Triet

score

 

Triet

1
Ten thousand hours, and for what ?
To competently plink and drone
In time, in tune – but that’s my lot:
Just strumming to the gramophone,
Cos covers is all I’ve ever got –
I’ve no new tunes of my own.

And actually, I must have sung
Ten thousand hours, and thousands more,
And still my voice is lowly strung.
I’ve had it with this urban lore !
I’m glad I haven’t yet begun
To waste my time to learn the score !

2
There was a time when music-lovers
Rarely dined on the food of love.
Before the wireless or phonograph,
You needed an orchestra on staff.
Before they built the Pianola,
Only a pianist could get enough.
For ev’ryone else, it’s chiming clocks,
Or the barrel organ and music box.

3
Imagine a song.  Any song,
Just as long as you love it.
Imagine that song was heard once,
And then never again.
Imagine that song is now gone,
But you know that you love it
But cannot recall a damn note !
Refrain the refrain.

Scorpion Grass

forget-me-nots

 

Scorpion Grass

You gave me plugs for planting
In the ground beneath my plum –
A lover’s gift for growing,
And for shooing Winter glum.
Such blue and tiny flowers
In a little straggly scrum –
Just bed them in and off they go,
With any-colour thumb.
Yet year-on-year, these self-seed parts
Make up a spreading sum –
These almost-weeds, not worth the dig,
Are no chrysanthemum !
You gave me some forget-me-nots –
And later called me scum.
I’ve tried so hard to wipe the slate –
Yet ev’ry Spring, they come.

 

This poem was inspired by one by Dino Mahoney – I basically took his idea and added rhymes.

 

 

 

For England & St George

St George
Saint George & The Dragon by the Salviati Workshop, Woolwich Garrison church

 

For England & St George

Up in Heaven-on-the-Clouds
You works on our behalf,
Pushing through the saintly crowds
To bat for Halifax and Bath,
And bring to Lynn and Dale of Borrow
Sun today and jam tomorrow.

Working hard in Upper Eden,
Pushing England’s cause.
You wouldn’t get the saint of Sweden
Cheering on so many wars:
Rule Britannia, Hope & Glory –
Welcome to the national story.

Tea and crumpets, trains and cricket,
Stratford to South Shields.
There you lurk, on moor and thicket,
Anglicising foreign fields.
Who needs Alban, Bede or Swithun ?
Give us Bowie, Dench and Niven !

But wait, I hear the Genoese
Have hired your service too;
And Catalans, and Portuguese,
And Greek and Germans join the queue –
The Georgian and the Muscovite
Are proud to sport your red and white.

And soldiers, archers, and the Scouts,
Equestrians and knights,
And farmers rearing sheep and sprouts
Are likewise firmly in your sights.
I do hope, George, with all this lot
That England’s voice won’t be forgot.

And then there’s leprosy and plague,
And syphilis to boot,
But here your role is rather vague
On how you earn your extra loot:
Helping patients come to terms ?
Or do you represent the germs ?

And back home in your country seat,
Its lord is rarely seen;
In ancient times, your sandalled feet
Came nowhere near our mountains green.
But hey, who cares from where you’ve strayed –
For Englishmen aren’t born, but made.

You spend your days in Greater Blighty,
Meeting with the Boss –
Asking him to make us mighty,
From Land’s End to Gerrard’s Cross
You always done us proud, our George,
When lobbying for Cheddar Gorge.

 

 

Cherry-Picking

pink cherry blossoms selective focus photo
Photo by LilacDragonfly on Pexels.com

 

Cherry-Picking

Some of them are white, of course,
Though all are pink round here.
They’re not the most impressive trees
Till all the blooms appear.
They blow their show in April,
All before their leaves take root –
Yet all of this confetti
Makes such neat and waxy fruit.

 

 

No Rest for the Blessèd

zombies
Zombies by podagrog

 

No Rest for the Blessèd

“And, behold, the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent; And the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose, And came out of the graves after his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many.”
Matthew, chapter  27, verses 51-53

And the very earth shook beneath us,
And the sky came dark and the veil of the temple was rent;
As the Son at last came to leave us,
So the tombs where slept the saints were breached as He went.
And there they sat, arisen yet still,
Since so long dead, they patiently waited
For a night and a day and a night until
On Sunday morn, they arrived belated.
     Zombies on the loose, they come !
Zombies in Jerusalum !

And yet not a word was spoken,
As He was interred by Joseph of Arimathea,
Of other tombs that were broken –
For surely he witnessed the quaking’s rough aftermath here ?
For there they sat, arisen yet still,
Awaiting the one who had yet to be buried;
So lay Him within the sepulchre’s chill
And roll up the stone, his soul long ferried.
     Zombies yet procrastinate,
     Zombies lurk and zombies wait.

And still not a word was spoken
By the Marys on Sunday making their way to His tomb,
As they passed all the saints newly woken,
As another earth-tremor gave sanction to auto-exhume.
No more they sat – unprisoned, unstill:
Now great was their stagg’ring and groaning as any;
As stumbling and jerking, they lurched down the hill
To Jerusalem, to the marvel of many.
     Zombies, rotten of complexion !
Zombies join the Resurrection !

And never more a word was spoken
By the Twelve at the Pentecost, only a few weeks on –
When their voices were no longer choken,
But gabbled in tongues – yet not asking where the dead had all gone.
Where now they sat ?  Or risen they still ?
Where went their mission, so silent of news ?
What is the purpose they mean to fulfil ?
Is this what is meant by Wandering Jews ?
     Zombies, born again through Christ !
Zombies, torn from Paradise !

And still not a word is spoken,
And the puzzling verse is never read out in church.
No statue or stained glass token
Celebrate animate saints as they stumble and lurch.
And those who are sit in the pews quite still
And pretend that the verse is a metaphor or test –
I guess they haven’t the need or the will
To admit to themselves that it might be a jest.
     Zombies, clinging to their mask,
Zombies, too afraid to ask.

 

 

Blackfingers

shallow photography of dried leaves
Photo by Alan Cabello on Pexels.com

 

Blackfingers

The plant you gave so lovingly
Is dying on my windowsill.
I swear it’s not a metaphor,
It’s just a drooping hellebore.
I tend the plant so lovingly,
And steadily it goes downhill.
I swear its thrips and fungal pus
Are meaningless in terms of us.
This poor maltreated gift you chose,
This sacrificial Lenten rose,
Is no barometer of woes
That gnarls and twists and guilts.
It’s just a plant in dying throes
That cannot blame or presuppose.
The only thing this flower shows
Is soil that’s poor in silts.
I swear our love still blooms and grows,
As surely as this other wilts.
Whatever the bards or historians say,
It’s not the pot-plant of Dorian Gray.