Moon-Trekkers
Eclipses, they say, are spectacular things –
Or so I’ve always heard.
When the world goes quiet, the heaven sings,
With Bailey’s beads and diamond rings –
Just blind chance, yes, but look what she brings !
Who dares to not be stirred ?
Well, me, alas. I haven’t the wings
Of a shadow-chasing bird.
It’s not only sun in my eyes that stings –
At this price, no wonder they toppled kings !
When it comes to jaunts and faraway flings,
I’ll have to take their word…
Jungle Familiar
“Here in the Amazon, expect to see creatures
So unlike anything you’ve seen back at home.”
So the tour-guide promised, in our cabins in the jungle,
That were concrete-free with no trace of styrofoam.
Twenty structures or so, I reckoned,
And only reached by the river – no roads.
With the sounds of the rainforest right on our doorstep,
With monkeys and parrots and cicadas and toads.
But…around the huts, some things were looking
Just a little too familiar – too much like Blighty,
Like dandelions, growing wherever they can –
I’m unure – should they abhor or delight me ?
I heard some chickens in a coop, and honey-bees –
And I’m willing to bet they’re the same damn species
As thrive in Britain, like the white-bloomed clover,
And the stands of reeds on the river’s beaches.
So, on our way here we passed through Manaus,
With its pigeons and its mallards and its sparrows and its rats.
Now, I didn’t see those out here in the jungle,
But I do see a peregrine falcon – fancy that !
And there goes the buzzing of a common house fly,
And there’s a daddy longlegs – and a cockroach on the roam.
And a cat to catch mice, and a dog to keep guard,
And the humans, of course. We’ve some of those at home…
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 !
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
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
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…
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
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
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
(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…
Rhyming Couplets 