swore she’d not make sixty four,

for when he’d popped the mail slot flap, a bunch of claws shot out the gap;

And there Hermione lived and died, with thirteen cats still by her side,

behind the purple painted door, upon the very topmost floor.

© Sullivan the Poet 2011

'Dinner Ladies..'

On the eight ten out of Hades,

come the demon dinner ladies,

in their pink and plastic pinnies,

short ones, tall ones, fat ones, thinnies;

Here to rouse you from your cradles,

with their white hot serving ladles,

roaches, rats and mad eyed batties,

cringing ‘neath their paper hatties.

In their kitchens, making jellies,

out of toads to burble bellies,

for the salads , snails and worm eggs,

Cornish pasties full of frogs legs;

Pounds of tripe, and cups of maggots,

sweaty socks to boil the faggots,

Spuds with eyes that watch you eating,

omelettes that give you a beating!

And for afters pots of custard,

stewed with slugs and lots of mustard,

Apples full of big fat weevils,

sure to give your tums upheavals;

‘nanas hiding ‘orrid spiders, 

just to run round your insiders,

Wrinkly grapes and rotten plumses,

shaped liked fat old ladies’ bumses.

Lurking ‘hind their serving hatches,

baking mouldy rolls in batches,

waiting for the midday rushes,

with their trays of hot brown mushes;

Steaming ladles at the ready,

poised to bong you round the heady!

And fill your plates with grub from Hell...

Did I just hear the lunch time bell?

© Sullivan the Poet 2011