[Familiar to any gardener?]
Mildew on spiraea,
Weevil ‘neath the vine.
Gardeners, surrender!
You can’t have these.
They’re mine.
Mildew on spiraea,
Weevil ‘neath the vine.
Gardeners, surrender!
You can’t have these.
They’re mine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE MUSE OF GEOFFREY CHAUCER
[Well, he might have chosen French ... ]
From a window in Heaven a small inky man
Looked down through six hundred years,
And he sighed as he scratched at his straggling beard,
While his eyes showed a glitter of tears.
“When first I began to write my tall Tales,
I studied the fine English verbiage,
And ‘twas then that I found a beautiful sound
From the peasantry through to the Baronage!
From the old to the young, they all spoke the fine tongue,
From serfdom right up to the leaders -
Neither Saxon nor Pict - I would never inflict
Such barbarous tongues on my readers!
But alas! “ And he sighed, his heart like to break -
“Hark now what has become of us since?
My dear English is mangled, its grammar entangled:
I weep and I wail and I wince!
Had I known when I wrote my wise, whimsy Tales
Of the horrid corruptions through England and Wales,
Through Scotland and Ireland, so-called British Isles
Which have brought me these tears, with no thought of smiles
Why, if I could re-write them, my beautiful stories,
No more would I leave them to crude English mores.
No, instead I would write, though ‘twould be a sad wrench,
My Canterbury Tales all in fine NORMAN FRENCH!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From a window in Heaven a small inky man
Looked down through six hundred years,
And he sighed as he scratched at his straggling beard,
While his eyes showed a glitter of tears.
“When first I began to write my tall Tales,
I studied the fine English verbiage,
And ‘twas then that I found a beautiful sound
From the peasantry through to the Baronage!
From the old to the young, they all spoke the fine tongue,
From serfdom right up to the leaders -
Neither Saxon nor Pict - I would never inflict
Such barbarous tongues on my readers!
But alas! “ And he sighed, his heart like to break -
“Hark now what has become of us since?
My dear English is mangled, its grammar entangled:
I weep and I wail and I wince!
Had I known when I wrote my wise, whimsy Tales
Of the horrid corruptions through England and Wales,
Through Scotland and Ireland, so-called British Isles
Which have brought me these tears, with no thought of smiles
Why, if I could re-write them, my beautiful stories,
No more would I leave them to crude English mores.
No, instead I would write, though ‘twould be a sad wrench,
My Canterbury Tales all in fine NORMAN FRENCH!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
LITTLE GALILEE DREAM
[A memory of a real sail over
the real Sea of Galilee]
In a little dream, in a little boat
I sailed over Galilee,
And homespun men in homespun garb,
They smiled and they talked with me.
I helped them to tend their heavy nets,
And I asked why they spoke so low:
They hushed me - their Master slept sound on the deck,
“For the crowds have tired Him so!”
The setting sun shone a golden light
Over Galilee’s rippling sea,
And the low shore gleamed and to me it seemed
This was where I sought to be.
The little boat approached the shore,
And my dream, alas, was done,
I woke, and I cried to dream again
Of a new life just begun.
My dream has not yet come back to me
As I sleep through the endless night.
But I pray when I take my final sail
There will be that lovely light.
Shall I meet again those homespun men?
Will they welcome me once more?
Will they bring me home to their Master
There on Galilee’s golden shore?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the real Sea of Galilee]
In a little dream, in a little boat
I sailed over Galilee,
And homespun men in homespun garb,
They smiled and they talked with me.
I helped them to tend their heavy nets,
And I asked why they spoke so low:
They hushed me - their Master slept sound on the deck,
“For the crowds have tired Him so!”
The setting sun shone a golden light
Over Galilee’s rippling sea,
And the low shore gleamed and to me it seemed
This was where I sought to be.
The little boat approached the shore,
And my dream, alas, was done,
I woke, and I cried to dream again
Of a new life just begun.
My dream has not yet come back to me
As I sleep through the endless night.
But I pray when I take my final sail
There will be that lovely light.
Shall I meet again those homespun men?
Will they welcome me once more?
Will they bring me home to their Master
There on Galilee’s golden shore?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TYPE DREAM ...
[Even a Rhymer can dream ... ]
The novel I shall write some day
I may then re-write as a play.
A film tycoon will buy the rights,
And I shall see my name in lights.
In peerless prose and matchless style
I'll write a tale of sin and guile,
Or I may write of high finance,
Or espionage, or fine romance.
The characters, of vivid strength,
Developed through the novel's length,
Will hold my reader's mind in thrall
As plot and sub-plot rise and fall.
The story-line, complex, involved,
Will leave no question unresolved,
And publishers, the finest firms,
Will all compete to meet my terms.
Produced to critical acclaim,
My Play will meet with instant fame.
To calls for "Author!" on First Night
I'll bow and smile, in shy delight.
Directors, Actors, Peers and Dames,
Will telephone, and use first names.
The play will run for years and years,
Each Curtain met with standing cheers.
The Film, produced at huge expense,
Will have a budget that's immense.
Location, costume, casting, set,
More sumptuous than any yet.
The trophies that are won at Cannes
Will gratify a million fans,
While filming archives will record
Eternal fame as my reward.
My life thenceforth will not change much:
I'll still enjoy the common touch.
The fortune that attends success
Will scarce affect the way I dress.
A jewel or two, designer suits,
Perhaps some high-heeled, golden boots.
At literary luncheons seen,
I shall preserve my modest mien.
I'll have to entertain a lot:
It makes good sense to buy a yacht.
I may acquire a country seat,
A villa on the Isle of Crete.
But none of this will turn my head:
I may write one more book instead,
Explaining how I came to write
The book that brought my gifts to light.
But wait: this journey of the mind
Has just one tiny snag, I find.
To mention it I hesitate,
And yet it could affect my fate.
The novel that will make my name
And bring me to eternal fame
Has yet to be - it's too absurd.
So far, I've written not one word.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The novel I shall write some day
I may then re-write as a play.
A film tycoon will buy the rights,
And I shall see my name in lights.
In peerless prose and matchless style
I'll write a tale of sin and guile,
Or I may write of high finance,
Or espionage, or fine romance.
The characters, of vivid strength,
Developed through the novel's length,
Will hold my reader's mind in thrall
As plot and sub-plot rise and fall.
The story-line, complex, involved,
Will leave no question unresolved,
And publishers, the finest firms,
Will all compete to meet my terms.
Produced to critical acclaim,
My Play will meet with instant fame.
To calls for "Author!" on First Night
I'll bow and smile, in shy delight.
Directors, Actors, Peers and Dames,
Will telephone, and use first names.
The play will run for years and years,
Each Curtain met with standing cheers.
The Film, produced at huge expense,
Will have a budget that's immense.
Location, costume, casting, set,
More sumptuous than any yet.
The trophies that are won at Cannes
Will gratify a million fans,
While filming archives will record
Eternal fame as my reward.
My life thenceforth will not change much:
I'll still enjoy the common touch.
The fortune that attends success
Will scarce affect the way I dress.
A jewel or two, designer suits,
Perhaps some high-heeled, golden boots.
At literary luncheons seen,
I shall preserve my modest mien.
I'll have to entertain a lot:
It makes good sense to buy a yacht.
I may acquire a country seat,
A villa on the Isle of Crete.
But none of this will turn my head:
I may write one more book instead,
Explaining how I came to write
The book that brought my gifts to light.
But wait: this journey of the mind
Has just one tiny snag, I find.
To mention it I hesitate,
And yet it could affect my fate.
The novel that will make my name
And bring me to eternal fame
Has yet to be - it's too absurd.
So far, I've written not one word.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
EBENEZER, THE STUDIOUS SQUIRREL
[Completely frivolous]
Ebenezer the Squirrel lived all by himself
In a house where he kept lots of books on a shelf.
He was learned and wise, but without common sense,
And casual and careless with pounds and with pence.
Ebenezer had studied at Cambridge, and there
He sat in his own Professorial Chair,
But during vacations he moved out of Town
To the country, to study the verb and the noun.
A blameless existence, a studious life,
And he never remembered to look for a wife.
Ebenezer the Squirrel lived all by himself
In a house where he kept lots of books on a shelf.
He was learned and wise, but without common sense,
And casual and careless with pounds and with pence.
Ebenezer had studied at Cambridge, and there
He sat in his own Professorial Chair,
But during vacations he moved out of Town
To the country, to study the verb and the noun.
A blameless existence, a studious life,
And he never remembered to look for a wife.
One day a young Squirrel, a maiden named Maud
Espied Ebenezer when walking abroad.
She at once lost her heart to his studious looks
And determined to share both his life and his books.
Maud brushed up her whiskers and frisked up her tail,
And she thought: "I WILL get him - I just cannot fail!"
Poor Ebenezer - he hadn't a chance,
And he followed Maid Maud's matrimonial dance!
But 'ere the bells rang and the marriage was done,
A neighbouring Polecat saw ways to have fun ...
This Polecat, notorious, mean and called Percy
Stalked poor Ebenezer and Maud without mercy.
He told them to pay all the money they had,
Or he'd tell - nasty stories - to Maiden Maud's Dad!
Ebenezer the Squirrel, for once in his life
Decided to fight - for his fair future wife.
He thought of this plan and he thought of that way,
And he studied the problem by night and by day.
Poor Maud, she grew pale and her tail it hung low -
Tho' she loved Ebenezer, he did seem so slow!
At last came the day, speaking soft on the phone,
Ebenezer asked Maud to come - swift, and alone!
At the house, when he told her his fiendish plan,
She said: "That's the best of a studious man!"
Then she put on her tippet and settled her bonnet,
And took up the note, Percy Polecat's name on it.
Percy received her, his face in a leer,
And said: "Tea for two? I'm delighted, my dear!"
And he walked by her side thinking what he would do,
When he had her alone and at teatime for two.
Ebenezer was watching, flung open the door,
Pulled Percy inside, and there, spread on the floor,
Were all of the books taken down from the shelf.
Ebenezer said: "Go, Maud, quick! - hurry yourself!"
Then he slammed the door shut and he locked up the lock,
And Percy the Polecat then heard, with a shock,
These words from the Squirrel which shortened his breath:
"Right now, my fine fellow: I'll read you to death!"
Ebenezer then read without pause or delay
From all of his books for the rest of the day.
He read right through Shakespeare and read right through Proust,
Then to give the cruel torture a horrible boost
He read through his lexicons, all through his grammars,
Pausing neither for rest nor for pause nor for stammers.
The Polecat grew pale, whinging, whining for mercy,
But the Squirrel determined to finish off Percy.
He read every page, with a fiendish joy
Of the book "War and Peace", by Leo Tolstoi.
In fact, he read on till the Polecat dropped dead
From the sheer weight of words which poured over his head.
Then Maud, she returned and embraced Ebenezer,
Who was studiously happy so greatly to please her.
The Squirrels were wed, once the Polecat was buried,
And their lives from thenceforward were lightsome and merry.
Ebenezer and Maud, in their house 'neath the tree
Had beautiful babies, one, two and then three.
While Maud minded the money, the pounds and the pence,
Ebenezer the learned then learned - common sense!
And they laughed about Percy, who'd been read to death,
Through their long happy lives to their last peaceful breath.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THEMELESS - or Much Ado About Nothing ...
[A poor effort, this - the result of a
challenge to write a verse with NO theme ... ]
She wanted a poem that had no theme:
Such a challenge to me was a horrible dream.
I admit I’m a rhymer who’s written much verse,
Some of it better, but most of it worse,
But always a theme there just had to be:
How could this request be made of me?
I admit I’m a rhymer who’s written much verse,
Some of it better, but most of it worse,
But always a theme there just had to be:
How could this request be made of me?
If I go on like this, then the theme of this piece
Will be that I cannot write themeless with ease …
I know! Through the Internet take a quick surf,
A crafty look round under Cybergran turf!
Ha! Sheer inspiration has come to my aid,
And when nothing I’ve found, my discovery’s made!
Since of nothing I’m thinking, let that bell ring:
“Not anything, single thing, part of a thing!”
So, if asked for the theme of this small verse, so foolish,
I shall simper, then smile, my expression quite mulish.
“The theme?” I shall say. “Why, it’s perfectly clear:
It is all about NOTHING - that’s no theme, my dear!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ON FOOT IN THE WESTGATE
[Thoughts after attending the medieval Fayre in the Westgate, 14th June 2008]
Is this "free verse"?
Squelching trainers kicking clattering cans, crushing crisp packets
Go bulging over the cluttered cobbles.
Dream-heard, under-threading the clatter, tramps the measured tread
Of Roman sandals. as the Century in formation strides up the Westgate,
Unseen, unheard among the grubby, squelching trainers.
Threading among the squelching trainers and the striding sandals
Pad broad-toed pantobles, burdened with veined gout-swollen legs.
The cobbles are hard, paining the rich broad silent invisible feet
Weaving between the squelching trainers and the striding sandals.
Clacking platform soles clatter, clumsy among the squelching trainers.
Fraying jeans flap between the silent striding sandals,
The noiseless broad velvet padding feet passing unnoticed
Treading endlessly, unseen, unheard, up the Westgate.
One day my footsteps too, shod with old boredom and silent invisibility,
Will merge into the palimpsest of squelching trainers,
Clacking platform soles, padding pantobles, striding sandals,
Unseen, unheard, forgotten, with all the centuries gone before in the Westgate.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Is this "free verse"?
Squelching trainers kicking clattering cans, crushing crisp packets
Go bulging over the cluttered cobbles.
Dream-heard, under-threading the clatter, tramps the measured tread
Of Roman sandals. as the Century in formation strides up the Westgate,
Unseen, unheard among the grubby, squelching trainers.
Threading among the squelching trainers and the striding sandals
Pad broad-toed pantobles, burdened with veined gout-swollen legs.
The cobbles are hard, paining the rich broad silent invisible feet
Weaving between the squelching trainers and the striding sandals.
Clacking platform soles clatter, clumsy among the squelching trainers.
Fraying jeans flap between the silent striding sandals,
The noiseless broad velvet padding feet passing unnoticed
Treading endlessly, unseen, unheard, up the Westgate.
One day my footsteps too, shod with old boredom and silent invisibility,
Will merge into the palimpsest of squelching trainers,
Clacking platform soles, padding pantobles, striding sandals,
Unseen, unheard, forgotten, with all the centuries gone before in the Westgate.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THESE ARE THE THINGS THAT EXASPERATE ME ...
[With apologies to "The Sound of Music"]
Raindrops that spatter all over my glasses,
Grime on my hands when I'm cleaning the brasses,
Trays that won't balance and fall off my knee:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Clingfilm that I cannot peel off my fingers,
Someone who says "I MUST go" and then lingers,
Gourmets who gobble their garlic with glee:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Grime on my hands when I'm cleaning the brasses,
Trays that won't balance and fall off my knee:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Clingfilm that I cannot peel off my fingers,
Someone who says "I MUST go" and then lingers,
Gourmets who gobble their garlic with glee:
These are the things that exasperate me.
The fork in the bowl when I've washed up the dishes,
Small bones that linger in fillets of fishes,
Folk who drop sugar lumps into my tea:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Items tight sealed into hard plastic blisters,
Bags that are fastened with little wire twisters,
Long traffic queues whose end I cannot see:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Other folks' dogs who dig holes in my garden,
Visiting cats who do things I can't pardon,
Thorns in my fingers I feel but can't see:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Buttons in sets that have one button missing,
People at weddings who go around kissing,
Finding I'm shut in the car with a bee:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Children in playgrounds who scream and keep fighting,
Words that won't come or won't rhyme when I'm writing,
People who are what I wish I could be:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Phone bells that ring and won't let me ignore them,
People who ask me to write verses for them,
Folk who say "Shakespeare? Do tell, who was he?"
These are the things that exasperate me.
