The Guest House on the Rim

This poem is written to a theme of Guest Houses. There's enough of them in Blackpool, but living here, I've never had reason to go to one. I didn't want to rely purely on stereotypes, so I needed a different approach. 

On last week's broadcast "Poetry Show" there was a light-hearted suggestion of a theme of nuclear fusion, which undoubtedly accounts for the direction my writing took. 

Upon reading the poem you may gather that I watch some science fiction on TV. Sorry there are no Firefly or Stargate references.

The Guest House on the Rim

Beyond our sight where stars grow dim,
where nine dimensions are in tune,
you’ll find, on the galactic rim,
a guest-house on a silver moon.
How long it’s been there, no one knows
as time stands still outside its gates
so whilst their lives outside are frozen,
guests inside postpone their fates.

Though built upon a rift in space
the décor would belie that fact
as Betty Reed (who owns the place) –
her fashion tastes are quite exact.
A nineteen-sixties style, bijou,
with Gingham oilcloth table-tops,
Welsh dressers with some plates on view,
some Escher; bowls of acid drops.

Irrelevant to all the guests:
It’s comfy, clean and boasts good food,
with top-notch service that attests
to Betty’s can-do attitude.
She finds out details large and small
of guests, their wants and every need.
The staff are trained to follow all
the guidelines set by Mrs Reed:

 “When Doctor Who books in again
with Peri, Leela, Captain Jack,
or Ace or Rose or Sarah-Jane
he’ll park his TARDIS round the back.
Don’t worry if his face has changed:
put jelly-babies on his bed,
make sure the seating is arranged
so he’s not near the Dalek bred.”

“Keep Cylons from Galacticans,
Centauri from the Narn Regime,
Peacekeepers from the Scarrans and
the Borg out of the SodaStream.
For Star Fleet guests, you’ll need to show
there’s en-suite bathrooms on each floor
as no-one else will boldly go
where Captain Kirk has gone before.”

“We want all guests to feel at ease
so weapons must be left behind:
the phasers and the PPGs,
put telepaths out of your mind,
disarm the Daleks, they’ll not care.
Yes, even they stop being grim
as they know what we bring to bear
within our guest house on the rim.”

The Birthday Boy

This week's theme is "birthdays".

I started one poem but after two stanzas I couldn't decide how I wanted it to continue. What I had written was reasonable, but it had no real direction.

Eventually I decided to kick that one into touch and start another poem using a different approach: that of birthdays and how people are perceived at different ages.

The Birthday Boy

So here is the birthday boy. How old are you?
Don’t you know? Don’t be shy. What is that? Oh, you’re four.
And what has your mummy and daddy bought you?
Some crayons, an Etch-a-Sketch – oh, is there more?
I see you’ve got Lego. So what can you make?
Oh you’re off. Where’ve you gone? Oh I see. Birthday cake.

So there is the birthday boy. Fourteen you say?
How he’s grown since last year. Is he taller than you?
I bought him a token. I hope that’s okay.
No he didn’t say thanks, but at that age few do.
He’s turned off his music. Yes. Nice when it ends.
Oh he’s off. Where’s he gone? Oh I see. To his friends.

So here is the birthday boy. How do you feel?
Well they say life begins at the age you are now.
I must say the buffet and bar are ideal,
But how many jars will your missus allow?
Your eyes are already quite red ‘neath those lids.
Oh you’re off. Karaoke. Embarrass the kids.

So here is the birthday boy, and you’ve left work!
You will soon wonder how you found time to go there.
With jobs round the house you’ll have no time to shirk.
Your hobbies? Well sometimes – if there’s time to spare.
You don’t look too happy at those times ahead.
Oh you’re off. Where’ve you gone? Oh I see. To the shed.

So there is the birthday boy. How has he been?
Someone said that he’d needed an angiogram.
He looks better than last month; so pink and so clean.
Is he eating okay? Will he know who I am?
I’ve brought him a card ‘cause I’ll soon have to go.
Oh he’s off. Fast asleep. Never mind. He won’t know.

Maurice Nurple's Trousers

Last week's poetic theme of "Cages" was slightly unusual but this week's theme takes the biscuit.

Trousers.

That's right, Trousers. Lateral thinking wasn't much of a help, so it was simply a case of 'jump in and see where things go.

