I wonder, does it start with hoofbeats, Or the rush of flapping wings ? The hiss of gas ? A perfect fifth ? Or pistons, switches, cogs and springs ? That moment when the muse comes calling Bringing insight in her wake – She gifts her targets sparks and notions, Just to see what they will make.
And some folks are raptured, and some folks are seizured, And some folks will cherish and others will fear it – And I can but look on and ponder their wonder And try not to envy their genius spirit. And if I can’t join in their synching, Can’t speak in their tongues, or can’t waltz in their dance, At least I can urge them to write down their thinking, And not to leave mem’ry to chance –
So scurry and scramble to get the sprites pinned, That jingle or joke or invention or gen – For how many mousetraps are lost to the wind, When somebody spoke or for the want of a pen ?
I’ve long since stopped expecting the tap, Or the draught from angels’ wings I’ll never be a chosen one Who gets to feel such precious things For I am nothing transcendental – Too much static on the line. I’m not complaining – so it goes, I guess we can’t all be divine.
So I have to prod it, and I have I to wring it, And I have to plead with my brain for a vision – For I can but whittle upon some idea, And patiently bring it, I hope, to fruition. But keep chasing down on that inkling, And tinker about in the back of the mind – And most of all, keep turning up at the thinking – Ah well – back to the grind.
Your whispers and trances may get your thoughts firing, But mine just meander and dawdle and wend. My only damn flashes are sparks in my wiring – But maybe my work is as good in the end ?
It’s never the way that they claim it, this love, In their stories and movies and songs – It’s never so epic or urgent or raw, It’s never so moving or brimming with awe. It’s never the way that it should be, this love, And we’re all of us doing it wrong – They sold us the brand and we snapped up the dream, We’re dazzled by hope when there’s barely a gleam. And if we ain’t got it, It’s too late to spot it, Cos surely we should’ve exulted by now. Whatever the weather, To not be together Is more than a lover could ever allow. So still we keep wishing, And still we keep sighing, And still we keep fishing, And swooning, and crying And even the faithful still feel the desire – We’re all of us waiting for Cupid to fire.
It’s never the way that we planned it, this love, In our minds and our hearts and our schemes – It’s never so civil or timely or neat, It’s never so gentle or syrupy sweet. It’s never the way that we practised, this love, With our patter and perfumes and creams – It comes on in shivers and rashes and bursts, It comes on in hungers and gorges and thirsts. And if we don’t get it, They’ll make us regret it – We’ve failed to be human and living our fill. We’re solo and only – The crime of the lonely, That’s punished by keeping us lonelier still. But on we keep hoping, And on we keep dreaming, And on we keep moping, And recklessly teeming – And even the loveless are likewise alike, We’re all of us sure that the lightning will strike.
Purple and mauve And claret and plum, Lavender, lilac and carpenter’s thumb, Indigo, violet, ultramarine, Fuchsia, magenta and burgundy-bean. Aubergine, sprouting and blueberry juice – Much redder than cyan and bluer than puce.
The red and the blue, And the blue and the red, And the mix of the two On the wall or the thread. Emperors, sportsmen and hippies have shown That neither these primes is enough on its own. It’s cool and it’s passionate, hip and genteel – Much bluer than scarlet and redder than steel.
We all grew up with those slow, slow songs That would start so low and so far. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, With piano or strumming guitar. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, And they’d start so low and alone – But we waited for strings and we waited for drums That the first verse would only postpone.
We all grew up with those slow, slow songs That would start so low, but they’d build. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, Be it yearned or lost or fulfilled. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, And they’d always start so low. But we knew there were strings and we knew there were drums, All to come as the slow songs grow.
We were so young, too young to know, That that’s not the way that our love must go. We should have been so angry, shrieking out with rage – Instead of slowly dancing, or shrieking at the stage.
We all grew up with those slow, slow songs That would slowly grow as they’d build. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, Be it spent or hungry or willed. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, And they’d always build so good. Cos we knew there were drums, and we knew there were strings – And the strings entered here, as they should.
We were so young, too young to know, That that’s not the way ev’ry time would flow. But DJs gave us no-one else to lead us by their lights, So who else could we turn to through our adolescent nights ?
So we all sang along, sang along – Cos who wouldn’t want to feel like they belong ? So we sang and we sang, and still we got it wrong, So we thought we had to listen even harder to the song.
We all grew up with those slow, slow songs That didn’t stay low, cos they’d build – And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, Be it craved or broken or thrilled. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, And they didn’t stay low for long – Cos we knew there were strings and we knew there were drums, And we knew that the climax was strong.
We were so young, too young to know, That that’s not the way when you start off low, But that’s what we thought, cos that’s what they’d tell: That it builds and it builds till it surges in a swell.
So we all sang along, sang along – Cos who wouldn’t want to sing out with the throng ? So we sang and we sang, and still we got it wrong, Even though we did it all like they did it in the song.
But there must be other songs we can play – There must be other songs where it doesn’t go this way. But if we trust the ballads, then will the answers come ? Or will our eyes be closed as we’re swaying to the drum ?, That starts its beating here. Cos we may come and go, but the ballads persevere.