People who ask me to write verses for them,
Folk who say "Shakespeare? Do tell, who was he?"
These are the things that exasperate me.
Those who make money when writing for profit,
A book written badly that puts me right off it,
Folk who are tiresome - in fact, just like me:
These are the things that exasperate me.
When the sun shines, when the bird sings,
When good news has come,
I think of the things that exasperate me,
And I go on feeling - GLUM!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CONSIDERED CONVERSION
[Been there? Done that?]
When I first took to travel and journeyed around,
Budgetary problems quite early I found,
So I worked out a formula, safe, sure and true,
A formula now that I’m sharing with you.
It is simple and easy, cannot be forgot,
So what IS it? Be patient - I’ll tell you just what.
Wherever you’re going, wherever you’re bound,
Simply ask: “Just how many are there to the pound?”
I have dealt with the franc, with the dinar, the kroner,
While journeying round, most often a loner.
I have been to the Souk, the Kashbar, the Bazaar,
(Though now I’ve forgotten where most of them are!)
To offers for sterling, “To do me a favour!”,
My answer is “No!” with a firm but fierce flavour.
When the shouting dies down, I’m still holding my ground
And still asking “How many are there to the pound?”
In the direful year of nineteen seventy-one,
A new set of troubles I found had begun.
My world had gone decimal, early in Lent,
And I lost my firm grip on just what I had spent.
After Easter I cheerfully set off for Rome,
Bringing conversion instructions from home.
In every via, in each fine piazza,
The English were gathered, each crying out “Whatsa
Quid in these "lira" - five bob in real money?
And Annabelle there seems to find it all funny!”
The answer, I told them, on this foreign ground,
Is ask: “Just how many are there to the pound?”
If one day I should get to the Heavenly Gate
Where St. Pete’s got a note of my eternal fate,
He will greet me - I hope - with a smile kind and genial,
And then ask me my sins, whether mortal or venial.
I shall probably stammer and stutter a while,
As St. Peter, he waits, with a small gentle smile,
Then I’ll fall to my knees, beat my head on the ground,
And wail: “Sins? Just how many are there to the pound?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I first took to travel and journeyed around,
Budgetary problems quite early I found,
So I worked out a formula, safe, sure and true,
A formula now that I’m sharing with you.
It is simple and easy, cannot be forgot,
So what IS it? Be patient - I’ll tell you just what.
Wherever you’re going, wherever you’re bound,
Simply ask: “Just how many are there to the pound?”
I have dealt with the franc, with the dinar, the kroner,
While journeying round, most often a loner.
I have been to the Souk, the Kashbar, the Bazaar,
(Though now I’ve forgotten where most of them are!)
To offers for sterling, “To do me a favour!”,
My answer is “No!” with a firm but fierce flavour.
When the shouting dies down, I’m still holding my ground
And still asking “How many are there to the pound?”
In the direful year of nineteen seventy-one,
A new set of troubles I found had begun.
My world had gone decimal, early in Lent,
And I lost my firm grip on just what I had spent.
After Easter I cheerfully set off for Rome,
Bringing conversion instructions from home.
In every via, in each fine piazza,
The English were gathered, each crying out “Whatsa
Quid in these "lira" - five bob in real money?
And Annabelle there seems to find it all funny!”
The answer, I told them, on this foreign ground,
Is ask: “Just how many are there to the pound?”
If one day I should get to the Heavenly Gate
Where St. Pete’s got a note of my eternal fate,
He will greet me - I hope - with a smile kind and genial,
And then ask me my sins, whether mortal or venial.
I shall probably stammer and stutter a while,
As St. Peter, he waits, with a small gentle smile,
Then I’ll fall to my knees, beat my head on the ground,
And wail: “Sins? Just how many are there to the pound?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
FAITH FLUORESCENT
[as long as it's A.M.D.G ...]
In the City, a lady named Alice
Enhanced the Episcopal Palace
By painting on spots
And huge fluorescent dots,
Which was done just for fun, and not malice.
In the City, a lady named Alice
Enhanced the Episcopal Palace
By painting on spots
And huge fluorescent dots,
Which was done just for fun, and not malice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
STRESSFUL STRAINS
[A Fantasy - I hope ... ]
When I'm asked for a story of strain and of stress,
I remember the tale of the fairy Princess.
She lived long ago, no matter how long,
For her fame lives forever in tale, verse and song.
The Princess was greedy. She said 'twas life's stresses.
She ate far too much and grew out of her dresses.
Her Couturier said: "I really can't charge her:
Before a gown's finished, she's two sizes larger!
"The King comes tomorrow: it's time to be drastic.
I've designed her a gown which is made from elastic."
At the King's mighty feast, the Princess blamed stress
As she stuffed herself full and she strained at her dress.
Then she heaved a deep sigh: with a creak and a crack
An overstressed seam parted right down her back!
The next thing to go was the Princess's skin.
The strain was too great: it could not keep her in.
She'd lived all her life with the ways of a hog,
Now she popped from her skin and appeared as - a frog!
While the King mourns his daughter, she lives in the drains
Through her failure to balance her stresses and strains.
If the greedy Princess hadn't strained till she stressed,
She'd have stayed in her skin and lived royally dressed.
To blame greed on stress is a feeble excuse,
You may strain to accept it: you'll find that no use.
So the moral, my friends, of this horrible tale
Is to balance your stresses and strains on the scale.
Each side must be equal, not more and not less,
Or you'll end as a frog, like the greedy Princess.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I'm asked for a story of strain and of stress,
I remember the tale of the fairy Princess.
She lived long ago, no matter how long,
For her fame lives forever in tale, verse and song.
The Princess was greedy. She said 'twas life's stresses.
She ate far too much and grew out of her dresses.
Her Couturier said: "I really can't charge her:
Before a gown's finished, she's two sizes larger!
"The King comes tomorrow: it's time to be drastic.
I've designed her a gown which is made from elastic."
At the King's mighty feast, the Princess blamed stress
As she stuffed herself full and she strained at her dress.
Then she heaved a deep sigh: with a creak and a crack
An overstressed seam parted right down her back!
The next thing to go was the Princess's skin.
The strain was too great: it could not keep her in.
She'd lived all her life with the ways of a hog,
Now she popped from her skin and appeared as - a frog!
While the King mourns his daughter, she lives in the drains
Through her failure to balance her stresses and strains.
If the greedy Princess hadn't strained till she stressed,
She'd have stayed in her skin and lived royally dressed.
To blame greed on stress is a feeble excuse,
You may strain to accept it: you'll find that no use.
So the moral, my friends, of this horrible tale
Is to balance your stresses and strains on the scale.
Each side must be equal, not more and not less,
Or you'll end as a frog, like the greedy Princess.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AIRBORNE ERROR
[Limericks are fun ... ]
A sinner took off on a flight,
But he'd never done anything right.
Next morning at seven
He landed in Heaven,
And they threw him straight out -
serve him right!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
WESTGATE WHINGE
(With apologies to Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan.
Tune - The Sergeant’s Song, Pirates of Penzance.)
When I take my daily wander up the Westgate, [Up the Westgate],
I long to use a useful Motor Bus, [Motor Bus],
But the Buses don’t suit my ways up the Westgate, [Up the Westgate],
So this song is written just to make a fuss. [Make a fuss].
When Community-y Taxes, they are needed, [They are needed],
I mourn the lost and useful Motor Bus, [Motor Bus],
But petitions to our Council are not heeded, [Are not heeded],
So my sole recourse is just to make a fuss.
Ah me!
When tax paying obligation’s to be done, [To be done],
A Tax Payer’s lot is not a happy one. [Happy one].
The shops I loved to visit are a-closing, [Are a-closing],
And they offer only lots of empty space, [Empty space],
Are the Officers employed by me all dozing? [Me all dozing].
Is my bus-less shop-less state a sheer disgrace? [Sheer disgrace].
The pavements that I walk on are uneven, [Are uneven],
And they often tip me flat upon my face, [On my face],
It cannot be surprising that I’m grieving, [That I’m grieving],
For the City that was once a lovely place.
Ah me!
When tax paying obligation’s to be done, [To be done],
A Tax Payer’s lot is not a happy one. [Happy one].
When there's rain, the surface water gets a-flooded [Gets a-flooded]
For the drains are never cleared out, so it’s said. [So it’s said],
My little home can fetch up sadly muddied, [Sadly muddied],
While the gulls and pigeons triumph overhead, [Overhead],
And so I’m seeking comfort in this writing, [In this writing],
Which I’ll distribute by email and by Fax. [And by Fax.]
The despoiling of my City it is frightening, [It is frightening].
And the only certainty is paying Tax.
Ah me!
When tax paying obligation’s to be done, [To be done],
A Tax Payer’s lot is not a happy one. [Happy one].
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tune - The Sergeant’s Song, Pirates of Penzance.)
When I take my daily wander up the Westgate, [Up the Westgate],
I long to use a useful Motor Bus, [Motor Bus],
But the Buses don’t suit my ways up the Westgate, [Up the Westgate],
So this song is written just to make a fuss. [Make a fuss].
When Community-y Taxes, they are needed, [They are needed],
I mourn the lost and useful Motor Bus, [Motor Bus],
But petitions to our Council are not heeded, [Are not heeded],
So my sole recourse is just to make a fuss.
Ah me!
When tax paying obligation’s to be done, [To be done],
A Tax Payer’s lot is not a happy one. [Happy one].
The shops I loved to visit are a-closing, [Are a-closing],
And they offer only lots of empty space, [Empty space],
Are the Officers employed by me all dozing? [Me all dozing].
Is my bus-less shop-less state a sheer disgrace? [Sheer disgrace].
The pavements that I walk on are uneven, [Are uneven],
And they often tip me flat upon my face, [On my face],
It cannot be surprising that I’m grieving, [That I’m grieving],
For the City that was once a lovely place.
Ah me!
When tax paying obligation’s to be done, [To be done],
A Tax Payer’s lot is not a happy one. [Happy one].
When there's rain, the surface water gets a-flooded [Gets a-flooded]
For the drains are never cleared out, so it’s said. [So it’s said],
My little home can fetch up sadly muddied, [Sadly muddied],
While the gulls and pigeons triumph overhead, [Overhead],
And so I’m seeking comfort in this writing, [In this writing],
Which I’ll distribute by email and by Fax. [And by Fax.]
The despoiling of my City it is frightening, [It is frightening].
And the only certainty is paying Tax.
Ah me!
When tax paying obligation’s to be done, [To be done],
A Tax Payer’s lot is not a happy one. [Happy one].
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
EPILOGUE - or CATALOGUE ...
[Finale from Caternalia]
St. Peter took his last-night look
Around the Courts of Heaven;
He’d locked the Golden Gates up fast,
Turned all the stars down even.
And every Saint was in his bed
With cloudy duvet o’er him,
Be-pillowed every haloed head,
And hushed was each “Adore Him!”
St. Peter took his last-night look
Around the Courts of Heaven;
He’d locked the Golden Gates up fast,
Turned all the stars down even.
And every Saint was in his bed
With cloudy duvet o’er him,
Be-pillowed every haloed head,
And hushed was each “Adore Him!”
But as the Saint turned down the lamp
Beside the Golden Gateway,
He heard a patter through the stars:
“Who cometh here, so late, hey?”
And Cat ran up, slipped through the Gate,
Rubbed, purring, round St. Peter:
Said he: “Good Saint, may I come in,
For Heaven with me is - sweeter?”
The Saint’s grave brow grew stern and grim.
“Now answer,” he demanded,
“What have you done for the good of Man,
For ‘twas good our God commanded!
But you - you have hunted the small and weak,
You have stolen the food from Man’s table -
You have used Man for your own ends alone.
Where is good in you, fact or fable?”
Then Cat sat down and he licked his paw,
And he touched up his ear and whisker,
And Cat looked up and Saint looked down,
And Peter’s shrewd gaze grew - brisker.
And he smiled a small smile, as he looked at Cat,
And he said: “Man never owned you,
For God made you for Himself - for fun!
- And He to Man has but loaned you!”
St. Peter reached his holy hand
Beneath Cat’s chin to tickle,
The while Cat preened and arched and purred:
Quoth Saint: “Aye, your sins be mickle!
BUT - the good you have done is to make Man glad.
In the bread of his life you’re the leaven,
So come in, Cat, and sit by God’s own hearth,
And gladden the Courts of Heaven!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The while Cat preened and arched and purred:
Quoth Saint: “Aye, your sins be mickle!
BUT - the good you have done is to make Man glad.
In the bread of his life you’re the leaven,
So come in, Cat, and sit by God’s own hearth,
And gladden the Courts of Heaven!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SONG OF THE BULLET
[I would rather not have
written this -but I did]
I have no home, no child and no wife:
My gun is my friend, the bullet my life.
Of no race and no faith, no hope and no creed,
With terror my style and money my need.
I kill without passion, I shoot without thought,
My gun is my friend, and my friend can be bought.
Pay me, I kill, no remorse and no sorrow.
If someone else pays me, I'll kill you tomorrow.
No wondering child will stand by my knee
With questioning eyes I do not want to see.
I was born into terror and nurtured in hate,
So my gun is my child and my kin and my mate.
One wish I have: that I shall not see
The path of the bullet that's coming for me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have no home, no child and no wife:
My gun is my friend, the bullet my life.
Of no race and no faith, no hope and no creed,
With terror my style and money my need.
I kill without passion, I shoot without thought,
My gun is my friend, and my friend can be bought.
Pay me, I kill, no remorse and no sorrow.
If someone else pays me, I'll kill you tomorrow.
No wondering child will stand by my knee
With questioning eyes I do not want to see.
I was born into terror and nurtured in hate,
So my gun is my child and my kin and my mate.
One wish I have: that I shall not see
The path of the bullet that's coming for me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
NON DULCE ET DECORUM EST
["Is it sweet and fitting
to die for one's country?"]
On the field of battle, a soldier lay dead
With dead thoughts buzzing around him.
He mused - how should his thoughts should be known
When (if ever) somebody found him?
“Not for love of home and kin,
Not for some personal glory
Did I take the path that has led me here,
To this final end to my story.
The time is now to tell all of the truth:
Be it known to any who find me:
I was less afraid of the foe in front
Than I was of the Sergeant behind me ….”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
to die for one's country?"]
On the field of battle, a soldier lay dead
With dead thoughts buzzing around him.
He mused - how should his thoughts should be known
When (if ever) somebody found him?
“Not for love of home and kin,
Not for some personal glory
Did I take the path that has led me here,
To this final end to my story.
The time is now to tell all of the truth:
Be it known to any who find me:
I was less afraid of the foe in front
Than I was of the Sergeant behind me ….”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE LAY OF THE LAST RHYMER
[A Lament]
Am I the last of the Rhymers,
The only one left who loves rhyme?
With the metre and scan I love dearly:
Am I the one who's out of time?
My rhymes may be lightsome and foolish,
But they say, clearly, just what they mean.
The verse of my comperes is open,
Or “free,” on the poetry scene.
They cannot know what they are missing,
When they bring forth each strange, tortured line.
The fine metrication is gone now.
And of scansion and rhyme there's no sign.
The lines may be shorter or longer,
And often include the obscene,
But they bring little joy in the hearing,
Oh! Mourn for the poetry scene.
Magazines run abstruse competitions
Which Rhymers like me do not win,
For in writing in rhyme we are right out of time,
And committing the ultimate sin.
Geoffrey Chaucer first wrote lines in English,
With meticulous metre and rhyme,
And those who came after continued
To write, using rhythmical time.
Through the centuries poets, divinely
Wrote lines that will never escape
In words that cannot be forgotten,
For their content, their form and their shape.
Why has the fun gone away now
And the sheer joy of writing true lines?
Where is the music, enchanting,
When rhyming and scansion combines?