As such, "Maurice Nurple's Trousers" is one of those poems that just evolved from a few random phrases. The first line popped out of the blue, then the  name of "Nurple" suggested purple as an obvious rhyme. 

After that, a bit of alliteration in the first verse moved things on.

Maurice Nurple's Trousers

Maurice Nurple loved his trews:
A pair he’d bought ten years ago,
the shot silk showing different hues,
should he shashay to make them show.
He’d bought them in a little shop
He’d found by chance one day in May.
Yes, “Terry’s Trousers” made him stop
Whilst walking down an alleyway.

He stopped and then he went inside
amongst the jeans and pants and slacks.
At first he thought the choice too wide
but then he saw them on the racks.
The trousers captured his regard
with yellow/purple warp and weft,
so taking out his credit card,
young Maurice Nurple bought and left.

Initially the fit was snug
and could offend the multitudes
but wearing them was like a drug
so he cut down on fatty foods.
Once trim, he went out on the town
to socialise, to club, to dance,
to strut his stuff and boogie down,
thus showing off his silken pants.

As years went by the wear and tear
began, of course, to take its toll.
But Maurice had a certain flair
to darn and hide each little hole.
Where they had worn between the thighs
he’d patched them from the oddment bin
but soon he came to realise
that now the end was closing in.

Deciding, though he almost balked,
retracing steps from ten years past,
he felt a traitor as he walked
to find the shop, but was steadfast.
But “Terry’s Trousers” was not there,
Pulled down and there, where once it stood
a shop was selling fetish wear.
The clothes from there? As if he could.

Now Maurice still goes out at night;
His wardrobe’s still a thing to see.
His trousers now, not quite as tight,
are black and shiny PVC.
He does not miss his silken trews,
So soft against his derriere,
As they’re recycled; he’s still using 
yellow/purple underwear.

Cages

This week's theme is "Cages".

I wondered where to go with this one, then decided that the cages don't have to be physical objects. After all, Pink Floyd managed okay with the wall metaphor, didn't they?

So I wondered, what tends to restrict people these days - how have things changed over the years? And that was my starting point.




Cages

Conventions of society,
the edicts of propriety,
The manners taught us through our lives to mould the way we act;
a conscience forged from common sense,
to understand the consequence
of words and deeds before they’re said and done; the use of tact.

With chalk lines drawn inside the mind,
we did not really feel confined
as tolerance and empathy were something we were taught.
We understood the lines were there
to guide us and we were aware
that we should only cross them if our reasons were well thought.

Some years ago, society
was told that this “propriety”
was something in the way when loads of money could be made.
It didn’t really count as greed
to profit from those folk in need.
Self-help evolved to selfishness as ethics were mislaid.

Self-centredness soon took its toll:
With such a lack of self-control
we all became a victim when we chose to sacrifice
our own responsibility
to those in our community;
The lines of chalk within our minds would simply not suffice.

With grumblings from the populace
The nanny state could do no less
than bring in laws enforcing what we used to self-impose.
But these laws were intractable
(though lawyers were contactable)
And now the list of petty laws, it grows and grows and grows.

Political correctness, and
the pressure to expect less, and
Curtailing rights with “Human Rights”, the irony’s not lost.
Imposing “Health and Safety” aims
to reduce compensation claims,
defining all the penalties, that boundaries aren’t crossed.

With all this mad protective zeal
our minds construct these bars of steel
preventing us from venturing where once we’d risk to tread.
The lines of chalk that once were there
are scuffed away to our despair,
and in our mind we’ll find that there are cages there instead.

Overkill

Murder! Well, that's the "A Poetry Show" theme this week. So let's have a multiple homicide to make things interesting.

Let's put it from the murderer's point of view, and make it so he doesn't feel he's really done anything wrong.

So we'll set it in a prison cell where he's awaiting arrest, whilst the police are out there seeking the damning evidence against him.

And that is the point where he'll start thinking about his current situation.

Yeah, that sounds alright.

Overkill

I’m sitting in a holding cell
that has a disinfectant smell
and wond’ring how I came to be
suspected of a killing spree.
They came to get me yesterday;
They have their reasons – so they say.
They hold their cards close to their chest,
thereby delaying my arrest.
Now surely they must be aware
I don’t do drugs, I drive with care,
I pay my bills ahead of time,
So why imply there’s been a crime?

