Chrysalis Cartographers

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Photo by John on Pexels.com

Chrysalis Cartographers

When Luna Saturne hears her Dad
Complain of moths at work,
She wonders why this makes him sad
And not be quite the perk –
Because he works in publishing,
She somehow understands,
They must be atlas moths, whose wings
Are wider than her hands.
Their caterpillars take their chance,
As fat as sausage-rolls,
By hiding on the Swiss-cheese plants –
That’s why they’re full of holes.
She pictures them about the lift-shaft,
Drinking ink and glue,
And beating wings with such a down-draught,
Papers fly askew.
They’re dancing round fluorescent tubes,
And hogging AC vents,
And stealing wayward sugar cubes
For shredder-paper tents.
But soon her Dad must cut her cloth –
They’re smaller than she wished.
So now, it seems, both dream and moth
Must be downsized, and squished.

Go Up, Thou Bald-Head !

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The Children Destroyed by Bears by Gustave Doré

Go Up, Thou Bald Head !

Why were the bears of Elisha called she-bears –
Don’t dwell on the mauling – but just why was that in their name ?
Did they refer to themselves as me-bears ?
Or hairy toupee-bears, to spare the poor prophet his shame ?
Or should we say ack-choo-lee, they must be sow-bears ?
But wouldn’t pigs furrow the Israelite’s double-deck brow ?
And these days, to play fair, should we call ’em they-bears ?
And not get so bald-faced or frowny on who’s Herr or Frau ?

Odd Is He

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Photo by Design Diva on Pexels.com

Odd Is He

Odysseus – more smarts than wrath –
A narcissist and psychopath,
Who slays and shags his way back home.
A hero ?  That’s a laugh !

He uses people for his ends,
He needs no confidants or friends –
They’re deadweights over which he’ll roam,
Wherever fortune wends.

You won’t catch him confessing,
And he never learns his lesson,
And he never shows the least regret –
But still the gods keep blessing.

And yet the latest versions show
A man of honour, full of woe –
But better this than Homer’s vet –
That ancient bully ?  Let him go…

Beyond the Creek

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Beyond the Creek

How can the World’s End by in Chelsea ?
Is Zone 2 beyond the pale ?
Some claim that further Westwards is Fulham,
But just cos we’ve got legs, there’s no need to pull ’em….
Clearly the whole world stops in Chelsea,
Where only the fools and the buses sail –
For who takes a trip past the Cemet’ry’s ridge ?
Or dares to cross over the Stamford Bridge ?
But wait…are there council tenants in Chelsea ?
Have Thameside views been built at scale ?
Is the King’s Road home to the oik and churl ?
Now that truly is the end of the world…

Events, Dear Boy…

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Architecture by Kenton Couse

Events, Dear Boy…

It’s a reshuffle scuffle,
It’s a cabinet crash,
And a crab-wise scuttle
From a Whitehall dash.
A sprint down Downing Street,
To sweet F.O.
A Number 10 tremor,
As the change-winds blow.

But who is the Minister for Photo-Ops ?,
And who is the Secret’ry for Sex ?
Who will smooth the dents from the Woolsack,
Or stalk the back benches for a principal to flex ?
Who gets to spit-and-polish Black Rod ?
And who’s got a whip as long as the Chief’s ?
Who is caught Without Portfolio,
Covering their backside with only their briefs.

It’s a lobbyist’s hobby,
It’s a settle-out-of-court,
For a Westminster spinster,
And a Portcullis sport.
Then off to the Palace
For the Prime of all chaps –
And a Government is formed,
Till it’s time to collapse.

Ante-Down

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from Cult Movie Cards by Hüman After All, designed by Paul Willoughby

Ante-Down

Let ace be low and always low,
And never beat a king –
Why’s that a thing ?
And shortened decks should keep the twos and threes and fours in spread,
And ditch the eights, nines, tens, instead.

Let’s let them show what they should show,
And wear their pips with pride –
No ranks denied !
For deuces are the lovers, are the prime, and are the zen –
And far less cluttered than the ten.

Best not let these guys meet the bolshy chaps or tarot purists the at the next table then.

Monostich

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I asked AI for a line of gibberish, but this looks like a whole paragraph…

Monostich

A poem in a single line ?
A wonder in one hit ?
The very soul of wit, will you be mine ?
Well, can I make my rusty lyric shine,
Or leaden meter fit ?
But oh, the rhymes, the bloody rhymes !
Those crimes whose chimes aren’t worth the strike –
It’s true, I’ve taken hours sometimes
For just five seconds at the mic.
So a poem in a line, you say ?
I haven’t time for one today,
But here’s a dozen dashed off, if you like…

Albion Away

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I asked AI to have them looking up at the cathedral, but here i think they’ve just spotted a pigeon…

Albion Away

(A Tale from the 80s)

From teenage holidays in Spain,
Back when they were the latest thing,
To Saturdays on terraces,
To sing-out for our lads.
Three-nil, five-one, always winning,
Charging down the wing –
First the League, and then to conquer Europe,
Further than our dads.

Rome in April, that was special,
Even though we lost,
And Bucharest, beyond the Iron Curtain –
Why resist the pull ?
For how else could we working-class boys
Learn of santé, skål, and proost,
And countless castles and bazaars
In Bern, Zagreb, and Istanbul,

Our girlfriends likely had scant int’rest
In our fate this season,
Yet they’d sometimes come along to see
The other-worldly show.
And finding out the other fans were just like us
Was always pleasing,
Drinking with the Finns and Greeks
From Sparta Rapid Dynamo.

I wasn’t sure about the title of this one – I didn’t want to suggest any specific team.  I did consider Avalon Away, but that sounded awkward.  And in the end, I can only think of two Albion teams, plus a couple of Scottish ones, and none of them one is exactly renowned for their European prowess…

Stomach-Flies

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Photo by Andy Lee on Pexels.com

Stomach-Flies

Only a dozen-ish species, I promise,
To look for around the park.
Well, maybe a few more, that we won’t spot,
Nor moths in the after-dark.
Some are only seen in the gardens,
And some underneath the trees,
And some won’t stay still long enough,
So best not sweat over these.

I tried to pay attention to you,
To ev’rything you said –
But your butterflies just flew around my head.

See, it isn’t so hard to tell them apart,
Bar the Whites – those two are close !
But ev’ryone know the Brimstones in yellow,
And Peacock will chime with most.
And the Red Admiral is red and black,
And the Holly Blue, well, that’s blue,
And the Orange Tip has bright orange tips,
And the Gatekeeper, eyespots two.

How I tried to pay attention,
To your fluttery, zig-zag crew –
The trouble was, I only had eyes for you.

The Comma looks ragged around the edge,
While the Ringlet is full of rings.
But Painted Ladies and Tortoiseshells, mind,
Have the self-same orange-black wings.
The Speckled Wood is a blur of brown –
But hang on, that’s thirteen…
Let’s leave it there, and come back noon tomorrow,
If you’re keen ?

So I’ll try to pay attention,
Give your fascination due –
While the butterflies ignore us, as they do.

Candlelight Romance

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Portrait of a Scholar in his Study by anon

Candlelight Romance

Rhea transits Saturn in the Sun of the Enlightenment,
Where gentlemen take note of nature’s law –
A lecture is attended by the lovers and the children
While a cockatiel is gasping out in awe.
The Moon picks-out the industry that sculpts the new environment
As Lunar Men are studying the bronze.
And ingots glow on Progress and on all the craft she’s skilled-in
In academies and clockwork pantheons.