Have we lost all our love of our language,
That we use it with tortuous pain?
Rhymers, come, rally, support me:
Help me make poems lovely again.
But don't take the view that I'm lonely,
Or sigh for my solitary track,
For I'm not the last of the Rhymers.
I'm the first one to start fighting back.
Now, your lines' random length
Vitiates all their strength
To a featureless plateau of prosing:
Mock me or shock me, reject me, AFFECT me -
INVOLVE me - my Muse dislikes musing!
Where is the musical beauty
Which makes up the soul of a poet?
Without scansion or time,
Above all, without rhyme,
You have lost it - or never did know it!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Am I the last of the Rhymers,
The only one left who loves rhyme?
With the metre and scan I love dearly:
Am I the one who's out of time?
My rhymes may be lightsome and foolish,
But they say, clearly, just what they mean.
The verse of my comperes is open,
Or “free,” on the poetry scene.
They cannot know what they are missing,
When they bring forth each strange, tortured line.
The fine metrication is gone now.
And of scansion and rhyme there's no sign.
The lines may be shorter or longer,
And often include the obscene,
But they bring little joy in the hearing,
Oh! Mourn for the poetry scene.
Magazines run abstruse competitions
Which Rhymers like me do not win,
For in writing in rhyme we are right out of time,
And committing the ultimate sin.
Geoffrey Chaucer first wrote lines in English,
With meticulous metre and rhyme,
And those who came after continued
To write, using rhythmical time.
Through the centuries poets, divinely
Wrote lines that will never escape
In words that cannot be forgotten,
For their content, their form and their shape.
Why has the fun gone away now
And the sheer joy of writing true lines?
Where is the music, enchanting,
When rhyming and scansion combines?
Have we lost all our love of our language,
That we use it with tortuous pain?
Rhymers, come, rally, support me:
Help me make poems lovely again.
But don't take the view that I'm lonely,
Or sigh for my solitary track,
For I'm not the last of the Rhymers.
I'm the first one to start fighting back.
Now, your lines' random length
Vitiates all their strength
To a featureless plateau of prosing:
Mock me or shock me, reject me, AFFECT me -
INVOLVE me - my Muse dislikes musing!
Where is the musical beauty
Which makes up the soul of a poet?
Without scansion or time,
Above all, without rhyme,
You have lost it - or never did know it!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
RELUCTANT RHYMER
[An almost true tale - of a pantomime script]
“Who, me? Write a script?”, a Rhymer exclaimed.
“Oh no, I can’t - don’t be silly!”
“Oh yes, you can,” the Director replied,
His demeanour becoming quite chilly.
“”But what of the metre and what of the scan?”
That poor Rhymer babbled, scared rigid.
“Come, write, do your best, for I’ll give you no rest!”
Said the Big Boss, his tone turning frigid.
So the Rhymer gave in, and took paper, a stack,
And a verse-writing pen she could nibble,
And, sighing and moaning and groaning, began
To think (and to drink) and to scribble.
Sighed the Rhymer: “Enough! This is poor versing stuff,
And to make it a script - I’m defeated!
And it just makes it worse that I can’t write “Free Verse”,
So this Opus will not be completed!”
Then the Rhymer gave up, laid her pen down and left,
Creeping out through the door to the lobby.
Now she’s splitting big rocks with a road-mender’s drill,
Which she finds a more peaceable hobby.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Who, me? Write a script?”, a Rhymer exclaimed.
“Oh no, I can’t - don’t be silly!”
“Oh yes, you can,” the Director replied,
His demeanour becoming quite chilly.
“”But what of the metre and what of the scan?”
That poor Rhymer babbled, scared rigid.
“Come, write, do your best, for I’ll give you no rest!”
Said the Big Boss, his tone turning frigid.
So the Rhymer gave in, and took paper, a stack,
And a verse-writing pen she could nibble,
And, sighing and moaning and groaning, began
To think (and to drink) and to scribble.
Sighed the Rhymer: “Enough! This is poor versing stuff,
And to make it a script - I’m defeated!
And it just makes it worse that I can’t write “Free Verse”,
So this Opus will not be completed!”
Then the Rhymer gave up, laid her pen down and left,
Creeping out through the door to the lobby.
Now she’s splitting big rocks with a road-mender’s drill,
Which she finds a more peaceable hobby.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
WHO'S AN ASS?
[Even the meek can
be angered ... ]
Why do they say that I’m an ass -
That’s the name for the fool of the class.
Right, so my ears are big and floppy,
And I’m gentle and so they think I’m soppy,
But I’m not.
That’s the name for the fool of the class.
Right, so my ears are big and floppy,
And I’m gentle and so they think I’m soppy,
But I’m not.
Who carried the babe in his Mother’s arms?
Who kept him safe from dangers and harms?
D’you know, sometimes they call me mulish,
And they mock and they dare to call me foolish.
But I’m not.
So who carried the Man through the waving palms,
And stayed surefoot through the thrashing arms?
It wasn’t you - you’d have let him fall.
It was me.
So watch it, all you who call me an ass:
You just don’t know - you’re not in my class.
And when he calls me, when he says “Come!”
I shall. Will you?
~~~~~~~~~~~
THREE GIFTS
[Mary ponders as she packs]
I'm nearly packed now, and soon I'll be gone:
I'm going to keep house for that nice young lad John.
There's just three things left - the rest are all sold.
There's the myrrh, and the frankincense, and the gold.
Why have I kept them for thirty-three years?
And why can't I see them now clear for my tears?
It's that I remember, when he was so small,
Just a baby, my darling - yet that isn't all.
This vision, you see, I did not understand,
Yet I knew for my baby some dire thing was planned.
When they came, these three strangers, all wise men and old,
And they gave me these gifts, frankincense, myrrh and gold.
Though all of his life we were hard-worked and poor,
And had never much money, though needing it sore,
Yet I knew I must keep them, though why - I can't tell,
But I knew they were his, and were not mine to sell.
Dear Joseph had taught him the carpenter’s trade,
And when he was ten, this fine casket they made.
It’s a box for the gifts, and I packed them away,
And there they have stayed through the years, to this day.
I was proud of my boy - he was bonny, well-grown,
Yet often, it seemed, he found peace quite alone.
He would gaze to the distance, where I could not see -
As if there were messages hidden from me.
My boy grew to a man, and he took to the road,
With strangers around him, to help bear his load.
And I stayed here at home, alone and bereft,
And only the casket of gifts now were left.
Until came the time when they said he must die,
And I journeyed to watch him, nailed up there on high.
He was laid in my arms, and they told me: "He's dead!"
Yet the thought of the gifts would not go from my head.
From the cross he had asked that I'd go to young John,
And though I didn't care, yet I had to live on.
For his words fell like dew on my poor broken heart,
Then I knew that I too, like the gifts, had my part.
In my casket now, only the gold still shines clear,
As clear as my son, ever bright, ever dear.
So I’m taking the gifts from their place on the shelf,
For it seems that he speaks to me - yes, his own self!
I did see him again, when he came back a while,
And for me he had always a warm, loving smile.
There were others around us, the friends he had known,
And those friends - and his mother - were all he could own.
And then came the day when he left us all here,
But though he was gone, still I knew he was near.
I can wait in John’s home till my son comes again,
And then farewell forever to sorrow and pain.
From his birth to his death, I have not understood,
Yet in guarding the gifts, I have done what I could.
Though the myrrh and the frankincense crumbled to dust,
Yet the gold shines forever, no tarnish, no rust.
And John and his friends, they will tell of my son,
While I cherish the gifts, as I always have done.
And I’ll work in John's house till it's time to be gone,
Knowing sure my son's story will ever live on.
And so shines my baby, so darling to me,
Now grown to a man whom I know I shall see.
You don't understand? No, neither do I,
Only that my dear son, like this gold, shall not die.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm nearly packed now, and soon I'll be gone:
I'm going to keep house for that nice young lad John.
There's just three things left - the rest are all sold.
There's the myrrh, and the frankincense, and the gold.
Why have I kept them for thirty-three years?
And why can't I see them now clear for my tears?
It's that I remember, when he was so small,
Just a baby, my darling - yet that isn't all.
This vision, you see, I did not understand,
Yet I knew for my baby some dire thing was planned.
When they came, these three strangers, all wise men and old,
And they gave me these gifts, frankincense, myrrh and gold.
Though all of his life we were hard-worked and poor,
And had never much money, though needing it sore,
Yet I knew I must keep them, though why - I can't tell,
But I knew they were his, and were not mine to sell.
Dear Joseph had taught him the carpenter’s trade,
And when he was ten, this fine casket they made.
It’s a box for the gifts, and I packed them away,
And there they have stayed through the years, to this day.
I was proud of my boy - he was bonny, well-grown,
Yet often, it seemed, he found peace quite alone.
He would gaze to the distance, where I could not see -
As if there were messages hidden from me.
My boy grew to a man, and he took to the road,
With strangers around him, to help bear his load.
And I stayed here at home, alone and bereft,
And only the casket of gifts now were left.
Until came the time when they said he must die,
And I journeyed to watch him, nailed up there on high.
He was laid in my arms, and they told me: "He's dead!"
Yet the thought of the gifts would not go from my head.
From the cross he had asked that I'd go to young John,
And though I didn't care, yet I had to live on.
For his words fell like dew on my poor broken heart,
Then I knew that I too, like the gifts, had my part.
In my casket now, only the gold still shines clear,
As clear as my son, ever bright, ever dear.
So I’m taking the gifts from their place on the shelf,
For it seems that he speaks to me - yes, his own self!
I did see him again, when he came back a while,
And for me he had always a warm, loving smile.
There were others around us, the friends he had known,
And those friends - and his mother - were all he could own.
And then came the day when he left us all here,
But though he was gone, still I knew he was near.
I can wait in John’s home till my son comes again,
And then farewell forever to sorrow and pain.
From his birth to his death, I have not understood,
Yet in guarding the gifts, I have done what I could.
Though the myrrh and the frankincense crumbled to dust,
Yet the gold shines forever, no tarnish, no rust.
And John and his friends, they will tell of my son,
While I cherish the gifts, as I always have done.
And I’ll work in John's house till it's time to be gone,
Knowing sure my son's story will ever live on.
And so shines my baby, so darling to me,
Now grown to a man whom I know I shall see.
You don't understand? No, neither do I,
Only that my dear son, like this gold, shall not die.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
UNNOTICEABLE
[To honour an entirely
supererogatory
notice on a nearby wall]
That large notice attached to the wall
Serves no useful purpose at all:
Those who would obey
Would do so anyway,
While the rest take no notice at all ...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
supererogatory
notice on a nearby wall]
That large notice attached to the wall
Serves no useful purpose at all:
Those who would obey
Would do so anyway,
While the rest take no notice at all ...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
WELL CAT
[And there are people who would be
improved by this treatment ... ]
Ding, dong, bell, Tommy’s in the well!
Who pushed him in? Little Pussy Thin.
Who held him under? Little Pussy Thunder.
What a naughty Cat it was
To drown that boy because
He’d ne’er done any harm,
But Pussy was fed up with having him around the place.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
improved by this treatment ... ]
Ding, dong, bell, Tommy’s in the well!
Who pushed him in? Little Pussy Thin.
Who held him under? Little Pussy Thunder.
What a naughty Cat it was
To drown that boy because
He’d ne’er done any harm,
But Pussy was fed up with having him around the place.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
IRRITATED LIMERICK
[Reaction to appearance of absurd admonitory
notice on a nearby wall]
To menace me with remonstration
Brings fury in great concentration:
My peaceable days
Have erupted in rage,
Which, I fear, may provoke demonstration ...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
notice on a nearby wall]
To menace me with remonstration
Brings fury in great concentration:
My peaceable days
Have erupted in rage,
Which, I fear, may provoke demonstration ...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
NAZARETH HOME
[Days of Childhood]
He took his first few steps today,
My darling little son,
How clever was that, I ask you?
He’s only just past one!
Then he tried to run, and down he went -
And bumped his precious nose,
So I had to kiss it and cuddle him up,
Then play with his little brown toes.
My darling little son,
How clever was that, I ask you?
He’s only just past one!
Then he tried to run, and down he went -
And bumped his precious nose,
So I had to kiss it and cuddle him up,
Then play with his little brown toes.
Can it really be that a year and more
Has passed since that wondrous night
When the angels sang as my baby came,
And that star shone its steady light?
And dear Joseph cared so tenderly
For me and my newborn son,
Though he knew his was not the begetting
That had fathered this holy one.
Joseph is making a little wheeled cart
To fill a small boy with delight:
Strong to last, the handle a cross,
For little hands gripping tight.
The sides are dovetailed - not roughly nailed -
Tender feet could be hurt by iron,
And with painted red splashes on the brown,
He can push and roar like a lion!
Our little yard has been neatly swept,
And the thorn-bush’s fence is strong:
Joseph said: “He could fall head-first in that,
And those thorns are so cruelly long!”
Dear Joseph - I’ve never told him
Quite all that the Angel said:
That a sword of sorrow would pierce my heart -
Why burden him with my dread?
Baby days rush away so fast,
And so we are cherishing dearly
This fast-growing boy, who is both our joy:
All this I know so clearly.
I try not to look down through the years,
But watch close these days that I have.
How else can I banish the picture that haunts
Of the shade of a cold, dark grave?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
COME BACK TO ERIN
[Founded on regrettable fact]
To Ireland I'd go, to the land of my birth -
Or rather, the birth of my Daddy.
But why should you care Who was born where?
Oh well, if you're going to be faddy ...
To Liverpool then, I drove off, and when
I espied those big birds they call "Liver",
Had I known what was coming, I truly declare
I'd have shot them both off for a fiver.
To Ireland I'd go, to the land of my birth -
Or rather, the birth of my Daddy.
But why should you care Who was born where?
Oh well, if you're going to be faddy ...
To Liverpool then, I drove off, and when
I espied those big birds they call "Liver",
Had I known what was coming, I truly declare
I'd have shot them both off for a fiver.
Arrived at the Quay, to my utter dismay,
They said: "It's too rough - we're not sailing!
If to Eire you're crossing, the pitching and tossing
Will up-end you, weeping and wailing!"
So to Stranraer I went, on my crossing intent,
Though it took me a drive of five hours ...
And pitching and tossing, just as they said,
(At times quite convinced I was drownded and dead)
I sailed off through steel-rodded showers.
The time of my landing by now was well past,
And I knew I would land in quite unknown Belfast.
The sky glowered grey and the traffic was awful:
The drivers in Belfast may know what is lawful,
But oh! how I longed to be safely at home
And I prayed and I promised I'd never more roam ...
Then away, going South, to the land of my birth -
Sorry, the birth of my Daddy.
I said that before, so I'll mention no more
My views on all folk who are faddy.
My Hotel had closed down, so I drove round and round
In search of a bed I could sleep in,
A hovel would do - and then I came to
A thatched cabin where I could creep in.
My hostess was sweet, rosy cheeked and petite,
Crying "Mo Crea - and is it yourself?"
So I smothered the urge to keen - that's a dirge -
And reply "No - I'm somebody else ... "
From thereon it was grand and all went just as planned,
And I met with two hundred relations,
And the ceilidh was glorious, the fun was uproarious,
And the Family Tree made equations.
Back home I came then, and the Seacat behaved
As that feline had failed to before.
And to Liverpool's dock I came by the clock,
And I vowed I would go there no more.
Beloved old Eire, the land of my birth,
(No, we're NOT touching on that again ...)
The ghastliest crossing you may well be worth,
And the stress and the hassle and pain.
But if I go once more to the Emerald shore,
I shall first take advice from the Oracle,
Then over the sea I shall travel, just me:
Can anyone sell me a coracle?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
DO AS HE DIDN'T
[Thoughts on a Theme]
St. Valentine, a Celibate,
Lifelong declined to procreate.