They think that I have killed my wife –
The woman who has changed my life
so I don’t waste it watching sport
when I could give her full support
in all she does, in all she says:
Of course I love her little ways.
The structure she brings with her rules;
I know she calls my friends all fools.
Whilst that may sound unkind, agreed,
there simply isn’t any need
to worry ‘bout my missing wife –
And missing rug – and kitchen knife.

And now they’re looking for her dad,
as they are thinking something bad
has happened to him, though it seems
to me they’re going to extremes
with mind games hoping I will crack;
To guide me down a cul-de-sac.
It beats me why they think that I
Know what has happened to that guy.
I will say this, though, knowing him,
intrusive at the slightest whim,
he may have drowned and lost his life –
The same way as his lady wife.

Her mother: they’ve not mentioned yet,
Nor brother, but they will, I bet.
Though I’m surprised they have the time
To spend on me, you’d think that I’m
The only case they have to work,
At least by that detective’s smirk.
But I suspect that things will change
as, soon, they’ll have to rearrange
resources in the station when
the night shift starts at half past ten,
‘cause then they’ll have to substitute   
for corpses in that squad car boot.

New Homes

 
This week's theme "New Homes" brings to mind the experiences of moving house.

Whilst the end result may be enjoyable, the process does not always seem that way. And yet some people do it almost as often as they change their socks. Perhaps it's the adrenaline, perhaps its the masochism, perhaps... oh, I don't know.





New Homes

It must be in the chromosomes:
Why some folk get off changing homes.
You must have met those people who,
No sooner have they been right through
the house to decorate each room
to leave their stamp, so I assume,
they have to leave the place behind;
I’m simply not that way inclined.

There’s other reasons people move.
Their circumstances may improve
and families may grow in size;
Their job might make them mobilise,
They may have gained a brand new spouse
and want to leave their parents’ house,
Or maybe they cannot keep pace
with all the costs at their old place.

All valid reasons for a change,
But then they have to re-arrange
their lives to find the extra time
to fit in with the paradigm
that states the steps they need to take:
To meet with people on the make,
Each wanting just that bit more cash
And once they’ve got it, off they’ll dash.

I’m not just talking real estate:
The agents who can navigate
the English language with such skill
convincing you how this house will
fulfil your needs in ev’ry way –
But you must sign without delay
as someone else is sniffing round
this perfect place that they have found.

The government want their cut, too –
That’s nothing new, they always do –
Solicitors don’t work for free
And bankers rub their hands with glee.
Int’rest rates, foreclosure too,
Some ways they can grab cash from you.
And I’ve not touched the admin side,
Ensuring all are notified.

But if you can traverse this path
and find a peaceful aftermath,
No motorway or aerodrome
to spoil the peace of your new home,
With luck your neighbours will be nice
and then you can, despite the price,
Relax so you can contemplate
which room you first will decorate.

Essex and Clubs and Roxanne's Role

Where do you go when presented with a poetry theme of "Essex Girls"? Not having watched TOWIE or any of the other supposed reality dramas (or whatever they are supposed to be), you have to rely on the stereotypes as portrayed in the press. So any miffed young women from the county can lay the blame there...

That said, I must admit the short time I spent researching on YouTube was an eye opener! 

The resultant poem is below - with an Ian Dury inspired title. 


Essex and Clubs and Roxanne's Role

I’m Roxanne and I’m Essex born and bred.
I’m ready to go clubbing with my friends.
“I’ll meet you there at ten,” – that’s what I said,
So can I speak to you? Well, that depends.

Like, are you goin’ta try to pick me up?
Don’t worry – I’m not goin’ta rule it out.
You only want an interview? Shut up!
So watcha want to talk to me about?

The Essex look? You need the proper clothes
And jewellery in just the proper place.
My new stilettos: worth the squashed-up toes.
My hair extensions: just to frame my face.

Yeah, looking good’s important to my crowd:
I like the streaks of blonde; they look so good.
Fake tan? Well yes, because I always vowed
I’d never look like I was drained of blood.

So yes, my make-ups got to be just right:
You gotta make an effort with the slap
‘Cause when you’re going clubbing every night,
Your photo might be taken by a pap.

Besides, the other girls make up as well.
We all expect it though the rule’s unsaid,
And – stands to reason – I would be well jel
If all the lads paired up with them instead.

We have a laugh, we put the world to rights.
Like who to vote for when we’ve had enough.
Evictions and the conflicts and the fights.
Iraq? Do you mean silicon and stuff?

