Boring Boring Donkeys

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Boring Boring Donkeys

They couldn’t be arsed to win the game,
And neither could the other team –
They huffed and puffed, yet both ran out of steam.

The goals were few, the highlights same,
As no-one risked a probing lob –
Or knuckle down to do their bloody job.

“Winning is all that matters, though.”
They glumly would to explain,
As they stumbled through the motions once again.

They kicked-off from the very go
For penalties to come
The losers’ lottery for teams who put the hum in drum.

Now me, were I their referee,
The clock would be ignored –
I wouldn’t let them leave the pitch until a goal was scored.

I wouldn’t blow for time, you see,
They’d have to carry on all day –
Until they got the message that they’d have to earn their pay.

Holes

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Holes

Our eyeballs have a hole in them –
To light the retina behind –
That’s what the pupil is – an orifice –
Without it, we’d be blind.
Our mouths are gaping portals to our tunnels –
Down our throats they wind,
On through our stomachs and our guts,
To exit at, well, nevermind…
And our bodies are a sieve, our skins are sponges,
Pores of ev’ry kind –
To let-in sound, or let-out tears,
How many more are there to find ?
It’s strange to think about, I guess,
But prob’ly best to be resigned –
We’re nothing but a Swiss cheese, really,
With a rent and ruptured rind.

Plead the Ninth

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I asked AI for moral guidance, and this is what it told me…

Plead the Ninth

What’s Commandment number Nine ?
The answer can be most revealing
Of the teller’s own Divine –

“Thou shalt not bear false thy witness.”
Here, I get the strongest feeling
Of some Southern Baptist business.

“Covet not thy neighbour’s wife.”
And here, the penitent who’s kneeling
Is a Cath’lic, on my life.

“Do not covet thy neighbour’s house.”
Now here, there’s sev’ral choices wheeling,
But Orthodox would be my nouse.

“Um…is that the ‘do not steal’ one ?”
While here, their dithering and reeling
Shows them for an Anglican.

“Bring the first fruits to thy Lord.”
And here, I’d wager that we’re dealing
With a Heathen making sport.

You Are The Hero !

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Detail from the original slipcase for Steve Jackson’s Sourcery ! by John Blanche

You Are The Hero !

Remember all those gamebooks from back when we were boys ?
(And girls…though mainly boys.)
Remember how, on tenterhooks,
We’d have to make the choice
Of our turning left or turning right ?
Remember all the monsters and the ploys that we would fight ?
Remember all the dice we’d roll
To see if we would kill the troll ?
And prove our might ?
Remember all the traps upon the roads ?
And treasures that we’d prize ?
Remember finding clues and secret codes
If we chose wise ?
Remember flipping through the pages
On our quest to smash the mages ?
Turning to the paragraph with bated breath –
Would we find the one true path,
Or would we meet with death ?

Well, both, of course.
Ev’rybody cheated,
And nobody rolled dice.
(Not even would the girls obey.)
For nobody could force us how to play.
Whenever we would be defeated,
We would not think twice,
But just shrug and carry-on along our way.
We wouldn’t sigh when we were slain,
And start from chapter one again,
As laid down by the authors of these epic Middle Ages –
Instead, we’d keep our fingers in the pages,
Testing out each turn –
To see which would reward and which would burn.
And we were right to cheat so blatantly
When said and done –
For all the boys (and girls) agree
That gaming should be fun…

Ah, the good old five-fingered bookmark ! But they weren’t all fantasies…

All The Letters I Can Write

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Emily Dickinson by Wesley Merritt

All The Letters I Can Write

Emily, Emily, scribing all day,
And so many poems, so much range !
Seventeen-hundred-odd and change.
Emily Dickinson, come what may –
With rhymes that fade in the second-half,
For over a dozen-by-gross of graft.
Sure, they’re short, what you have to say –
Though I prefer ‘pithy’, by the way-
But you tell it so often, all it’s worth,
So don’t mind the length and feel the girth !
One-and-three-quarter thousand, that’s the score.
And finally, I’ve bettered and more !
I’ve blasted past, as I chase two kay,
With the short, and the long, and the inbetween,
There’s something for ev’ryone to ignore !
And sure, they’ve never been published or seen –
So just like yours, and look at yours now !
For you are my hope, my dream, my vow –
To keep on writing anyhow…
Emily, Emily, never in drought,
In your study, your sanctum, your safe redoubt,
Where you homespun ev’ry lyric and lay –
In ev’ry sense, you’re here to stay.
So, two grand of verses ?  I’m in with a shout,
While shut in my garret, not going out…

The Age of Discretion

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The Age of Discretion

I’ve learned when to stand in the spotlight,
And I’ve learned when to soften my tone.
I’ve learned when to keep my lips shut tight,
And smile until it all comes right,
Because I’ve learned when not to fight,
But to leave all well alone.

I knew what I was doing, of course,
I’ve no excuse, and ask for none.
It only serves to reinforce
Precisely what I’ve done.

I’ve learned when not to speak my mind,
And I’ve learned not to gossip or moan.
I’ve leaned when silence can be kind,
To notice all yet still be blind –
Yet no surpise, at last I find
That I’ve ended up alone.

I knew what I was playing, back then,
And chose to play it solitaire.
And now that I have lost my men,
I’ve nothing left to share.

The Home of the Angels

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The Home of the Angels

I’ve heard there’s a sign in the West on a hillside –
That leads to a jolly good land –
Where the Sun always shines on its name in lights,
On boulevards blond and tanned.
I’ve heard there’s a town where they rebuild the cities,
Where the stories are stacked so tall –
Then they pull them all down in a couple of nights,
And we’re left to imagine them all.

I’ve heard there’s a wide road that looks to the sunset,
And lets it all go to its head –
Where ev’ry abode is chock-full of dreams,
But there’s only so many beds.
I’ve heard there’s a sidewalk that shakes our hand,
And the backlots are guarded by beasts –
And it’s true, all the talk, how the whole town gleams,
When it’s seen from a distance, at least…

Cranial Strainial

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Cranial Strainial

I was paging through the vellum of my silly cerebellum,
In pursuit of some astute and cutesy cue –
I was patterning some patter from the matted-old grey matter,
But my gloomy ruminations would not glue.
I was brooding on a doodle from my stewed and moody noodle,
But although my lights were on, my wits were dim.
I was knocking on my noggin for a logarithmic login,
But my lingo wasn’t bingo-ing with vim.
Thus I tried to work the quarry of my murky upper-storey,
But the nuggets were a slug of IOUs –
So I hoped my troubleshooter would reboot my meat-computer,
But my scrutinising loosened only screws.
And for all I poked and probed at my affront to frontal lobes,
I was summoning no summit for my sums –
All my neurons were neurotic, and my id was idiotic,
And my egghead wasn’t laying golden plums.

Onion Friends

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Onion Friends

Friends are funny things really…
I’m mean, I must know a couple of hundred or more
On nodding terms,
And half of those I even know their names,
And out of them, I’ve had a decent chat this year
With two-or-three score,
(Which is not something I get to say
With some of my former flames…)
But out of that group, there’s roughly half
With whom I can share a joke,
And barely a dozen I’d ever consider ‘close’
And as for ‘best’, well, those are the rarest
Among my friendly folk,
Though all are worth the knowing,
To the degree that we engross.