It's odd his name is on the date
When birds and bees - and mortals - mate!
The Saint eschewed the married state,
And thought it rude to contemplate
The joys of the connubial fate:
He trod a solitary gait.
What perils might have lain, innate,
In Valentine's unwedded state!
The wide world should congratulate
The Saint who didn't copulate,
For if we didn't integrate,
And no-one chose to consummate,
Creation would disintegrate:
Oblivion would be our fate!
So, lasses, lads, appreciate
That all the world's continued fate
Was chosen by a Celibate,
A Saint who never took a mate!
If Valentine had upped and wed,
Would we all be not here, or dead?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
St. Valentine, a Celibate,
Lifelong declined to procreate.
It's odd his name is on the date
When birds and bees - and mortals - mate!
The Saint eschewed the married state,
And thought it rude to contemplate
The joys of the connubial fate:
He trod a solitary gait.
What perils might have lain, innate,
In Valentine's unwedded state!
The wide world should congratulate
The Saint who didn't copulate,
For if we didn't integrate,
And no-one chose to consummate,
Creation would disintegrate:
Oblivion would be our fate!
So, lasses, lads, appreciate
That all the world's continued fate
Was chosen by a Celibate,
A Saint who never took a mate!
If Valentine had upped and wed,
Would we all be not here, or dead?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
VALENTINE MINI-ODE
[Precis version]
St. Valentine, Episcopus,
Lifelong foreswore the friskibus.
He never took a riskibus,
So lived - and died - Episcopus.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
St. Valentine, Episcopus,
Lifelong foreswore the friskibus.
He never took a riskibus,
So lived - and died - Episcopus.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ENCOURAGEMENT TO A LOVER
[Apologies to a Lover,
20th Century Version]
Why do you put up with me?
How do you endure me?
When you know well, of all my faults
You cannot hope to cure me?
Why do you endure me?
And why, for more than forty years,
Have I put up with you?
You irritate, exasperate,
And try me: yes, you do.
Yet, I put up with you.
Come, come! Let's not prevaricate:
The reasons you know fine!
We put up with each other
For the love that's yours and mine.
So, please, Love, be my Valentine!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
20th Century Version]
Why do you put up with me?
How do you endure me?
When you know well, of all my faults
You cannot hope to cure me?
Why do you endure me?
And why, for more than forty years,
Have I put up with you?
You irritate, exasperate,
And try me: yes, you do.
Yet, I put up with you.
Come, come! Let's not prevaricate:
The reasons you know fine!
We put up with each other
For the love that's yours and mine.
So, please, Love, be my Valentine!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ST. VALENTINE'S TALE
[The onset of Spring ... ]
1. St. Valentine, a priestly chap
Sadly, lost his head:
The Romans cut it off, you see,
Which left the Bishop dead.
It seems most odd, a jest by God,
That this decapitation
Made Valentine the Patron Saint
Of mortal procreation.
1. St. Valentine, a priestly chap
Sadly, lost his head:
The Romans cut it off, you see,
Which left the Bishop dead.
It seems most odd, a jest by God,
That this decapitation
Made Valentine the Patron Saint
Of mortal procreation.
2. The year two-seventy, it was,
When Bishop Val was shortened,
With all Eternity to spend
In thinking - what he oughtn't.
In mortal life, he'd had no wife:
His ways were solitary,
So up on High, he thought he'd try
To make all lovers merry.
3. He's seen fashion mirror passion
All through the Lovers' years,
(And farthingales and bustles
Very nearly brought him tears!)
But his feast shows how well he knows
The human urge for courting
Has never ceased: the human beast
Is always ripe for sporting.
4. St. Valentine has kept his fame
For near two thousand years.
He's supervised the mating game
From laughter through to tears.
But humankind should bear in mind
When frolicking in bed,
Just what became of Valentine -
The Saint who lost his head ...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
VALENTINE VERSE
[Nearly that time again!]
St. Valentine! The inspiration
Of Poets, through each generation!
From his decease to modern times
The poor chap's had some awful rhymes ...
Try these two lines - they make me wince -
(Though worse ones have been written since -)
"Hail, Bishop Valentine, whose day this is.
All the air is thy Diocese ... !"
We can do better far than those,
For instance, we can rhyme the rose,
And moon and noon and croon and tune,
And spoon and June and honeymoon ...
Right then, my friends: our turn is come
Let's verse the Saint until he's numb!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
St. Valentine! The inspiration
Of Poets, through each generation!
From his decease to modern times
The poor chap's had some awful rhymes ...
Try these two lines - they make me wince -
(Though worse ones have been written since -)
"Hail, Bishop Valentine, whose day this is.
All the air is thy Diocese ... !"
We can do better far than those,
For instance, we can rhyme the rose,
And moon and noon and croon and tune,
And spoon and June and honeymoon ...
Right then, my friends: our turn is come
Let's verse the Saint until he's numb!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AMEN-I'VE-EATEN
[From "Caternalia", my first solo Revue]
Pharoah’s daughter had a Cat
By name: “Amen-Ive-Eaten”.
When he stole food from Pharoah’s dish,
‘Twas other cats got beaten.
Amen-Ive-Eaten’s shape was slim,
His eyes were bright and slitty,
And Pharoah’s daughter never knew
How crafty was that kitty.
He ruled o’er Pharoah’s lofty halls.
(The Pharoah then was Ptolemy),
And as he paced on slender paw
He sneered: “Who dares to follow me?”
That ‘Gyptian Cat had no respect
For Pyramids or Sphinxes.
When shown the rolling, sacred Nile,
He sniffed, and said: “It stinkses!”
He teased and worried Pharoah’s Lords,
Upset the slaves and eunuchs
By popping small Egyptian mice
Alive-O - up their tunics.
As age drew on, he took to taunts
And insults, quite explicit,
Incised on Pharoah’s mighty walls
In letters hieroglyphic.
He took the Royal Cobra on,
But age his skill had beaten.
That Cobra took one nasty bite:
Farewell, Amen-Ive-Eaten!
They tidied up his ears and paws,
Stuffed spices in his tummy.
Now he spends Eternity
With Pharoah’s Daughter’s Mummy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pharoah’s daughter had a Cat
By name: “Amen-Ive-Eaten”.
When he stole food from Pharoah’s dish,
‘Twas other cats got beaten.
Amen-Ive-Eaten’s shape was slim,
His eyes were bright and slitty,
And Pharoah’s daughter never knew
How crafty was that kitty.
He ruled o’er Pharoah’s lofty halls.
(The Pharoah then was Ptolemy),
And as he paced on slender paw
He sneered: “Who dares to follow me?”
That ‘Gyptian Cat had no respect
For Pyramids or Sphinxes.
When shown the rolling, sacred Nile,
He sniffed, and said: “It stinkses!”
He teased and worried Pharoah’s Lords,
Upset the slaves and eunuchs
By popping small Egyptian mice
Alive-O - up their tunics.
As age drew on, he took to taunts
And insults, quite explicit,
Incised on Pharoah’s mighty walls
In letters hieroglyphic.
He took the Royal Cobra on,
But age his skill had beaten.
That Cobra took one nasty bite:
Farewell, Amen-Ive-Eaten!
They tidied up his ears and paws,
Stuffed spices in his tummy.
Now he spends Eternity
With Pharoah’s Daughter’s Mummy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
HEY DIDDLE DIDDLE
[Sad Post Yule Limerick]
Hey Diddle Diddle! The whole world’s a fiddle,
With Apocalypse coming quite soon.
So I am not staying.
I’m rocket awaying
To consort with the Man in the Moon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
EMMAUS INNKEEPER
[The Supper at Emmaus, painted by Caravaggio in 1601,
brought this about. The Innkeeper speaks.]
1. Welcome, my friends, to this House at Emmaus:
My thanks for your call at my Inn.
I’ve fine wine and hot food, all simple but good:
Now, with what would you like to begin?
There’s goat stew and fresh bread, just for starters:
Would that suit? - and there’s good local wine,
Well, I know that the bread and the wine are both good,
For the hands that have made them are - mine!
2. Here’s water and towels to comfort your feet:
The road leading here is rough walking,
Then, when I have brought you your food and your wine,
I can offer you wonderful talking!
Aha! You enjoy an Innkeeper’s yarns?
Well, my favourite tale is a true one -
And though I’ve known it now for many a year,
Each telling, to me, seems a new one.
3. Right, that’s got your order all settled:
It won’t be too long - my good wife
Knows folks coming in here are hungry:
She’s worked here the whole of her life!
So now, shall I start on my story?
What’s that, Sir? You’d like some more wine?
Here’s a full pitcher just for your table,
Yes, thank you, Sir - that goblet’s mine!
4. Right, now for this story I’ll never forget,
Though I’m still puzzled quite as to why,
But - I’ll tell you all just how it happened -
Perhaps you can explain, by and by?
Remember? I couldn’t forget it! -
One minute - I must serve at the bar -
Now - ‘twas one evening, you see, when three chaps came in,
Looking weary, as travelled from far.
5. And two of ‘em well knew each other -
Though sad, they were chatting, at ease,
But the third - he was different, I can’t quite tell how,
But along with him, somehow came - peace.
They’d invited him in to share supper,
Though I saw he was not known at all,
And I wondered: we’re careful of strangers -
Well, you never know what might befall!
6. So, the three of them sat down together,
And now the two heeded the third:
He seemed like some sort of a teacher,
For the others close followed each word.
So, I brought them the meat, wine and good wheaten bread,
And they thanked me and paid up the bill,
I went back to my bar as they started their meal,
But, still wondering, kept listening still.
7. See, an Innkeeper needs to know what’s going on,
He likes to be up with the news,
It might be the one had some tale for the two,
Or perhaps was just sharing his views.
So I watched ‘em, enjoying their supper,
Till between them, the hot food was done,
Then - and this is why I remember that night -
The strangest of acts was begun.
8. ‘Twas that third man, the one who seemed teacher,
He took and broke up the good bread -
To each gave a piece, having signed a small cross
Above it, and quietly he said:
“This is my body - eat - given for you!” -
And the two stared in utter amaze,
Then they fell to their knees, crying: “Master!”
I could see their whole souls in their gaze!
9. That they’d recognised him in that action,
Those words and that breaking of bread -
Was as plain just as if he had shouted,
Though his words were so quietly said.
And I was completely astonished:
Such a thing never happened before,
And what to do next? I had no idea,
But I moved round the bar to the door.
10. I’d some thought to watch what might happen -
Would the three of them stay - or move on?
But then, as I watched - and I tell you the truth -
That third man - the Master - was gone!
But - which way and where, I had no idea,
But the two scrambled up to their feet,
Amazed, yet delighted, bemused, wild excited
Babbling: “Quick! Run! There’s friends we must meet!”
11. Well, I opened the door and I made them my bow,
And I tried to ask who was “the Master“,
But they ran down the road like fellows possessed -
Had my Inn witnessed joy - or - disaster?
But the two would not stay - they ran fast away,
And left me, friends, just - watching the door,
As I’ve done every day - you see, I think this way:
Will the Master come back, just once more?
12. Will he bless bread I’ve baked, and leave me his peace?
Will my Inn see his presence again?
I don’t know who he was, but I long to, because
Not to know him leaves longing, like pain!
So there, Sirs, I’ve told you my story
Of that evening now so long ago.
Though I don’t understand, I can tell you
Of the one thing I’m sure that I know.
13. And it’s this: through a lifetime of evenings
When I’ve worked here behind this old Bar,
Through the hundreds of travellers I’ve greeted,
Some - like your goodselves - come from far,
There has never again been a Master,
Though so briefly his presence met mine,
And I know, certain sure, I will see him again,
For the peace that he brought was - divine.
14. It may be I must wait till the day I shall die,
But I’ll always keep watching the door,
Sirs, he may walk in here any minute -
And then I’ll be waiting no more!
So, farewell, Sirs, and thanks for your visit,
Do come in when you pass - take your ease!
Perhaps one day, you could meet the Master,
And share in his glorious peace …
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
brought this about. The Innkeeper speaks.]
1. Welcome, my friends, to this House at Emmaus:
My thanks for your call at my Inn.
I’ve fine wine and hot food, all simple but good:
Now, with what would you like to begin?
There’s goat stew and fresh bread, just for starters:
Would that suit? - and there’s good local wine,
Well, I know that the bread and the wine are both good,
For the hands that have made them are - mine!
2. Here’s water and towels to comfort your feet:
The road leading here is rough walking,
Then, when I have brought you your food and your wine,
I can offer you wonderful talking!
Aha! You enjoy an Innkeeper’s yarns?
Well, my favourite tale is a true one -
And though I’ve known it now for many a year,
Each telling, to me, seems a new one.
3. Right, that’s got your order all settled:
It won’t be too long - my good wife
Knows folks coming in here are hungry:
She’s worked here the whole of her life!
So now, shall I start on my story?
What’s that, Sir? You’d like some more wine?
Here’s a full pitcher just for your table,
Yes, thank you, Sir - that goblet’s mine!
4. Right, now for this story I’ll never forget,
Though I’m still puzzled quite as to why,
But - I’ll tell you all just how it happened -
Perhaps you can explain, by and by?
Remember? I couldn’t forget it! -
One minute - I must serve at the bar -
Now - ‘twas one evening, you see, when three chaps came in,
Looking weary, as travelled from far.
5. And two of ‘em well knew each other -
Though sad, they were chatting, at ease,
But the third - he was different, I can’t quite tell how,
But along with him, somehow came - peace.
They’d invited him in to share supper,
Though I saw he was not known at all,
And I wondered: we’re careful of strangers -
Well, you never know what might befall!
6. So, the three of them sat down together,
And now the two heeded the third:
He seemed like some sort of a teacher,
For the others close followed each word.
So, I brought them the meat, wine and good wheaten bread,
And they thanked me and paid up the bill,
I went back to my bar as they started their meal,
But, still wondering, kept listening still.
7. See, an Innkeeper needs to know what’s going on,
He likes to be up with the news,
It might be the one had some tale for the two,
Or perhaps was just sharing his views.
So I watched ‘em, enjoying their supper,
Till between them, the hot food was done,
Then - and this is why I remember that night -
The strangest of acts was begun.
8. ‘Twas that third man, the one who seemed teacher,
He took and broke up the good bread -
To each gave a piece, having signed a small cross
Above it, and quietly he said:
“This is my body - eat - given for you!” -
And the two stared in utter amaze,
Then they fell to their knees, crying: “Master!”
I could see their whole souls in their gaze!
9. That they’d recognised him in that action,
Those words and that breaking of bread -
Was as plain just as if he had shouted,
Though his words were so quietly said.
And I was completely astonished:
Such a thing never happened before,
And what to do next? I had no idea,
But I moved round the bar to the door.
10. I’d some thought to watch what might happen -
Would the three of them stay - or move on?
But then, as I watched - and I tell you the truth -
That third man - the Master - was gone!
But - which way and where, I had no idea,
But the two scrambled up to their feet,
Amazed, yet delighted, bemused, wild excited
Babbling: “Quick! Run! There’s friends we must meet!”
11. Well, I opened the door and I made them my bow,
And I tried to ask who was “the Master“,
But they ran down the road like fellows possessed -
Had my Inn witnessed joy - or - disaster?
But the two would not stay - they ran fast away,
And left me, friends, just - watching the door,
As I’ve done every day - you see, I think this way:
Will the Master come back, just once more?
12. Will he bless bread I’ve baked, and leave me his peace?
Will my Inn see his presence again?
I don’t know who he was, but I long to, because
Not to know him leaves longing, like pain!
So there, Sirs, I’ve told you my story
Of that evening now so long ago.
Though I don’t understand, I can tell you
Of the one thing I’m sure that I know.