A boob job? Maybe somewhere down the line,
And botox? Well, you gotta look your best,
‘Cause basic’ly the guys don’t want to dine
With girls who don’t – they’re simply not impressed.

Hey, Essex rhymes with “yes sex”. That’s so reem.
That surely proves that God exists, I say.
What makes you think I’m trying to blaspheme?
Whatevah. That’s so clever. Anyway.

We’re meeting at a bar – “the Zodiac”.
It’s sociable to drink cocktails and wine.
Did someone say the clocks are going back?
Does that mean that I should be there by nine?

The Cat's Breakfast

What do cats like? Whatever they want to. But the odds are that 'food' is fairly high up the list.

So when I was writing a poem actually on the theme of Cats (rather than using cats to illustrate another theme), food was the inspiration. But [Newsflash] cats can also be fussy...

The Cat's Breakfast

Now that I've stretched
It's time you fetched
Another meal
For me, I feel.

The sky was light,
No longer night,
This morning, when
At Oh-Four-Ten,
I came to you
(I always do)
But still you slept
Although I kept
Reminding you
With the odd "mew"
I need to eat
My breakfast meat.

For goodness sake
Why don't you wake?
Don't be a slob.
Come -- do your job.

But still you dozed
With your eyes closed.
As time went by
I thought that I
Would jump upon
Your duvet, gone
This holding back,
Instead "attack"
Thus, this achieved
My aim, so peeved
You left your bed
To see me fed.

Miaow miaow.
I don't know how
You can be so
Humanly slow.

Oh how I wish
You'd get my dish
And take that tin
With my food in
And open it
And take a bit
Or maybe more
Just to be sure
And spoon it out;
No need to shout --
I'm by your side
Dissatisfied.

I do not beg,
Just tup your leg
To let you know
That you are slow.

Oh why do you
Take so long? Few
Would wait like me
So patiently
As you delay
This way each day.
I don't think that
Another cat
Would tolerate
This lengthy wait
Here in my home:
Their mouths would foam.

Oh have you done?
Rebellion
Is not required:
You are rehired.

There in your hand
My dish, as planned.
My last miaow:
I'm purring now.
Can't wait to eat
That juicy meat
Approaching me:
I soon will be
Devouring it --
A meal to fit
The royalty:
Of course, that's me.

And at long last
There! My repast:
Dish on the floor
Who could want more?

But wait: a sniff,
My back goes stiff.
The smell reveals
This rotten meal's
Inedible:
Incredible!
I won't eat that
As I'm a cat
Who knows his mind;
Views well defined.
That food's been in
The wrong sized tin.

Tales of Wales

The latest poetic theme is "Wales", presumably because Dylan Thomas will be the featured poet on the forthcoming "A Poetry Show" broadcast. Now, anyone knowing me might think I'd write a poem about whales, but even that is a bit too obvious for me. I had a number of thoughts in different areas, but they didn't always relate to each other that well. Accordingly, I decided upon three "tales of Wales" with a connecting rhyming narrative. So here it is.

Tales of Wales

The trio of tales I intend to present
are some aspects of Wales with a varied intent.
I’ll mention some names that you may recognise,
And later a tale with some overseas ties,
But first I will start with a short overview:
I doubt that from this you’ll learn anything new.

(1)
The Union flag on which Wales does not feature,
They’ve got the dragon, a mythical creature,
They’ve got the daffodil, they’ve got the leek,
They’ve got a language that few of them speak.
They’ve got a thing about singing in choirs
And rugby’s a sport that they love, it transpires.
They’ve got that town with a very long name
I won’t list it here, despite its acclaim.
They’ve got four sheep to each man in the land
I’m just talking numbers here, you understand.
Snowdon and mountains and Anglesey too.
Finally, it’s where they film Doctor Who.

As promised, here’s a second tale
That lists some Welsh celebrities, they’ll
Not be ones who practice sport
As in these poems, space is short;
And there’s enough of sport elsewhere,
So “arty”/“singy” types I’ll share.

(2)
The land of song and arts we see
The “Men of Harlech”, S4C.
They proved not to be Elvis clones:
Shakin’ Stevens and Tom Jones.
Charlotte Church and Shirley Bassey:
Famous ladies. Let’s be classy:
Tenors always have appeal:
Burrows, Terfel and O’Neill.
Kath’rine Jenkins has a style a
Diff’rent one to Bonnie Tyler.
Moving to the stage and screen
Burton, Hopkins may be seen
But there’s a rumour we should squelch:
Not from the valleys – Raquel Welch.

