Mack & Mike

Pomegranate Still Life by Michael Ogasawara

Mack & Mike

Some of us are lumpers,
And some of us are splitters,
Some are bulky-clumpers,
And some are little-bitters,
Some of us are big-tent stuffers,
Broad-brush roughers,
Close-enoughers,
Filling-up our grab-bags
Till there’s no more room inside –
And some of us are split-hair-threaders,
Sep’rate bedders,
Excess shedders,
Spilling-out and sorting through
To further subdivide.
And honestly, we need both kinds of schemes
To help us to discover,
Masterplan and granular,
Millennial and annular –
Yet nobody can do them both, it seems,
We lean one way or ’tother –
Either rounding up or down,
With both the only game in town.
So some of us are crowders,
And some of us are sparsers,
Half of us are glommers,
And half of us are parsers.
I guess we cannot change the plot,
Our ways are set, alas –
But still, let’s take pride in our lot,
And classify with class.

Glabrous Glands

Photo by Nick Demou on Pexels.com

Glabrous Glands

Facial hair is not for me,
It’s written in my genes –
And no amount of herbal tea
Or eating up my greens
Can furnish on my chinny-chin
A burst of bushy thatch,
But just the look of unwashed skin
For itchy nails to scratch.
You may think me unmanly
And my smooth-cheek a disgrace,
But then, not just the dandy
Has to sport a spotless face.
I guess I’ll never put to sea,
Or be a hermit, blind –
The hussar’s life is not for me,
Nor evil mastermind.

Deferred Divisions

A Westminster division bell relay in a pub – because why should MPs be forced to attend the debate ? I mean, it’s only their job and all…

Deferred Divisions

A week is a long time in politics,
A decade is no time at all.
The pettiest points are scored in a hurry
While marches-of-progress crawl.
The only change is change that’s forced,
And always years too late –
A week is an age in politics,
While ages must shut-up and wait.

Aurora Australis

Okay, I admit it, the Moon’s far too large and too far South, but you get the idea

Aurora Australis

Way down South, where looking up
Is looking upside down –
The Man in the Moon is wrongside-right,
And the Plough ain’t even in town.
The Dog Star sails above the Pup,
Throughout the Summer sky,
With Betelgeuse kept low at night
And Rigel kicking high.
To Northern eyes, where looking up
Is looking strange and stark –
The Milky Way us far too bright,
The pole is far too dark.

Eye-Ee-Shah

Pink Sugar by Olivier Ponsonnet

Eye-Ee-Shah

Aisha Asher always thinks her name
Has too few letters in it –
It takes a whole three syllables to say,
But not to write.
She likes the sound, but oh, that spelling !
How she longs to discipline it –
Make those letters toe the line,
And keep their phonemes tight.
Whenever a teacher or a stranger
Tries, and fails, to call her,
They’re guaranteed to get it wrong
If reading it as penned.
Ay-sha, they would call her, like the Geisha from Croatia,
It appals her,
But…she cannot really blame them in the end.
Her A is really said like I,
Her I is really said like E,
But who would know to see it written down ?
She toys with splitting them apart with Y,
To keep her diphthongs free,
Or adding dots above the E,
Despite her mother’s frown.
But nobody respects her favoured spellings, anyway –
(It doesn’t help that they are apt to change).
It looks like she is stuck
With a name no-one can say,
Eternally surprising in her strange.

There’s no ‘We’ in Corpus Christi

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

There’s no ‘We’ in Corpus Christi

There once was a priest
Who thought he was a priest,
But who wasn’t in the Lord’s own eyes.
For, to be a priest
You must at very least
Have already been fully baptised.
And I am that priest,
Who thought his path was greased
Right into the body of the Church.
But my own parish priest
Who performed on me the piece
Messed up, and left me in the lurch.
For old Father East
Was a jovial priest
Who knew that my parents were stressing –
So to put them at their ease,
He thought it quite a wheeze
To fully loop them into the blessing –
“To the Lord God who frees us
And in the name of Jesus
We all here christen you, our cute little guy.”
But God had closed his ears
To the heartfelt font-side cheers –
For the priest had said that ‘We’ instead of ‘I’.
So when the truth was teased,
How the Church was less-than-pleased !
For I wasn’t then a priest to begin…
Each wedding vow ceased
To be valid in the least
As the couples fornicated in sin.
Ev’ry moral I policed,
Ev’ry absolution leased
Was a sham in its promise and its hope.
Their souls had been fleeced
And sold off to the Beast –
For this priest has gone on to be Pope.

Blue Chip, Brown Bread

Thailand 2016 official mourning wear, required for one month (or one year for state officials).

Blue Chip, Brown Bread

Somebody I’ve never met has died,
And you’ve never met him either –
Yet we’re required to shut up and abide,
And know our place.
We’re in for a long and boring ride,
And woe betide the unbeliever –
From Kensington to the banks of the Clyde,
The nation shuts its face.

Clear the TV schedules, quick,
They need to fawn over a nobody –
All these tributes, creepy and slick,
For fear of facing anarchy !
So after years of giving him stick
They’re truth-to-power turns limp and shoddy –
But then, these days they’re all in thick,
And even the Guardian bends the knee.

The media barons and ermine peers
Will lead the mourning, doffed and bowed,
And pray for another fifty years
In their suffocating drone.
As they wring out the mandatory tears
And tug their forelocks proud,
The Establishment betrays its fears
As it buries one of its own.

Chance Encounter

Her Day Out by Tony Pro

Chance Encounter

Has it been so long ?
Has it really been so many years
Since last we greeted one another ?
Since we said goodbye in tears
After it had all gone wrong…?
Yeah, I guess it has been after all.
Are we about to rediscover
Why we never tried to call ?

I can’t believe it either…
I guess they don’t make years like they used to,
Back when we were foolish-young –
Of course, I never thought I’d lose you…
Never thought I’d win you, neither,
Yet, back then, I guess I did,
Until experience had stung,
Reminding me I’m just a kid.

We had some fun, though, didn’t we…?
It’s coming back – the better times,
The silly, noisy better times,
When life was there for living.
We had a good run, you and me,
Before the arguments and guilt,
Before the milk was spilt,
Before each second-guessed misgiving.

Has it been so long ?
Has it been a lifetime since we spoke ?
It all seemed so important,
And so ruined once it broke.
I guess we came out strong,
We both have landed on all-fours.
It’s good to see you, even sporting still
That wayward smile of yours.

Unfinished

Photo by Miguel u00c1. Padriu00f1u00e1n on Pexels.com

Unfinished

Must not lie back on the poems I’ve written,
Those sonnets and couplets are all in the past –
Thoughts from a week ago, month ago, years,
Thoughts of their moment, but never my last.
Haven’t I changed since, even a little bit ?
Diff’rently conscious, evolving, hard-won.
Got to keep writing, keep feeling, keep living,
For what good’s a poet who thinks their work done ?

Biblio Tech

Vintage Bookshelf Wallpaper by Young & Battaglia

Biblio Tech

Every gentleman fills up his library:
Every manor and palace and hall
Has a room full of shelving that’s crammed full of bindings,
All equally mannered and equally tall.
And nowhere is half a row empty,
And nowhere are bookstacks for want of a board.
Do gentlemen skim for as long as they’ve shelving,
Then quit once their volumes are suitably stored ?