13. And it’s this: through a lifetime of evenings
When I’ve worked here behind this old Bar,
Through the hundreds of travellers I’ve greeted,
Some - like your goodselves - come from far,
There has never again been a Master,
Though so briefly his presence met mine,
And I know, certain sure, I will see him again,
For the peace that he brought was - divine.
14. It may be I must wait till the day I shall die,
But I’ll always keep watching the door,
Sirs, he may walk in here any minute -
And then I’ll be waiting no more!
So, farewell, Sirs, and thanks for your visit,
Do come in when you pass - take your ease!
Perhaps one day, you could meet the Master,
And share in his glorious peace …
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PYLON PROTEST
[And they are on the increase ... ]
What a hideous beast is the Pylon:
Vast elbows and knees on the skyline.
Whether useful or not,
To me it’s a blot
Which I’ve written this verse for reviling.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What a hideous beast is the Pylon:
Vast elbows and knees on the skyline.
Whether useful or not,
To me it’s a blot
Which I’ve written this verse for reviling.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TIGER TIM
[From "Caternalia", my first solo revue, written many years ago.]
I had a little pussy cat:
I called him "Tiger Tim",
Which wasn't very sensible
'Cos he was her, not him.
He wasn't really striped at all,
But kind of black and mangy,
And though he stuffed his kite all day
He still stayed thin and mangy.
He hadn't any pretty tricks,
My little Tiger Tim,
He sort of sulked around the place,
Bored, and sad, and dim.
Then that great mouse'ole in the sky
Called home my Tiger Tim.
Now my hot bottle's furry cover
'S a fitting end for him.
(It keeps me feet warm, too.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I had a little pussy cat:
I called him "Tiger Tim",
Which wasn't very sensible
'Cos he was her, not him.
He wasn't really striped at all,
But kind of black and mangy,
And though he stuffed his kite all day
He still stayed thin and mangy.
He hadn't any pretty tricks,
My little Tiger Tim,
He sort of sulked around the place,
Bored, and sad, and dim.
Then that great mouse'ole in the sky
Called home my Tiger Tim.
Now my hot bottle's furry cover
'S a fitting end for him.
(It keeps me feet warm, too.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
MYSELF WHEN YOUNG
[Anyone recognise themselves?]
When I was little, I blundered along,
Sometimes I was right, but more usually wrong.
I fell out of trees and I fell into water,
My Mother despaired of her tough tomboy daughter.
I crashed on my bike and I broke my poor nose,
I tripped with the kettle and scalded my toes.
I shattered the crockery, battered the paint:
My young escapades would have saddened a Saint.
But now I am old, I can look back and see
The innocent urchin that really was me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I was little, I blundered along,
Sometimes I was right, but more usually wrong.
I fell out of trees and I fell into water,
My Mother despaired of her tough tomboy daughter.
I crashed on my bike and I broke my poor nose,
I tripped with the kettle and scalded my toes.
I shattered the crockery, battered the paint:
My young escapades would have saddened a Saint.
But now I am old, I can look back and see
The innocent urchin that really was me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
DOCENDO DISCIMIS
[Ah yes, I remember it well ... 1939 to 1948]
School beloved, school long vanished, never from our memory banished.
Country school, most truly rural, (long before the spray-can mural!)
“Docendo Discimus” our blazon, which we dear children in re-phrasing
Construed, and deemed it clever stuff,
“CATCH ‘EM YOUNG AND TREAT ‘EM ROUGH.”
Assembly first, the day’s beginning, list read out of those caught sinning …
Then to prayers, the way to God, all heads bowed, none thought it odd.
Into cloakrooms, plimsoll smelling, shrill young voices, young tales telling.
Satchels, boots, flung helter-skelter, “Pick that up, ready for the Shelter!”
Keen eyed staff, firm orders giving, showing us our plan for living.
Rush to classrooms, chitter-chatter, open desks with noisy clatter.
Black-gowned staff, respect demanding, “Order, class!” their firm commanding.
Wall hung blackboards, white chalk screeching, all embark on learning, teaching -
Siren’s howling cuts the air: “To the Shelters!” - off we tear.
“All Clear” screaming, back indoors, sturdy boots pound wooden floors.
Playground battles, feuds and games, call each other nasty names …
School of sport, with victors lauded, favourites winning, loud applauded …
School of stage plays, fine speech training: platform voices each one gaining.
School unmoved by wartime crises, making do with strange devices.
School beloved, when we left you, of our presence we bereft you,
Others came to take our places, glad receivers of your graces.
Six decades later, still we meet, grey, grown aged, no more fleet,
But our nineteen forty class happy reminiscence pass.
“I remember - you do too - deeds of mischief we would do,
Bringing teachers to despair - bang the desk and tear the hair … !”
“Good lot, really though, our staff: stern-faced Head - who made us laugh!
Taught us what we ought to know, ensured we knew which way to go …”
Old School Song aloud we sing, once more we make the rafters ring.
Could we bring back by heartfelt longing School to which we were belonging,
We would trust our children to you, find their way to good life through you.
We need you here with us today - why could you not forever stay?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
School beloved, school long vanished, never from our memory banished.
Country school, most truly rural, (long before the spray-can mural!)
“Docendo Discimus” our blazon, which we dear children in re-phrasing
Construed, and deemed it clever stuff,
“CATCH ‘EM YOUNG AND TREAT ‘EM ROUGH.”
Assembly first, the day’s beginning, list read out of those caught sinning …
Then to prayers, the way to God, all heads bowed, none thought it odd.
Into cloakrooms, plimsoll smelling, shrill young voices, young tales telling.
Satchels, boots, flung helter-skelter, “Pick that up, ready for the Shelter!”
Keen eyed staff, firm orders giving, showing us our plan for living.
Rush to classrooms, chitter-chatter, open desks with noisy clatter.
Black-gowned staff, respect demanding, “Order, class!” their firm commanding.
Wall hung blackboards, white chalk screeching, all embark on learning, teaching -
Siren’s howling cuts the air: “To the Shelters!” - off we tear.
“All Clear” screaming, back indoors, sturdy boots pound wooden floors.
Playground battles, feuds and games, call each other nasty names …
School of sport, with victors lauded, favourites winning, loud applauded …
School of stage plays, fine speech training: platform voices each one gaining.
School unmoved by wartime crises, making do with strange devices.
School beloved, when we left you, of our presence we bereft you,
Others came to take our places, glad receivers of your graces.
Six decades later, still we meet, grey, grown aged, no more fleet,
But our nineteen forty class happy reminiscence pass.
“I remember - you do too - deeds of mischief we would do,
Bringing teachers to despair - bang the desk and tear the hair … !”
“Good lot, really though, our staff: stern-faced Head - who made us laugh!
Taught us what we ought to know, ensured we knew which way to go …”
Old School Song aloud we sing, once more we make the rafters ring.
Could we bring back by heartfelt longing School to which we were belonging,
We would trust our children to you, find their way to good life through you.
We need you here with us today - why could you not forever stay?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ANNUAL AUDIT
[The year is dead: long live the New Year ... ]
1. January brings post-Yule:
Misery is mankind's rule.
Wallet sagging, waistline bulging,
Bank its gleeful red divulging.
1. January brings post-Yule:
Misery is mankind's rule.
Wallet sagging, waistline bulging,
Bank its gleeful red divulging.
2. February is no better:
Comes the red reminder letter.
Days grow colder, not surprising
Heating bills are up and rising.
3. March limps in like frozen lamb:
Tasteless, cold, not worth a damn.
Everybody plans vacations,
Catches ‘flu with complications.
4. April brings no hint of Spring:
The quarter's bills have all rolled in.
Totals mount to figures drastic,
Overshooting even plastic.
5. May's drear days damp out all passion,
Last year's clothes are out of fashion.
Can't afford to stock with new ones.
Wardrobe plans are sad, make-do ones.
6. June arrives with sneezing shriek:
National Hay Fever Week.
Blotting out all other issue:
Blow the cost and pass the tissue.
7. July ends the old school year,
Unemployed kids far and near.
Parents cost wrecked uniform:
Got to pay for Benidorm.
8. August - off on hols we go!
Planes and trains aren't there, or slow.
And the extras on the bill
Next year we'll be paying still.
9. September sees the start of Fall:
Wages, spirits, leaves and all
And with darksome nights once more,
Bigger fuel bills through the door.
10. October brings us winter chills,
Swapping all infectious ills,
Quarter’s bills still wait in line,
Wolf at door is doing fine.
11. November: time to raise some credit.
Lighten debt but never shed it.
Winter bites us in the neck,
Budget is a total wreck.
12. December all too soon is here:
Happy Christmas! Glad New Year!
New the date, but old the rule:
January brings post-Yule …
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
GORSE FORCE
[Lore from Mother and Grandmother ... ]
In Winter, Spring and Summer,
(Though mainly in the Fall),
The golden gorse keeps flowering.
It never stops at all.
I’ve asked a lot of people,
But I’ve only heard one reason:
Gorse will never flower
When kissing’s out of season.
Despite my looks in great big books,
The explanation’s missing,
So you, dear friends, just watch the gorse,
While I enjoy the kissing …
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE BALLAD OF GERALD 13
[Written at the request of the Restorers
of the beautiful Narrowboat, Gerald 13.
May be sung to the tune of The Ballad of Bethnal Green]
We will tell you a tale of a Narrowboat, by name the Gerald Thirteen.
Don’t be misled by the name we’ve said,
For this boat is a regular Queen!
But such are the ways on the waterways
That a boat is always “She”,
And a finer, sweeter Narrowboat you could never hope to see!
Refrain: So tell/sing the tale, the busy, busy tale
Of the Narrowboat Gerald Thirteen.
She has travelled the ways, oh the busy waterways, for a century and more,
And the bloke who bought her first was called
(Yes, believe it!) Mr. Noah!
And Gerald’s been a working girl
Since first her keel was laid,
Hauling pipes and chains for the groaning cranes in a Joey Boat’s busy trade.
Refrain
Now, Gerald was made, once her keel was laid, of wood and iron and steel.
At seventy feet, she’s trim and neat,
With a perfect ship-shape feel.
A neat cabin aft in this nifty craft
Has delicious works of art,
And Gerald Thirteen, in the waterways scene, will completely steal your heart.
Refrain
Now our little pot, our empty little pot needs a golden coin or two,
Our Canals depend for the cash we can spend
On help from the likes of you.
What you can spare, put it all in there, for Canals Restoration Fund,
Then Gerald Thirteen can stay upon the scene, to delight us, every one!
So come and see this delightful Narrowboat, whose name is the Gerald Thirteen,
And get the feel, from the cabin to the keel,
Of a real live waterways Queen.
She’s moored nearby, and we hope you’ll try
To come and have a look on board,
When you’ll find she’s neat and so sweet and complete,
That your look is its own reward!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
of the beautiful Narrowboat, Gerald 13.
May be sung to the tune of The Ballad of Bethnal Green]
We will tell you a tale of a Narrowboat, by name the Gerald Thirteen.
Don’t be misled by the name we’ve said,
For this boat is a regular Queen!
But such are the ways on the waterways
That a boat is always “She”,
And a finer, sweeter Narrowboat you could never hope to see!
Refrain: So tell/sing the tale, the busy, busy tale
Of the Narrowboat Gerald Thirteen.
She has travelled the ways, oh the busy waterways, for a century and more,
And the bloke who bought her first was called
(Yes, believe it!) Mr. Noah!
And Gerald’s been a working girl
Since first her keel was laid,
Hauling pipes and chains for the groaning cranes in a Joey Boat’s busy trade.
Refrain
Now, Gerald was made, once her keel was laid, of wood and iron and steel.
At seventy feet, she’s trim and neat,
With a perfect ship-shape feel.
A neat cabin aft in this nifty craft
Has delicious works of art,
And Gerald Thirteen, in the waterways scene, will completely steal your heart.
Refrain
Now our little pot, our empty little pot needs a golden coin or two,
Our Canals depend for the cash we can spend
On help from the likes of you.
What you can spare, put it all in there, for Canals Restoration Fund,
Then Gerald Thirteen can stay upon the scene, to delight us, every one!
So come and see this delightful Narrowboat, whose name is the Gerald Thirteen,
And get the feel, from the cabin to the keel,
Of a real live waterways Queen.
She’s moored nearby, and we hope you’ll try
To come and have a look on board,
When you’ll find she’s neat and so sweet and complete,
That your look is its own reward!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
WORDS ON THE WAY
[Ode to the SatNav?]
Upon a trip vehicular
I chose a way orbicular.
Well done - I see you've worked that out -
I drove around a roundabout.
My book, abisidarian
Showed ways that I could vary on.
That means the roads there were for me
Were set out in my A to Zee.
Then operatives, triturating
Sabotaged my navigating.
That's it - whichever way I went,
That way the Road Works had been sent.
The routes became too various
And verged on the hilarious.
My divagations now were drastic.
(To hint at mirth is just sarcastic.)
So, too sesquipedalian
I'd been on routes, all alien.
My destination ultimate
Achieved at last, I was too late.
The moral is: don't be beguiled
By ways or words too long, my child.
Go always by the shortest route:
You'll get there, and save breath to boot.
(My taste for great verbosity,
And verbal adiposity,
Will one day surely cause my death.
I shall expire from lack of breath.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE ROAD
[Hurried account of a short life]
Born in Bethlehem, bundled off to Egypt,
Rough and ready journey for a new baby boy.
Tumbling up in Nazareth, learning at the synagogue,
Mary’s precious darling and Joseph’s cherished joy.
Growing up to twelve years, the road now to Jerusalem,
Sat among the doctors to debate their lore,
Then home and grown to manhood, and to the Jordan river,
Baptised by Cousin John at the stony shore.
Gathered his companions, set off through the countryside,
Journeyed, teaching, preaching, walking far and wide,
Spread the word through Cana, Emaus, Nazareth,
All across to Galilee, the great lakeside.
Back again to Bethany, the homely homestead,
Calling back to life the friend the world thought dead.
The road went always onward, the great crowds ever grew
With comfort and with healing, making all things new.
Now into to Jerusalem, the joyous, shouting entry:
”Halleluia!” crying as the palm fronds wave,
Healing for the blind man, the road goes on its wending,
As foretold in prophesy, his life is near its ending.
Supper for the twelve, his friends, ready in the upper room:
A happy evening gathering, yet shadowed now with coming doom.
Capture in the garden, the road‘s end swiftly nearing,
Company of soldiers, sneering, mocking, jeering.
Locked up without trial in a sightless cell,
Nightlong lonely agony, glimpse of hell.
Dragged out in the morning, stripped for the bloody scourge,
Around him: “Off to Calvary!” the wild mob yelling urge.
Dying on the cross as the world falls silent,
Not the end, but the beginning of his mighty load,
For this he was born, for this he has come, and for this
He travels yet with us along the endless road.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Born in Bethlehem, bundled off to Egypt,
Rough and ready journey for a new baby boy.
Tumbling up in Nazareth, learning at the synagogue,
Mary’s precious darling and Joseph’s cherished joy.
Growing up to twelve years, the road now to Jerusalem,
Sat among the doctors to debate their lore,
Then home and grown to manhood, and to the Jordan river,
Baptised by Cousin John at the stony shore.
Gathered his companions, set off through the countryside,
Journeyed, teaching, preaching, walking far and wide,
Spread the word through Cana, Emaus, Nazareth,
All across to Galilee, the great lakeside.
Back again to Bethany, the homely homestead,
Calling back to life the friend the world thought dead.
The road went always onward, the great crowds ever grew
With comfort and with healing, making all things new.
Now into to Jerusalem, the joyous, shouting entry:
”Halleluia!” crying as the palm fronds wave,
Healing for the blind man, the road goes on its wending,
As foretold in prophesy, his life is near its ending.
Supper for the twelve, his friends, ready in the upper room:
A happy evening gathering, yet shadowed now with coming doom.