The next tale is a sideways view.
Before you ask, the Wales’ not blue;
I would not offer that cliché
Although I think it fair to say
This introduction might just tease:
The killer Wales from overseas…

(3)
Renegade soldiers on his farm,
Bluecoats there intending harm,
Killed his wife and killed his child:
No surprise that he went wild.
Vowed revenge though no-one heard;
Out he went and kept his word.
As an outlaw of renown
He was sought out and hunted down.
Misfits followed, tagged along,
With this man they could belong.
Lied to riders on their tails,
“He’s dead, the one called Josey Wales”

Right. That’s your lot: my Tales are done.
I’ve finished typing, had my fun.
I know there’s more to Wales … oh fine.
Creators of the “equals sign”.
It’s time for tea, I’ll have to go.
I think I’ll have Welsh rarebit, though.

Top Cat

Another poem on the theme of "Victory", but also on the theme of "cats". I do like cats - intriguing creatures - unless of course, they leave me presents on the lawn, I'm much more careful with the lawnmower these days. But I digress. This poem's called...

Top Cat

The fur widespread in tufts of white
Like stacks upon a farmer’s field
Left from the skirmish in the night:
My skill in battle thus revealed.

There will be peace the next few days;
A time for reappraisal then
I’ll watch as my opponent weighs
me up and thinks “I’ll try again.”

All gone the feigned indifference;
Forgotten all past minor wars.
He’ll drop the days spent in pretence,
He’ll come at me with unsheathed claws.

He will not win – he never does.
He always thinks he’ll come out best.
But soon, again, he will be puz-
-zl-ing why he’s the one who’s been outguessed.

I don’t know why there’s this bad blood:
To settle some imagined score?
No matter, ‘cause I’m feline good
And victory is mine once more.

Victory

Theme: Victory. That's about it, really.

Not an angry rabbit
after an accident

Victory

Beethoven’s Fifth with its da-da-da dah,
Churchill’s two fingers without the cigar,
Admiral Nelson: his ship was named this.
So were the lozenges – Ah, liquorice.
Funny how words can bring thoughts to one’s mind:
So many uses, if one is inclined.
This one can signify things large and small:
A nuclear blast, the kick of a ball.

Victory, victory, battle success.
Winning a war, winning at chess,
Winning at football, winning the vote,
Winning the lottery, winning the tote,
Winning a dial-in, beating the rest,
Winning a race this week being the best,
Winning the X-factor when you can’t sing,
Winning, in fact, almost ev-er-y-thing.

Sometimes in victory, people repress:
Blinkers from over-elation, I guess.
Spare a thought sometimes about those who failed:
Evidence left from the points we’ve detailed.
Not so much scratch cards thrown down on the floor,
Programmes abandoned because of the score.
Think of the conflicts, of all the widespread
chunks of Rubble, the injured, and ALL of the dead.

The Invitation

Okay. A theme of "pretentiousness". No one enjoys this attribute in other people, except when thinking of Frasier Crane, and we laugh with him, don't we? Right. With this in mind, my poem is from the viewpoint of someone who is invited to attend a soiree (!) with their brother-in-law and his condescending wife. Read on.



The Invitation

What’s that you’ve got there in the post?
No – don’t pretend to be engrossed.
It seems addressed to you and me:
An invitation? Let me see.
R.S.V.P.? So who’s it from?
Oh no, Melissa and your Tom
Or “Thomas” as he now prefers –
Unless the choice of name is hers.

All right. Your brother. Yes, I know,
But do we really have to go?
Snobbishness to such excess,
Continual pretentiousness.
When they explain, they condescend:
Advocating each new trend.
And so obscure: that’s so they may
reject all others as “passé.”

I really cannot comprehend
Why anyone would want to spend
Five minutes, let alone a full
five hours list’ning to such bull.
I mean, come on – you must admit
The way they carry on’s a bit
too much with all the names they drop.
Their bedroom’s like a knocking shop.

I see you laughing. You agreed.
They only follow what’s decreed
by Philip, their décor guru.
Abandoned taste, but then, what’s new?
The cloakroom with Egyptian tiles
Looks like a loo for paedophiles.
I don’t think Tom quite understood
my point of view – as if he would.

