Settling Down
Even on a peaceful night,
I wriggle in my sheet –
From the fidget as I try to lie –
To bare my shoulder, tuck my feet –
On this side, that side, wrapped-up tight,
Or sprawled-across the mattress seam –
Until my breath becomes a sigh
And frantic thoughts become a dream.
Industrious Insects
The busy bees of Manchester
Are busy hoverflies –
They flit about the branches there,
In black-and-gold disguise.
Perhaps they’re all more working-class,
Republicans in tile and glass,
Who swing their clubs to earn their brass
Across the smoky skies.
They may not make the honey,
And they may not make the wax –
But they pollinate the money,
And they pay their aphid tax.
They have no queens, they have no hives,
They live their solitary lives –
But close together, each one thrives
On cotton, silk, and flax.
Corten Steel
Our bridges are rusty before they are even open,
Clad in their ugliness –
They’re streaked and they’re stained with their spreadsheeted arrogance,
Shrugging with couldn’t-care-less.
So Brutalism continues its groping
In withered and leery undress,
With its surfaces tarnished and slumming advanced,
As it flakes and exudes under stress.
They really don’t look very sturdy to cope,
Whatever their builders declare –
With their rough-shod matt-faced blunt expanse
Whose corrosion hangs in the air.
They will fail. But not because of their scope,
But because of the vision they share –
For the mind that puts rust over art and romance
Will decide obsolescence is fair.
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.
Were I their referee, you know,
The clock would be ignored –
I wouldn’t let them leave the pitch until a goal was scored.
The final whistle wouldn’t blow
Until they up-and play –
Until they got the message that they’d have to earn their pay.
Written in Chalk
We should play by the rules,
But the rules are on the move.
For some, they’re merely tools
That will morph and will improve.
Ev’rybody has their house-rule,
Long may they evolve –
If all agree, then all is cool,
When hiccups needs a solve.
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
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 !
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
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
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.
Rhyming Couplets 