Capture in the garden, the road‘s end swiftly nearing,
Company of soldiers, sneering, mocking, jeering.
Locked up without trial in a sightless cell,
Nightlong lonely agony, glimpse of hell.
Dragged out in the morning, stripped for the bloody scourge,
Around him: “Off to Calvary!” the wild mob yelling urge.
Dying on the cross as the world falls silent,
Not the end, but the beginning of his mighty load,
For this he was born, for this he has come, and for this
He travels yet with us along the endless road.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
UPSTAGED
[I knew him well ... ]
An Actor declared his conclusion
That first night mishaps were illusion,
Till, on stage and at table,
He bit through a cable.
Now his teeth are in permanent fusion.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An Actor declared his conclusion
That first night mishaps were illusion,
Till, on stage and at table,
He bit through a cable.
Now his teeth are in permanent fusion.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SCRIBE
[An aged Monk sits in his scriptorium, exhausted by his labours on some work of enduring beauty, perhaps the Book of Kells. He wipes his reed clean, checks with loving care that the vellum before him, its great capital letter illuminated in glowing red and gold, is safely dry. He sighs - the day has been long, his old bones ache, his old eyes are wearied by the flickering light of the torches blown in the draughts whistling around his old, tonsured head - but
another page is completed, for the eternal glory of God and the enduring joy of His people ... ]
My pen went riding, riding home,
Over the shell-backed Gospel tome.
The romance, the beauty of that great Book
Voiceless, to my very heart I took.
The diaphanous image of my mirrored soul
Fell in a shower to the chalice bowl.
As February's chill presaged the choice
Of the way, clear-painted by Ash Wednesday's voice,
When the fill of the cornucopia was done,
And redemption rose with the Easter sun.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My pen went riding, riding home,
Over the shell-backed Gospel tome.
The romance, the beauty of that great Book
Voiceless, to my very heart I took.
The diaphanous image of my mirrored soul
Fell in a shower to the chalice bowl.
As February's chill presaged the choice
Of the way, clear-painted by Ash Wednesday's voice,
When the fill of the cornucopia was done,
And redemption rose with the Easter sun.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CHORALE
[And what a wonderful sound it is!]
There is praise from the crypt to the spire
As the trebles rise higher and higher,
And the tenors and basses
Fill God’s blessed spaces
With the pure, soaring notes of the Choir.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There is praise from the crypt to the spire
As the trebles rise higher and higher,
And the tenors and basses
Fill God’s blessed spaces
With the pure, soaring notes of the Choir.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
HEYDAY
[A long time ago, my country childhood,
but the memory lives forever]
Fringe of hair on the great round hoof
Treading the stubbled hay.
Creak of wood on the great round wheel
Rolling the rickyard way.
Along the lane where the trees arch over,
Smell of sweat and of dry sweet clover.
Dusty sorrel on the rut-scored edge,
Wisps caught up on the broad green hedge.
Fringe of hair on the great round hoof
Treading the stubbled hay.
Creak of wood on the great round wheel
Rolling the rickyard way.
Along the lane where the trees arch over,
Smell of sweat and of dry sweet clover.
Dusty sorrel on the rut-scored edge,
Wisps caught up on the broad green hedge.
Fringe of hair on my young damp brow,
Shading my young bright eyes.
Hayseeds stuck in my ears and sandals,
Drowsy buzzing of flies.
Crunch of boots on the lane's rough surface,
Tread behind the wagon with steadfast purpose.
Bounce on the load and never fall!
Here is the rickyard - come down all!
Gone is the hoof with the fringe of hair,
And the hay is baled tight round.
Gone is the wheel creak, gone the boot crunch,
Smothered by the tractor's sound.
Gone is the rutted, hay-wisped byway:
The road past the farm is a six-lane highway.
The fringe on my dry, lined brow is white,
Yet still I see the haytime light.
Huge machines that the young men drive
Swallow up the sunripe hay.
Swathe of the hayfield gone forever,
Gulped by the motorway.
But the cows still munch the hay as they choose to,
Snatch the wisps from the tufts as they used to.
Look in my heart: they are all safe there,
The hoof and the wheel and my young damp hair.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SET UP
[Useful chap, this]
A talented young set designer
Said: “No-one builds sets that are finer.
Give me paint and some pails
And some ancient bent nails,
And I’ll build you a whole ocean liner!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A talented young set designer
Said: “No-one builds sets that are finer.
Give me paint and some pails
And some ancient bent nails,
And I’ll build you a whole ocean liner!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THERE ARE FOUR CORNERS ...
[or Towering Verse]
My Tower stands foursquare upon
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
These my strength, my hope, my guide:
One brought me help upon each side.
Matthew for the Northern face
Imbued his plans with skill and grace.
First with Gospel, first with plan:
With his help, so I began.
The Southern face St. Mark inspired -
His Patron Peter so desired.
His wing-ed lion set my thoughts free:
The Second Gospel Mark showed me.
Physician Luke wrought on the East
Great skills for this God-praising feast.
His was the Gospel written third.
My Tower in stone enshrines the Word.
The Western side, a dream by John,
He whom the Lord relied upon.
His Gospel, written fourth and last,
Ensures the Tower stands ever fast.
Four sides this Tower needs to stand.
Four Gospels, words by Heaven planned.
These I have built my life upon:
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
[Thomas Seabroke Annabelleque feciunt]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My Tower stands foursquare upon
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
These my strength, my hope, my guide:
One brought me help upon each side.
Matthew for the Northern face
Imbued his plans with skill and grace.
First with Gospel, first with plan:
With his help, so I began.
The Southern face St. Mark inspired -
His Patron Peter so desired.
His wing-ed lion set my thoughts free:
The Second Gospel Mark showed me.
Physician Luke wrought on the East
Great skills for this God-praising feast.
His was the Gospel written third.
My Tower in stone enshrines the Word.
The Western side, a dream by John,
He whom the Lord relied upon.
His Gospel, written fourth and last,
Ensures the Tower stands ever fast.
Four sides this Tower needs to stand.
Four Gospels, words by Heaven planned.
These I have built my life upon:
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
[Thomas Seabroke Annabelleque feciunt]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
USEFUL OR NOT?
[Bit of an identity crisis?]
At the risk of becoming a bore,
Dear Lord, may I ask one thing more?
Despite blessings abundant,
I feel quite redundant.
Please, Lord, tell me what I am for?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At the risk of becoming a bore,
Dear Lord, may I ask one thing more?
Despite blessings abundant,
I feel quite redundant.
Please, Lord, tell me what I am for?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
MY SONS
[Or yours?]
Dear Lord, when You sent me two sons
For me to shape their living,
How dared You trust so much to me,
Unfitted for such giving?
For I, dear Lord, don't know myself
What life is really sent for:
How could I teach to other souls
What purpose they were meant for?
I tried for each to shape his life
To cope with blow or blessing,
But did my very trying make
My care too cold, too stressing?
I'm flawed and faulted, Lord, my life
A muddled and lack-willed one:
How could I hope to get them right,
Those young days of my children?
Should I have shown more loving, Lord,
More soft and gentle guiding?
But, Lord, I sought to arm my boys
For this world's harsh abiding.
Did futile, fond anxiety
O'er shadow all my caring?
A coward mother, Lord, I feared -
And do still - for their faring.
And now, Lord, when they're grown and gone,
Forgive them for my errors.
In mercy, pardon them the faults
Engendered by my terrors.
Don't burden them for my mistakes:
They didn't choose their mother.
But thank You, Lord - You dared that risk.
You chose me, and none other.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Lord, when You sent me two sons
For me to shape their living,
How dared You trust so much to me,
Unfitted for such giving?
For I, dear Lord, don't know myself
What life is really sent for:
How could I teach to other souls
What purpose they were meant for?
I tried for each to shape his life
To cope with blow or blessing,
But did my very trying make
My care too cold, too stressing?
I'm flawed and faulted, Lord, my life
A muddled and lack-willed one:
How could I hope to get them right,
Those young days of my children?
Should I have shown more loving, Lord,
More soft and gentle guiding?
But, Lord, I sought to arm my boys
For this world's harsh abiding.
Did futile, fond anxiety
O'er shadow all my caring?
A coward mother, Lord, I feared -
And do still - for their faring.
And now, Lord, when they're grown and gone,
Forgive them for my errors.
In mercy, pardon them the faults
Engendered by my terrors.
Don't burden them for my mistakes:
They didn't choose their mother.
But thank You, Lord - You dared that risk.
You chose me, and none other.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THOUGHTFUL LIMERICK
[Makes you think, hmmm?]
My friends, may I tell you just what
A curious thought I have got?
That the birds and the bees
And the clouds and the trees
Will all be still here, when I’m not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My friends, may I tell you just what
A curious thought I have got?
That the birds and the bees
And the clouds and the trees
Will all be still here, when I’m not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
LAUDATE SANCTI PERNICOLI
[A tribute to those who dust and clean
and polish in our beloved Cathedral -
the "Holy Dusters"]
We hags with rags from plastic bags,
We clean where we are bidden;
We rub and scrub and scour and seek
In corners dark and hidden.
With toothbrush, nailbrush, pad and bud
We poke and prod and labour
In carvings sharp of lute and harp
And pipe and drum and tabor.
No lurking dust escapes our eye,
No smudge evades our view:
With creaking knees - and wax from bees -
All things are made as new.
And as we buff (and huff and puff!)
We think of those before us
Who’ve laboured too to make anew
This House of God most glorious.
And do they watch, those gone before,
And do we work as they did?
And did their knees, like ours, seek ease -
And were their nails abraded?
And when their work was all complete,
With every surface gleaming,
Did they think then as we think now:
“There! That was worth the cleaning!”
We know that, through the years, the Lord
Sees cleaning as our praising:
He sees, and smiles, and understands
The dust we can’t help raising!
From roof to floor, for evermore,
From crypt up to triforium,
We hags with bags will use our rags
Ad Magnam Dei Gloriam!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We hags with rags from plastic bags,
We clean where we are bidden;
We rub and scrub and scour and seek
In corners dark and hidden.
With toothbrush, nailbrush, pad and bud
We poke and prod and labour
In carvings sharp of lute and harp
And pipe and drum and tabor.
No lurking dust escapes our eye,
No smudge evades our view:
With creaking knees - and wax from bees -
All things are made as new.
And as we buff (and huff and puff!)
We think of those before us
Who’ve laboured too to make anew
This House of God most glorious.
And do they watch, those gone before,
And do we work as they did?
And did their knees, like ours, seek ease -
And were their nails abraded?
And when their work was all complete,
With every surface gleaming,
Did they think then as we think now:
“There! That was worth the cleaning!”
We know that, through the years, the Lord
Sees cleaning as our praising:
He sees, and smiles, and understands
The dust we can’t help raising!
From roof to floor, for evermore,
From crypt up to triforium,
We hags with bags will use our rags
Ad Magnam Dei Gloriam!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CREATION CONTEMPLATION
[Vague thoughts ... ]
Said the Lord, as He gazed on Creation,
“They all seem quite hell-bent on damnation.
They’re wrecking my Heaven,
To use as a leaven
Global warming and endless inflation!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Said the Lord, as He gazed on Creation,
“They all seem quite hell-bent on damnation.
They’re wrecking my Heaven,
To use as a leaven
Global warming and endless inflation!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
WINTER: WHO NEEDS IT?
[November - here it comes ... ]
Why are the months of Winter twice as long as those of Spring?
And why do feckless poets eulogise the beastly thing?
In the bracing days of Winter do I write a lively ballad?
No. I snuggle by my fireside and I brood of broth, not salad.
Is there poets' inspiration in a hail-lashed shrieking storm?
No - there's only desperation for one's person to be warm.
On a grey, wet morn in Winter as I pull my thermal vest on,
Do I pause to patter poems? No. I rush to get the rest on.
My poor fingers they are chilblained and my pipes they are a-freezing,
My joints have all got rising damp, my nose it won't stop sneezing.
Dark the evenings grow and darker, ever earlier getting late,
And the nights go on forever, endless, cold, and chill as hate.
The majesty of Winter inspires in me no ode:
When the dear Lord made the Winter, did he have to make it cold?
So, should you ask do I like Winter, shall I rhapsodise? I won't.
I'll reply in prose, and coldly. Do I like it? No, I don't.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Why are the months of Winter twice as long as those of Spring?
And why do feckless poets eulogise the beastly thing?
In the bracing days of Winter do I write a lively ballad?
No. I snuggle by my fireside and I brood of broth, not salad.
Is there poets' inspiration in a hail-lashed shrieking storm?
No - there's only desperation for one's person to be warm.
On a grey, wet morn in Winter as I pull my thermal vest on,
Do I pause to patter poems? No. I rush to get the rest on.
My poor fingers they are chilblained and my pipes they are a-freezing,
My joints have all got rising damp, my nose it won't stop sneezing.
Dark the evenings grow and darker, ever earlier getting late,
And the nights go on forever, endless, cold, and chill as hate.
The majesty of Winter inspires in me no ode:
When the dear Lord made the Winter, did he have to make it cold?
So, should you ask do I like Winter, shall I rhapsodise? I won't.
I'll reply in prose, and coldly. Do I like it? No, I don't.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SHEETS OF MEMORY
[Perhaps bittersweet, but true]
The calendar of my memory holds
Folded each close-packed sheet,
And I look through each day, my life’s long day,
And I trace the way, my life’s long way
Through a palimpsest of shades of grey
As the friends of my life I meet.
And I wish, when the Lord made memory,
He had thought of one thing more:
I wish he had planned - but it’s too late now
For never will man discover how
To forget, no matter how firm his vow,
And to slam shut memory’s door.
There’s so much, in the sheets of my memory,
That I love as I love life,
And yet there’s a day I would wipe away,
Tear the sheet from my memory, blot out that day,
The day when my darling was gone away,
And I became widow, not wife.
So, Lord, if you’re busy folding yet
New calendars of memory, pain and fret,
Could you please include, as a gift to man,
(It would be a joy and a gift to man,
A blessing and a shrift to man)
The ability to forget?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The calendar of my memory holds
Folded each close-packed sheet,
And I look through each day, my life’s long day,
And I trace the way, my life’s long way
Through a palimpsest of shades of grey
As the friends of my life I meet.
And I wish, when the Lord made memory,
He had thought of one thing more:
I wish he had planned - but it’s too late now
For never will man discover how
To forget, no matter how firm his vow,
And to slam shut memory’s door.
There’s so much, in the sheets of my memory,
That I love as I love life,
And yet there’s a day I would wipe away,
Tear the sheet from my memory, blot out that day,
The day when my darling was gone away,
And I became widow, not wife.
So, Lord, if you’re busy folding yet
New calendars of memory, pain and fret,
Could you please include, as a gift to man,
(It would be a joy and a gift to man,
A blessing and a shrift to man)
The ability to forget?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
GROWING PAINS
[Anyone else feel like this?]
I think I’ve got to own up,
Before one day I’m shown up,
That I haven’t really grown up.
I’m a fake.
Being grown up might be jolly,
But for this foolish, childish wally
The whole idea is folly -
A mistake.
I wish that I’d been taught to be
The grown up that I ought to be,
As adult as I’m thought to be.
I’m not.
One thought brings me some comfort,
[It’s a very odd and rum thought],
Are the others all in some sort
Of a plot?
Are all grown ups just pretending,
A pretence there’s no amending,
Are they children without ending,
Like me?
Well, like them I won’t be shown up,
And none of us will own up.
We’re pretending to be grown up,
Aren’t we?
~~~~~~~
I think I’ve got to own up,
Before one day I’m shown up,
That I haven’t really grown up.
I’m a fake.
Being grown up might be jolly,
But for this foolish, childish wally
The whole idea is folly -
A mistake.
I wish that I’d been taught to be
The grown up that I ought to be,
As adult as I’m thought to be.
I’m not.