And have you seen Melissa when
She’s be-ing an air kisser, then
To “mwah” and “mwah” we all succumb;
Her lips: just like a baboon’s bum.
And that reminds me: they have been
to Africa, to sights unseen
by any on the planet earth…
That’s what they’ll say. For what it’s worth.

Have you forgotten New Year’s Eve?
(I thought that we would never leave)
Melissa’s latest weirdo views:
She made us all remove our shoes
And all because she said the ch’i
Would be affected adversely
if we did not, and so I said
“A panda? Watch out where you tread.”

The blindfolds that we wore last time
to watch their operatic mime,
The abstract art from chimpanzees,
The endless new philosophies.
The caterers providing food:
Some looked like it had been pre-chewed.
Cricket’s not a sport I like,
But on the plate? Get on your bike.

Alright, alright. I know that face.
We’re going. Yes, I know my place.
Don’t spare another thought for me
and send off that R.S.V.P.
The final word; I get the gist –
Urinal jokes are off the list.
I’ll try my best; I won’t be rude –
Unless they’re serving insect food.

Ladies and Gentlemen

A theme of sexism this week, so I cobbled this poem together earlier today.

Discrimination in all its forms is abhorrent, but sometimes I get the feeling that some people try and pervert the justified efforts of others towards their own means. Probably a human thing. 

Enough philosophising. Here's the poem.

Ladies and Gentlemen

Sexism checks is a male or a female a
Choice that is fair when all else is deemed square.
It’s clear when it’s not,
But what else have we got
When there’s nothing to go on except facial hair?

How does one choose if there aren’t any clues
To mark she above he or vice versa?
For some people fume
And they often assume
That lobbying might just coerce ya.

What, then is sexist-a-bout Miss or Mister
If terms such as these are not used to divide?
For your information
It’s discrimination
That should be denied. Don’t let common sense slide.

Refuse to excuse those who widen the term
As a means to force us on their own hobby-horse.
Many just hold a
Big chip on their shoulder
So let’s all calm down. Let them scream ‘til they’re hoarse.

All this hypocracy, so-called democracy:
“Certainly I am more equal than them.”
Let’s wish for an age
When we all reach the stage
When we look beyond genders and do not condemn.

Yearning for parity, looking for clarity,
Maybe we’re trying too hard to excel:
Ladies and gentlemen:
Equally mental an’
Equally prone to be sexist as well.

Our Time Together

I finished this poem in the early hours of this morning (24 May 2014) and it is on the theme of clocks. The first clock reference is to the same trusty LED clock I mentioned in my poem Associations. Credit where it's due...

Our Time Together

Silent and red-eyed I watch whilst he’s sleeping.
Blinking, I wait while the hours* bleed away.
Sometimes he reaches towards me, so keeping
Me quiet; no sound at the start of the day.

“Do we have time to do this?” he will ask –
And I will provide him the answers he needs:
Turning my hands to so many a task;
So many jobs -  and this he concedes.

Home entertainment is one such concern,
Checking his favourite* TV’s taped on cue.
Mealtimes I’m watching his food does not burn.
Checking appointments and when they are due.

Leaving the house, as on most days he’s prone,
I’m left by myself and I’m not even missed.
But I can take comfort that he’s not alone:
My cousin is there with a grip on his wrist.

Here in this house I have so many faces;
I’m there in the hall when his key’s in the lock.
I know he gains comfort here in this oasis;
I welcome him home: hear my tick, hear my tock.

* The word 'hours' should be read as one syllable, and 'favourite' as two, i.e. pronounced "fave-ret".

The Same Old Road

I wrote the following poem when provided with a poetic theme of "Roads". Cynical? Maybe. It might simply be a symptom of age. And experience...

The Same Old Road

Haven’t you heard? Haven’t you heard?
Election Day is coming soon:
At last the candidates have stirred
Themselves and leaflets have been strewn.
Yes. Countless leaflets through the post
From parties red, green, yellow, blue,
Repeating that familiar boast:
A road to futures bright and new.

The same old road, the same old road.
That’s not the way we want to go.
The rhetoric that they offload,
The plastic faces that they show,
Pretending that they really care,
They all show diff’rent shades of grey,
Not bright at all, so think: is there
Another option we can weigh?