One thought brings me some comfort,
[It’s a very odd and rum thought],
Are the others all in some sort
Of a plot?
Are all grown ups just pretending,
A pretence there’s no amending,
Are they children without ending,
Like me?
Well, like them I won’t be shown up,
And none of us will own up.
We’re pretending to be grown up,
Aren’t we?
~~~~~~~
PONDERING
[Anyone got an answer?]
I know I’m a mindless old clod
When I ponder the greatness of God.
Can His mercy infinite
Enfold me within it?
That’s a thought to this clod that’s most odd.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I know I’m a mindless old clod
When I ponder the greatness of God.
Can His mercy infinite
Enfold me within it?
That’s a thought to this clod that’s most odd.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
HAIKO FREE
[The truth is, of course, that I find
the Haiko quite incomprehensible]
I cannot relate to the Haiko,
Although I may earnestly try to.
Instead I will stick
With the dear Limerick,
So, fond final farewell to the Haiko.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the Haiko quite incomprehensible]
I cannot relate to the Haiko,
Although I may earnestly try to.
Instead I will stick
With the dear Limerick,
So, fond final farewell to the Haiko.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CLERIHEW
[Having tried for years to write
just one of these, only this one has
emerged so far. I shall go on
trying.]
The man who wrote the clerihew
Wrote sapient rhymes, but far too few.
The reason I can’t write like him
Is he was bright and I am dim.
His name was Edmund Clerihew Bentley.
Please treat his memory very gently.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
just one of these, only this one has
emerged so far. I shall go on
trying.]
The man who wrote the clerihew
Wrote sapient rhymes, but far too few.
The reason I can’t write like him
Is he was bright and I am dim.
His name was Edmund Clerihew Bentley.
Please treat his memory very gently.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE BALLAD OF POOR NEDDY TWO
[Frivolous version]
Poor Neddy Two
Had a miserable do
When his chums all got into a passion,
And they finished him off
With a jeer and a scoff
In a very uncomfortable fashion.
They left him around
On an odd bit of ground
Till his environs turned rather nasty,
Then they called up some monks
(Big strong muscular hunks),
And they carted him off, pretty hasty.
“Now, where shall we dump him?”
They all asked each other.
“There’s got to be somewhere to shrine him!”
His lad, Neddy Three,
Said: “Oy! Hark to me,
And I’ll tell you just where to confine him!”
‘Cos Ned Three had looked round,
And quite quickly had found
In Gloucester an ambula-tory
In a ‘normous Church there
Which had spaces to spare,
And he’d said: “There’s the place for Dad’s story!”
So they came and they delved
(While all else just got shelved),
And Ned Two being dead was a fine thing,
‘Cos the money rolled in
Just to make up for sin,
And for Ned Two they built a great shrine thing!
Now, Neddy Two’s Queen
Quite horrid had been,
So Ned Three was well chuffed to have lost her,
And he said: “I’m that glad:
That we’ve tucked up our Dad
In this gorgeous great shrine, here in Gloucester!”
~~~-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Poor Neddy Two
Had a miserable do
When his chums all got into a passion,
And they finished him off
With a jeer and a scoff
In a very uncomfortable fashion.
They left him around
On an odd bit of ground
Till his environs turned rather nasty,
Then they called up some monks
(Big strong muscular hunks),
And they carted him off, pretty hasty.
“Now, where shall we dump him?”
They all asked each other.
“There’s got to be somewhere to shrine him!”
His lad, Neddy Three,
Said: “Oy! Hark to me,
And I’ll tell you just where to confine him!”
‘Cos Ned Three had looked round,
And quite quickly had found
In Gloucester an ambula-tory
In a ‘normous Church there
Which had spaces to spare,
And he’d said: “There’s the place for Dad’s story!”
So they came and they delved
(While all else just got shelved),
And Ned Two being dead was a fine thing,
‘Cos the money rolled in
Just to make up for sin,
And for Ned Two they built a great shrine thing!
Now, Neddy Two’s Queen
Quite horrid had been,
So Ned Three was well chuffed to have lost her,
And he said: “I’m that glad:
That we’ve tucked up our Dad
In this gorgeous great shrine, here in Gloucester!”
~~~-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE LONELY KING
[Edward 11 is the only Monarch to
have been buried far from his Peers,
who rest in peace at Windsor]
Edward the Second sleeps all alone,
Bowered in pinnacles, pillowed on stone,
Safe sepulchred here in holy ground.
While priest and prelate lie all around.
Of fellow Monarchs he has no fear,
For they lie far from his marble bier.
The peace that he sought in his troubled life
Enwraps him safe now, absolved from strife.
Where the dead Kings lie, he needs no space,
For here is his own most hallowed place.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Edward the Second sleeps all alone,
Bowered in pinnacles, pillowed on stone,
Safe sepulchred here in holy ground.
While priest and prelate lie all around.
Of fellow Monarchs he has no fear,
For they lie far from his marble bier.
The peace that he sought in his troubled life
Enwraps him safe now, absolved from strife.
Where the dead Kings lie, he needs no space,
For here is his own most hallowed place.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TOO YOUNG FOR A CROWN
[Henry 111, son of King John, was crowned in the
Abbey Church at Gloucester, later renamed
Gloucester Cathedral, in 1216. This was to be
the only coronation held outside London.
The young King was nine years old.]
The day that they crowned me here wasn’t much fun,
Though I am the King, when all’s said and done.
But did ever you think of the fate that was mine,
To be crowned as a King when my years were just nine?
Gold robes they put on me, stiff, scratchy and prickly,
And that made my back and my front feel all tickly.
There were old Lords around me, silk robed and so grand,
But I wanted my Mother there, holding my hand.
The Lords said: “Sit here!”, and then: “Stand up there!”
Then they plonked me down hard in a big high gold chair.
I wasn’t to speak until they said I could -
They treated me just like a puppet of wood.
The crown didn’t fit - it fell over my ears,
But I didn’t complain - Princes aren’t allowed tears.
Mother pulled a gold circlet off her own arm,
She said: “Please use this one - this can’t do him harm!”
And I smiled and I smiled, as they said that I must,
Till my face felt as stiff as an overbaked crust.
Then I said, just because they had all told me to:
“I am trusting myself to God and to you!”
The crowd in this Abbey all shouted and waved,
And the Lords told each other: “The Kingdom is saved!”
Me? I was so tired, all I thought of was sleeping,
But too many people watch round me were keeping.
At last I was tucked in the huge great Royal Bed,
And a funny odd dream came into my head:
That I wasn’t a King - I was some other boy,
With a Mother and Father, and me their dear joy.
So don’t envy this boy, changed so young to a King:
A King nine years old is a pitiful thing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Abbey Church at Gloucester, later renamed
Gloucester Cathedral, in 1216. This was to be
the only coronation held outside London.
The young King was nine years old.]
The day that they crowned me here wasn’t much fun,
Though I am the King, when all’s said and done.
But did ever you think of the fate that was mine,
To be crowned as a King when my years were just nine?
Gold robes they put on me, stiff, scratchy and prickly,
And that made my back and my front feel all tickly.
There were old Lords around me, silk robed and so grand,
But I wanted my Mother there, holding my hand.
The Lords said: “Sit here!”, and then: “Stand up there!”
Then they plonked me down hard in a big high gold chair.
I wasn’t to speak until they said I could -
They treated me just like a puppet of wood.
The crown didn’t fit - it fell over my ears,
But I didn’t complain - Princes aren’t allowed tears.
Mother pulled a gold circlet off her own arm,
She said: “Please use this one - this can’t do him harm!”
And I smiled and I smiled, as they said that I must,
Till my face felt as stiff as an overbaked crust.
Then I said, just because they had all told me to:
“I am trusting myself to God and to you!”
The crowd in this Abbey all shouted and waved,
And the Lords told each other: “The Kingdom is saved!”
Me? I was so tired, all I thought of was sleeping,
But too many people watch round me were keeping.
At last I was tucked in the huge great Royal Bed,
And a funny odd dream came into my head:
That I wasn’t a King - I was some other boy,
With a Mother and Father, and me their dear joy.
So don’t envy this boy, changed so young to a King:
A King nine years old is a pitiful thing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
EXASPERATION
[So now, let's have YOUR list.]
I've made an uncompleted list
Of things that never would be missed ...
Raindrops that spatter all over my glasses,
Grime on my hands when I'm cleaning the brasses,
Trays that won't balance and fall off my knee:
These are the things that exasperate me.
I've made an uncompleted list
Of things that never would be missed ...
Raindrops that spatter all over my glasses,
Grime on my hands when I'm cleaning the brasses,
Trays that won't balance and fall off my knee:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Clingfilm that I cannot peel off my fingers,
Someone who says "I MUST go" and then lingers,
Gourmets who gobble their garlic with glee:
These are the things that exasperate me.
The fork in the bowl when I've washed up the dishes,
Small bones that linger in fillets of fishes,
Folk who drop sugar lumps into my tea:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Items tight sealed into hard plastic blisters,
Bags that are fastened with little wire twisters,
Long traffic queues whose end I cannot see:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Other folks' dogs who dig holes in my garden,
Visiting cats who do things I can't pardon,
Thorns in my fingers I feel but can't see:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Buttons in sets that have one button missing,
People at weddings who go around kissing,
Finding I'm shut in the car with a bee:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Children in playgrounds who scream and keep fighting,
Words that won't come or won't rhyme when I'm writing,
People who are what I wish I could be:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Phone bells that ring and won't let me ignore them,
People who ask me to write verses for them,
Folk who say "Shakespeare? Do tell, who was he?"
These are the things that exasperate me.
Those who make money when writing for profit,
A book written badly that puts me right off it,
Folk who are tiresome - in fact, just like me:
These are the things that exasperate me.
When the sun shines, when the bird sings,
When good news has come,
I think of the things that exasperate me,
And I go on feeling - glum.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
VAN-ISH
[Is there one near you?]
The On-Street Parking Van
Is a horrid sight to see,
Especially when it's parked
Right opposite to Me.
It's red and blue and green,
And battered and immense,
Its panels full of rust,
And its bumpers full of dents.
It never seems to move:
I do not think it can.
It sits there night and day,
That On-Street Parking Van.
It sits there on a bend,
And you can't see through or past,
And drivers inching by
Fear each inch will be their last.
I've modelled out in wax
That On-Street Van's big end,
And if anyone wants to stick them in
I've a pot of pins to lend.
If I had a Chieftain Tank,
Or a steam-roller would do,
I'd flatten that On-Street Van
In its red and green and blue.
So, Driver, if you read
This verse, you pesky man,
You'll park it somewhere else,
Your On-Street Parking Van.
I don't care where it goes
So long as it's off that bend.
I hate that On-Street Van.
I always will.
The End.
~~~~~~~
The On-Street Parking Van
Is a horrid sight to see,
Especially when it's parked
Right opposite to Me.
It's red and blue and green,
And battered and immense,
Its panels full of rust,
And its bumpers full of dents.
It never seems to move:
I do not think it can.
It sits there night and day,
That On-Street Parking Van.
It sits there on a bend,
And you can't see through or past,
And drivers inching by
Fear each inch will be their last.
I've modelled out in wax
That On-Street Van's big end,
And if anyone wants to stick them in
I've a pot of pins to lend.
If I had a Chieftain Tank,
Or a steam-roller would do,
I'd flatten that On-Street Van
In its red and green and blue.
So, Driver, if you read
This verse, you pesky man,
You'll park it somewhere else,
Your On-Street Parking Van.
I don't care where it goes
So long as it's off that bend.
I hate that On-Street Van.
I always will.
The End.
~~~~~~~
SALE TIME
[A bargain, either way ... ]
Upon the wine-dark seas of Greece
We two took sail together.
Back home, at sales in Milton Keynes,
The difference was the weather.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Upon the wine-dark seas of Greece
We two took sail together.
Back home, at sales in Milton Keynes,
The difference was the weather.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
MUSHROOM SPRING
[One day stands out forever in
a happy country childhood]
Very early one Spring morning,
More than seventy years gone by,
Dad said: "Annabelle, get your boots on:
We'll pick mushrooms, you and I."
So I pulled my rubber boots on:
Shiny, brown, with pimpled soles.
Dad's boots were big, with hobnails,
Leather laced through lots of holes.
Mum was in the kitchen,
Both big brothers still in bed,
So we wouldn't be too many -
Just Dad and me, instead.
I fetched the seaside bucket
That was mine now I was four,
And Dad put on his old tweed hat
That hung beside the door.
Mum stood in the doorway
To watch us climb the gate.
She said: "I'm getting breakfast -
Hurry back and don't be late!"
The meadow grass was tufty,
Wet with dew in each tall clump,
And I jumped the biggest tussocks -
Both boots down with squelching thump!
The cows watched, chewing slowly,
Big dark eyes, like soft brown silk,
About as high as mine were.
Dad said "Soon be time to milk!"
We found the mushrooms quickly
By the white-flowered hawthorn hedge.
I knew the rabbits lived nearby
In the green bank at its edge.
First we filled my seaside bucket,
Then we filled Dad's old tweed hat,
And I thought how I liked mushrooms
Fried by Mum in rasher fat.
The hazels waved their catkins,
Black rooks shouted in the trees,
Dad took my hand, we scurried home,
And the dew flicked my bare knees.
The shadows fall. I can't recall
More knowledge of that day
When Dad and I both wore our boots
In the field where the bright dew lay.
But seventy years can't steal or fade
The picture that I see
Of a tweed hat filled with mushrooms
That were picked by Dad and me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a happy country childhood]
Very early one Spring morning,
More than seventy years gone by,
Dad said: "Annabelle, get your boots on:
We'll pick mushrooms, you and I."
So I pulled my rubber boots on:
Shiny, brown, with pimpled soles.
Dad's boots were big, with hobnails,
Leather laced through lots of holes.
Mum was in the kitchen,
Both big brothers still in bed,
So we wouldn't be too many -
Just Dad and me, instead.
I fetched the seaside bucket
That was mine now I was four,
And Dad put on his old tweed hat
That hung beside the door.
Mum stood in the doorway
To watch us climb the gate.
She said: "I'm getting breakfast -
Hurry back and don't be late!"
The meadow grass was tufty,
Wet with dew in each tall clump,
And I jumped the biggest tussocks -
Both boots down with squelching thump!
The cows watched, chewing slowly,
Big dark eyes, like soft brown silk,
About as high as mine were.
Dad said "Soon be time to milk!"
We found the mushrooms quickly
By the white-flowered hawthorn hedge.
I knew the rabbits lived nearby
In the green bank at its edge.
First we filled my seaside bucket,
Then we filled Dad's old tweed hat,
And I thought how I liked mushrooms
Fried by Mum in rasher fat.
The hazels waved their catkins,
Black rooks shouted in the trees,
Dad took my hand, we scurried home,
And the dew flicked my bare knees.
The shadows fall. I can't recall
More knowledge of that day
When Dad and I both wore our boots
In the field where the bright dew lay.
But seventy years can't steal or fade
The picture that I see
Of a tweed hat filled with mushrooms
That were picked by Dad and me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ELEGY FOR LOST POETRY
[With apologies to Mr. Thomas Grey ...]
Free verse has tolled the knell of passing rhyme.
Its lame and limp lines lumber leadenly.
The poet writing in this rhymeless time
Has left the world to darkness - and to me.
When that I read the strange prose offerings
To find what is the difference today
Between these lines and past time's profferings,
My mind is filled with wonder and dismay.
Where is the music, where the cadences
Which sang and charmed the listener's captured ear?
These are apparent only by their absences
In prose lines long and short I find now here.
Let me then say to each free versing person:
Drown deep your book, unread. So let it be.
Were I to write free verse, 'twould be a worse one,
So, leave the world to rhyming - and to me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Free verse has tolled the knell of passing rhyme.
Its lame and limp lines lumber leadenly.
The poet writing in this rhymeless time
Has left the world to darkness - and to me.
When that I read the strange prose offerings
To find what is the difference today
Between these lines and past time's profferings,
My mind is filled with wonder and dismay.
Where is the music, where the cadences
Which sang and charmed the listener's captured ear?
These are apparent only by their absences
In prose lines long and short I find now here.
Let me then say to each free versing person:
Drown deep your book, unread. So let it be.
Were I to write free verse, 'twould be a worse one,
So, leave the world to rhyming - and to me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
KITCHEN BATTLE
[Resembling a drawing by Hogarth ... ]
There is pastry on the doormat, there is jam right up the wall,
There is soup spilled on the recipe, which can't be read at all.
The gravy has gone lumpy, the souffle's lying down,
The sink is crammed with dishes, and there's prune juice on my gown.
I had a salmon fillet. It has gone. So has the cat.
I've trodden in the omelet pan. It's egg-shaped now, not flat.
The mayonnaise has curdled, but the dog has got a grin.
The paper that he's playing with - I think the chops were in.
There's a rissole in the oven, which set out as a roast.
I forgot to turn the heat down. I shall serve it up on toast.
The spinach will not puree. It can't soak through the grit.
I made a peach Pavlova, but my son John sat in it.
Complimented on my cooking, I shall murmur: "Not at all!"
While I lock the door that's leading from the kitchen to the hall.
When it's my turn next as hostess, I shall give a gladsome shout,
Tell my friends just where to meet me,
There is pastry on the doormat, there is jam right up the wall,
There is soup spilled on the recipe, which can't be read at all.
The gravy has gone lumpy, the souffle's lying down,
The sink is crammed with dishes, and there's prune juice on my gown.
I had a salmon fillet. It has gone. So has the cat.
I've trodden in the omelet pan. It's egg-shaped now, not flat.
The mayonnaise has curdled, but the dog has got a grin.
The paper that he's playing with - I think the chops were in.
There's a rissole in the oven, which set out as a roast.
I forgot to turn the heat down. I shall serve it up on toast.
The spinach will not puree. It can't soak through the grit.
I made a peach Pavlova, but my son John sat in it.
Complimented on my cooking, I shall murmur: "Not at all!"
While I lock the door that's leading from the kitchen to the hall.
When it's my turn next as hostess, I shall give a gladsome shout,
Tell my friends just where to meet me,
'cos next time - we're eating OUT.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
LADDY'S LIMERICK
[I wish I'd met him ... ]
A bold, lively laddy from Glevum
Loved ladies, and hated to grieve ‘em.
He sowed his wild oats
From Greyfriars to Blackcoats,
And the lies - oh so deftly he’d weave ‘em!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A bold, lively laddy from Glevum
Loved ladies, and hated to grieve ‘em.
He sowed his wild oats
From Greyfriars to Blackcoats,
And the lies - oh so deftly he’d weave ‘em!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ROMAN ACROSTIC
[Glevum = Roman name for Gloucester]
G o softly, tired Pilgrim, drift out of the light:
L et darkness enfold you, greet gently the night.
E ven the shadows merge noiseless away,
V ast nothingness wraps you, no spectre will stay.
U ntil there comes rising, to banish the dark,
M orning’s anthem to wake you: the song of the lark.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
G o softly, tired Pilgrim, drift out of the light:
L et darkness enfold you, greet gently the night.
E ven the shadows merge noiseless away,
V ast nothingness wraps you, no spectre will stay.
U ntil there comes rising, to banish the dark,
M orning’s anthem to wake you: the song of the lark.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
LOCAL LIMERICK
[I do like Limericks - do you?]
An extravagant lady from Gloucester
Had parents who wished they had lost her,
‘Cos she cost ’em a mint
As she spent without stint,
That egregious young lady from Gloucester.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An extravagant lady from Gloucester
Had parents who wished they had lost her,
‘Cos she cost ’em a mint
As she spent without stint,
That egregious young lady from Gloucester.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
GLOUCESTER ACROSTIC
[Not even sure this IS an Acrostic ... ]
G lorious and lovely in this House of the Lord,
L oud anthems are raised in sweet, tuneful accord.
O ur praise we are lifting,
U nbound our love gifting,
C ome, join with us now and find joy, your reward.
E nds never our faith, our prayers rise above,
S oaring aloft on the wings of a dove,
T ears we shall banish now,
E vil shall vanish now,
R aise your glad voices, sing true of your love.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
G lorious and lovely in this House of the Lord,
L oud anthems are raised in sweet, tuneful accord.
O ur praise we are lifting,
U nbound our love gifting,
C ome, join with us now and find joy, your reward.
E nds never our faith, our prayers rise above,
S oaring aloft on the wings of a dove,
T ears we shall banish now,
E vil shall vanish now,
R aise your glad voices, sing true of your love.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ACROSTIC
[Intended to be an Acrostic ... ]
A way with you and cease to be annoying,
N or carry on this rhyming, trite and cloying.
N ature herself is bored and sadly tired of you:
A sk yourself now: is this indeed required of you?
B e reasonable, determine to eschew it:
E ven your dear ones ask you not to do it.
L et’s now abandon rhyme: it can’t endure,
L est someone clever asks you what it’s for!
E liminate, excise, PLEASE rhyme no more!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A way with you and cease to be annoying,
N or carry on this rhyming, trite and cloying.
N ature herself is bored and sadly tired of you:
A sk yourself now: is this indeed required of you?
B e reasonable, determine to eschew it:
E ven your dear ones ask you not to do it.
L et’s now abandon rhyme: it can’t endure,
L est someone clever asks you what it’s for!
E liminate, excise, PLEASE rhyme no more!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
NOT WATCHING BUT BROODING
[Chacun a son gout ... ]
I'm busy not watching the football.
This is taking a lot of my time.
It's an art-form, not watching the football.
It's the reason for writing this rhyme.
They tell me non-sports, such as I am,
Are missing the good things of life.
But all that I'm missing are bare-kneed chaps kissing,
The yelling, the screaming, the strife!
Now, while I'm not watching the football
I might paint a great work of art:
It would be just fine to be hung on the line
Just as Constable was with his cart.
And while I'm not watching the football
I could make up a taste-teasing wine:
Barefooted, I'd traipse in immense vats of grapes.
The result would be simply divine.
Why does the world gaze, all enraptured
As the rounds lumber on and then on?
As each muddy manoeuvre is captured,
I sit and I wish it was gone.
While not watching the ball, I gaze at the wall,
Which I find is of interest intense.
And I play my own games, whose particular aims
Have potential that's simply immense ...
It's a discipline, not watching the football,
And my training regime is most strict.
Eventually in the Olympics
It will have its own slot, I predict.
When the medals are given for winning
And the wild cheers resound, then behold!
The Press will all laud me, the Nation applaud me
As I stand there, accepting the Gold.
Then July at last comes upon us,
Oh, those soccer-free days! Oh, the menace!
What can I do to pass the time through?
That's it! I'm not watching the tennis!
Now, I don't mind if you watch the football:
I will switch on the screen, just for you.
But don't load me with scorn 'cos I find it a yawn.
Why don't you try not watching it too?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm busy not watching the football.
This is taking a lot of my time.
It's an art-form, not watching the football.
It's the reason for writing this rhyme.
They tell me non-sports, such as I am,
Are missing the good things of life.
But all that I'm missing are bare-kneed chaps kissing,
The yelling, the screaming, the strife!
Now, while I'm not watching the football
I might paint a great work of art:
It would be just fine to be hung on the line
Just as Constable was with his cart.
And while I'm not watching the football
I could make up a taste-teasing wine:
Barefooted, I'd traipse in immense vats of grapes.
The result would be simply divine.
Why does the world gaze, all enraptured
As the rounds lumber on and then on?
As each muddy manoeuvre is captured,
I sit and I wish it was gone.
While not watching the ball, I gaze at the wall,
Which I find is of interest intense.
And I play my own games, whose particular aims
Have potential that's simply immense ...
It's a discipline, not watching the football,
And my training regime is most strict.
Eventually in the Olympics
It will have its own slot, I predict.
When the medals are given for winning
And the wild cheers resound, then behold!
The Press will all laud me, the Nation applaud me
As I stand there, accepting the Gold.
Then July at last comes upon us,
Oh, those soccer-free days! Oh, the menace!
What can I do to pass the time through?
That's it! I'm not watching the tennis!
Now, I don't mind if you watch the football:
I will switch on the screen, just for you.
But don't load me with scorn 'cos I find it a yawn.
Why don't you try not watching it too?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
GRANDMOTHER'S RAP
[This rap rhythm is compulsive - should
be read aloud in "Mid Atlantic" accent]
When I was young I had two fine sons,
Lively, lovely, exhausting sons.
My life was bounded by my two fine boys,
Lookin' to me for their sorrows and joys.
At the end of each day I'd sing to 'em in bed
With a nearly wordless hummin' comin' into my head.
And they called it: "Momma's Own Rap!"
Then the time it passed and my two fine boys
Found themselves wives to share their joys.
Then nobody needed this poor old self,
And I felt that I was put on the shelf.
No more "Momma's Own Rap!"
Then the time it passed and my boys and their wives
Got them little children to share their lives,
And then they needed their poor old Mum,
For I went a-running when they called: "Come!"
Grandmother's Rap!
So again I'm a-comforting sorrows and joys
As I tend to the children of my two fine boys,
And mercy me! - I git that tired!
Yet I know this is what my heart desired.
Grandmother's Rap!
So, Lord, when I git to Eternity,
Please, Lord, this is what you do with me:
Leave me to tend on your little ones,
The children of your children, all your daughters and sons.
Grandmother's Rap!
I will tend your little children through each livelong day,
Then tuck 'em up to bed in the Milky Way!
And as their breaths come quiet and slow
I will sing that song learned long ago.
I was young when I learned it, and I didn't know its name,
Nor I didn't know I'd git the chanct to sing it again.
It's a nearly wordless hummin' comin' into my head,
For the end of the day, for children in bed.
And it's called: "Grandmother's Rap!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
be read aloud in "Mid Atlantic" accent]
When I was young I had two fine sons,
Lively, lovely, exhausting sons.
My life was bounded by my two fine boys,
Lookin' to me for their sorrows and joys.
At the end of each day I'd sing to 'em in bed
With a nearly wordless hummin' comin' into my head.
And they called it: "Momma's Own Rap!"
Then the time it passed and my two fine boys
Found themselves wives to share their joys.
Then nobody needed this poor old self,
And I felt that I was put on the shelf.
No more "Momma's Own Rap!"
Then the time it passed and my boys and their wives
Got them little children to share their lives,
And then they needed their poor old Mum,
For I went a-running when they called: "Come!"
Grandmother's Rap!
So again I'm a-comforting sorrows and joys
As I tend to the children of my two fine boys,
And mercy me! - I git that tired!
Yet I know this is what my heart desired.
Grandmother's Rap!
So, Lord, when I git to Eternity,
Please, Lord, this is what you do with me:
Leave me to tend on your little ones,
The children of your children, all your daughters and sons.
Grandmother's Rap!
I will tend your little children through each livelong day,
Then tuck 'em up to bed in the Milky Way!
And as their breaths come quiet and slow
I will sing that song learned long ago.
I was young when I learned it, and I didn't know its name,
Nor I didn't know I'd git the chanct to sing it again.
It's a nearly wordless hummin' comin' into my head,
For the end of the day, for children in bed.
And it's called: "Grandmother's Rap!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
GROANIUM
[A True and Tragic Tale]
I had a pelargonium,
The first I'd ever grownium,
I kept it in my garden
In a pot.
My friends all came and gazed at it,
They looked and were amazed at it,
They liked it in my garden
Quite a lot.
All summertime it burgeoned on,
Its rosy posies splurgeoned on,
A glory in my garden,
Not a blot.
Then Winter brought the frosty time,
For plants, a die-and-lost-me time:
My lovely pelargonium
I forgot.
I left it all aloneium,
My poor dear pelargonium,
All frozen in my garden,
Gone to rot.
No more would it abide with me,
All brown and sad, it died with me,
No comfort did I give it:
Not a jot.
Now, if from seed I've sownium
Comes one new pelargonium,
Forget it in my garden
I will not.
In Winter it's indoors with me,
It cuddles down and snores with me.
No garden bed for this one,
But a cot.
~~~~~~
I had a pelargonium,
The first I'd ever grownium,
I kept it in my garden
In a pot.
My friends all came and gazed at it,
They looked and were amazed at it,
They liked it in my garden
Quite a lot.
All summertime it burgeoned on,
Its rosy posies splurgeoned on,
A glory in my garden,
Not a blot.
Then Winter brought the frosty time,
For plants, a die-and-lost-me time:
My lovely pelargonium
I forgot.
I left it all aloneium,
My poor dear pelargonium,
All frozen in my garden,
Gone to rot.
No more would it abide with me,
All brown and sad, it died with me,
No comfort did I give it:
Not a jot.
Now, if from seed I've sownium
Comes one new pelargonium,
Forget it in my garden
I will not.
In Winter it's indoors with me,
It cuddles down and snores with me.
No garden bed for this one,
But a cot.
~~~~~~
STAGE STRUCK
[with apologies to Mr. Thomas Hood]
I remember, I remember
The little Village Hall,
Where first I toddled on a stage:
The stage and I were small.
The next Play couldn't come too soon:
Was there a part for me?
At that young age, I knew the stage
Was where I wished to be.
I remember, I remember
The learning days at School.
I often played the cross old maid,
And, frequently, the fool.
And some time in my growing up,
I knew, most bitterly,
The starry brightness of the stage
Was too star-bright for me.
I remember, I remember
The first time that I "dried".
Though Prompt was there, in my despair
I wished that I had died.
And then there came, to sort me out
That first Adjudication:
I shed a chastened, bitter tear,
And thought of emigration.
I remember, I remember
Directors I drove mad.
(To all of these, apologies -
But was I quite that bad?]
Then, costumes Wardrobe made for me
That sometimes didn't fit.
The dress that kept me standing up:
They'd left no room to sit.
I remember, I remember
The trauma of First Night,
The "How did I get into this?"
The "Please let it go right!"
The casts, the camaraderie,
The tears, the cheers, the glooms,
The low-voiced chat of this and that
In cluttered dressing rooms.
I remember, I remember
The roles, some lead, most small:
Some I did well, and some were hell,
And how I've loved them - all.
The treasures of a stage-struck heart,
All these I hold most dear,
So, friends, if you've a part for me
Remember that I'm here ...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I remember, I remember
The little Village Hall,
Where first I toddled on a stage:
The stage and I were small.
The next Play couldn't come too soon:
Was there a part for me?
At that young age, I knew the stage
Was where I wished to be.
I remember, I remember
The learning days at School.
I often played the cross old maid,
And, frequently, the fool.
And some time in my growing up,
I knew, most bitterly,
The starry brightness of the stage
Was too star-bright for me.
I remember, I remember
The first time that I "dried".
Though Prompt was there, in my despair
I wished that I had died.
And then there came, to sort me out
That first Adjudication:
I shed a chastened, bitter tear,
And thought of emigration.
I remember, I remember
Directors I drove mad.
(To all of these, apologies -
But was I quite that bad?]
Then, costumes Wardrobe made for me
That sometimes didn't fit.
The dress that kept me standing up:
They'd left no room to sit.
I remember, I remember
The trauma of First Night,
The "How did I get into this?"
The "Please let it go right!"
The casts, the camaraderie,
The tears, the cheers, the glooms,
The low-voiced chat of this and that
In cluttered dressing rooms.
I remember, I remember
The roles, some lead, most small:
Some I did well, and some were hell,
And how I've loved them - all.
The treasures of a stage-struck heart,
All these I hold most dear,
So, friends, if you've a part for me
Remember that I'm here ...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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