Is there a way? Is there a way?
I wish I knew. I really do.
To win, a party has to sway
The floating voters for a coup,
Convince the unsure and insane,
Convince them that they’ll keep their word,
To drive like cattle down the lane.
Avenue herd. Avenue herd.

Platitudes

Written for "A Poetry Show" where the featured poet is Sylvia Plath (broadcast 10 May 2014). Initially.

Platitudes


   Something will turn up; it’s later than you think.
   You can lead a horse to water but you cannot make it drink.
 – Look on the bright side, it’s darkest ’fore the dawn.
   Vultures are circling. ‘Doesn’t know he’s born.
   It could – be – worse; they are that way at sea,
   At least the pain is over. It wasn’t meant to be.
   Patience is a virtue; all comes to he who waits.
   Let it all slide off your back. At least you’ve got some mates.
   A dime a dozen; all the same; seen one, you’ve seen them all.
   Tomorrow is another day. Give thanks for mercies small.
   His bark is far worse than his bite. Let sleeping dogs lie still.
   Practice makes things perfect, though no-one’s got that skill.
   Others go through this each day; don’t think that you’re alone.
   Ev’ry cloud’s a silver lining. Don’t fear the unknown.
   Maybe your heart’s not in the task. These things are heaven-sent.
   Show gratitude? Each platitude: no help, but most well-meant.

By George, What Do We Mean?

Here's something in response to St George's Day (23 April for those who don't know!). 

It occurred to me that, whilst we are familiar with the imagery (of a knight with a lance, a red cross and a dragon), what is the reality? If there is a reality at all? Is anything real? I think I'd better lie down.


By George, What Do We Mean?

One tale of Georgious, noble born,
Of Diocletian’s favoured few:
Beliefs he held could not be torn
From him despite what they would do.
To Roman gods he would not bow,
Refusing bribes to change his stance;
Through torture he would not kowtow,
His soul he would not leave to chance.

In preparation, days before,
He’d left the poor all that he’d owned,
He would not need it any more:
Intransigence was not condoned.
At last, on April twenty-third
By Nicomedia’s city wall,
A swinging of an axe occurred
Thus causing George’s head to fall.

Though dead, his influence lived on
And Christians some would become.
The Empress Prisca – she was one;
Perhaps this led to martyrdom .

 A death in three-oh-three AD?
It doesn’t fit. I’m at a loss:
As there’s no dragon I can see;
I cannot find St George’s cross.

A legend, in another age,
With children taken to a lake,
To give their lives to curb the rage
And hunger of a fearful drake.
The daughter of the king was due
To satisfy the dragon’s ire,
But George, by chance, was present too,
The time the beast reared from the mire.

From horseback George thrust out his lance
Blessed by the symbol of the Cross.
The dragon’s wound let him advance
And take advantage of its loss.
Into the town he led the drake
And promised he would use his sword
To slay the beast if they would take
Leave of false gods and praise the Lord.

A dragon slain by sword or spear
Might have the right mediaeval spin;
Excite the folk of yesteryear
With magic tales to drag them in.

In this sophisticated age
We only trust the facts we get
Referring to a Wiki page.
Reliable – this Internet?

Shakespeare: Ham Lettuce Piccalilli

There's a number of events coming up locally with regard to celebrating Shakespeare's 450th birthday. Although I appreciate his contribution to the English language, to date I have not invested any of my time into understanding the meanings of his literary output. Consequently, my contribution to Bill's big day is a little different.

The following should be read with Shakespeare's famous Hamlet Soliloquy in mind. Scholars may even choose to place this alongside the original version... 


Ham Lettuce Piccalilli

To eat, or not to eat: risk indigestion:
With the peach cobbler I’ve a mind to suffer
The stinks and horrors; borborygmus consumes;
Though to take antacids and seize some truffles,
And with lips closing, eat them? To fry: to make
Quite sure; to fry it deep to say “pretend
That heartburn will not rouse with natural chalks”,
That fish will snare you; ‘tis appreciation
Of trout there to be fished. To fry, to eat;
A treat: purchase ice cream: ay, there’s the grub;
For in such treats of chefs what dreams may come
When we have stuffed ourselves with olive oil,
Most give us pies. We won’t reject
Cornflakes, calamari, even Long-Life;
Fast food – beefburger, chips, sweetcorn – sublime,
The ox’s precious tongue, the Hellman’s, cranberry
Meringues; and what prized lobster’s claws convey:
Enhanced – our sense of focus, and this spurns
Abstinence for it’s true we prefer the steaks,
When on the shelf there’s a pie we must make
With prepared pumpkin. How would noodles fare,
To grill with swede under a kitchen knife?
But then the bread is something for the cress;
The bun is covered, country fromage, quorn,
(No gravlax concerns, expel the swill,)
And makes us gather fare – such thrills we have,
To try provenders that we know not of.
Thus nutrients doth make gourmands of us all;
Ingest the native foods that evolution
Has handed o’er without the slightest thought,
And this comprises the plate that we are sent.
With this regard the curries burn, that’s why
We choose to take this action.

The Home on the Hill

Fylde Coast Community Radio broadcast a programme called "A Poetry Show" each Saturday night at 8pm. The featured poet for 12 April 2014? Edgar Allan Poe. I thought "Poe - that sounds like a good idea," and was - sort of - inspired.

The Home on the Hill

The darkness of the starless night
Removed three figures from the sight
Of sentinels beneath the ground;
They hid there, waiting for a sound
Of movement through the blackened land,
For reasons none would understand.

They did not stir, they did not see
Or hear the figures; carefully
The three companions crept on by
Through grassland leading low and high,
Passed darkened windmills they would tread:
No chance of moonlight overhead.

Despite their silent movement they
Would not dare venture here by day.
Although the dark way was perverse
The light’s exposure would be worse:
As, quiet as the three could be,
The watcher in the sky would see.

They did not use the childhood names
From times when here they once played games,
From when the singer bounced her ball
When joyously her friends she’d call,
Each playing with their precious toys –
But now they would not make a noise.

At last, they saw the place they sought.
They’d reached there without being caught:
The singer with her yellow head,
The bagman glancing round with dread,
The drinker with his hat on, still
They reached the home upon the hill.

The doors were locked. To get inside
They vowed they would not be denied.
They clambered up the sloping wall
As once they did when they were small
And used the entrance on the crown
And slid and slid ‘til they were down.

With lamp held low and out of sight
They chose to risk a beam of light,
To search the house for they had heard
That an abduction had occurred,
That their dear friend had been brought here –  
Then they saw something there, quite near.

A body lay there, was it dead?
Awash in scarlet, foot to head,
But no – some breathing, slow and deep.
‘Twas Po! And she was fast asleep.
They gently shook her ‘til she woke.
She said “Eh-oh” and then she spoke.

“Oh, Tinky-winky, my dear friend,
“And Laa-Laa, Dipsy: I commend
You for your courage coming here.
You’ve put yourselves at risk, I fear.”
At that, a snuffling made them quake.
Their doom – –  the Noo-noo was awake.

The Fair Weather Gardener

The rain on the window was the inspiration for this one. There seems to have been more than a fair share of that lately.

A few consecutive days with dry, non-windy weather, and who knows what might happen. You may just see that pig fly by.



The Fair Weather Gardener

Hi! I’m a fair weather gardener;
I think that’s the term that they use.
The slightest appearance of rain in the air
It gives me the chance to refuse
To go out the door – it would damage the lawn,
If “lawn” is a suitable term –
It’s green and it grows and it responds to mows,
Beyond that, I’d have to confirm.

So I cannot get through to the edges
Where the grass and the weeds tend to grow;
Where dandelions drill down with oil-seeking roots –
They don’t understand the word “no”.
I can’t reach the shrubs where, last season,
They threw out their branches with glee,
Resulting in orientations
That leaves a new challenge to me.

The weeds and the couch grass blown in from next door,
I need to root those out once more.
I need to prune back the growth on the trees –
That’s something I cannot ignore.
I need to dead-head the rose bushes,
I need to rake out all the leaves
That have covered the borders all winter,
I really must roll up my sleeves.

The trellis needs urgent attention
The posts have been rotted by rain
The wind then altered their aspect:
Don’t think I can fix them again.
I’ll probably shift them as soon as I can
But will not replace them just yet.
I need to decide if there’s something out there
That does not react to the wet.

A few days of sunshine would do it,
A chance for the ground to grow firm.
I’d get out the mower and push it around –
A quick win in quite a short term.
It brings such a sense of achievement
To win each new garden campaign:
At least ‘til the weather unfairly fights back
And I’m sent back inside once again.