By the time we hit the middle-eight, We maybe should have learned As our lighters sway, but always late: Behind the beat, with fingers burned. By the time the raw falsettos flood From songs that start so low, Our doubts are drowned in pulsing blood. I guess it’s time to play the solo.
We were so young, too young to know, That that’s not the way that the songs should go. They should sometimes start fast, and should sometimes never build, And should sometimes anticlimax or suddenly be killed.
But we all sang along, sang along – Cos who wouldn’t want for their love to build so strong ? So we sang and we sang, even though we knew it’s wrong, And still it never played out like it plays out in the song.
But there must be other songs we can play – There must be other songs where it doesn’t go this way. There must be other songs where our love strangely comes – So unclose your eyes and ungate your drums, And let them ring out clear ! For the ballad is done, but we all still are here.
We all grew up with those slow, slow songs That would end so high, but they’d fade. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, Till the coda would close the parade.
The best thing about her ? Whenever she speaks The tip of her sweet nose will flex up and down. But only the button, you should understand – The subtlest of bounces beyond her command. Crowning her philtrum and charming her cheeks, Her pogo-ing hooter is hitting the town. Her bobbing proboscis is truly quite stellar – But if she don’t realise, I ain’t gonna tell her ! You have to be close up to see it in action, And more when she smiles and less when she frowns. A wonderf’ly random and quirky attraction – Who says the best noses are sported by clowns ?
My mother always fears I’d have ringing in my ears – Of course, I never really thought I would. But here I am, and hear I do – She warned it me, I’m warning you, A cautionary tale from the buzzing brotherhood:
The chainsaw guitars With their scattershot strobes, The piercing vocals With scouring probes, The throbbing basses Vibrating my lobes, And the beat – The beat that was pounding my whole, That was pounding against all my thoughts and control, And was pounding my drums and my skull and my soul.
My thousand belting solos on my air guitar (A Fender), And my crooning to my hairbrush Till my larynx cried surrender, While my head was busy banging – So my hair could whip its splendour, And the only way to do it, dude, was loud.
My mother never understood, The self-same song is nowhere near as good Until it’s cranked up to eleven, Till they hear it up in Heaven, And its words ain’t sung no more, its words are howled.
But no, I’m not deaf, I still hear fine, I can still hear the subtle feedback whine In the midst of the overdrive riot. It’s just when all is chilled and quiet, There comes a gentle radio static – An F-sharp in my cranial attic. My mother was right, I cannot deny it.
But it’s cool, it only serves To call to mind the legend’ry crowd That I still pump in there, far too loud. So let it hiss, cos that hiss is a part of me – And who needs a shell to hear the sea ? It’s what I’ve got, so best just to surf it. Cos you know what ? On balance, it’s probably worth it.
The Assumption of the Virgin by Francesco Botticini
Trinity Cubed
Christians pray to three gods: Father, Son and Holy Ghost. But ’tis the Cath’lics have the most; “The Virgin’s ours” they like to boast, “We’ve Cherubs, Seraphs, Angel host. A God of Bread to feast upon, And wash Him down with bloody toast.” And then there’s Saints, the list is long, Like Seer Paul and Pete the Strong; But strangest yet amongst this throng: A Pope who cannot e’er be wrong.
Sorry, I can’t find any details about the artist. And it doesn’t directly realte to the poem, and the girl depicted is older…but it’s just too cool not to.
Little Miss Pinball
I know a young lady named Scatterfoot Sadie Who cannot sit still for a second – She hustles and bustles and flexes her muscles, And scuttles whenever she’s beckoned. Perhaps all her fidgets in feet, knees and digits Are gyroscopes keeping her poise – Or maybe it serves as a mask for her nerves With her tremors all lost in the noise.
Here she comes Sadie, she buzzes and hums, As she zig-zags from thither to yon. Here she comes Sadie, and Sadie she comes, And Sadie she goes, and she’s gone.
I know a young petal who never does settle, Since bouncing in booties and bonnet. I know a young rhino who wears out the lino By clomping and pomping upon it. I know a pied piper who’s more than just hyper – She’s mega and giga and terra. She’s magnitudes faster, with energies vaster In both her success and her error.
Here she comes Sadie, with whistles and drums, Both skylark and trumpeter swan. Here she comes Sadie, and Sadie she comes, And Sadie she goes, and she’s gone.
I know a young poppet who just cannot stop it, And never has recourse to brake. With swings and trapezes, she’s blown on the breezes, And whips up the wind in her wake. There’s some folk who mention her roving attention That points to some point of attraction, And some folk who think that’s she’s too scared to blink Just in case she should miss any action.
Here she comes Sadie, all peaches and plums, As her sweetness must sugar-rush on. Here she comes Sadie, and Sadie she comes, And Sadie she goes, and she’s gone.
I know a young girl who is always a-whirl, Like her timbers are tossed on the ocean – She dashes and darts as she stutters and starts, And when even at rest, she’s in motion. Her larynx is thrumming, her fingers are drumming, Her eyeballs are to-ing and fro-ing – Her atoms are spinning, her neurons are singing, Her bramble-patch hair-thatch is growing.
Here she comes Sadie, all fingers and thumbs, As she fiddles and tinkers anon. Here she comes Sadie, and Sadie she comes, And Sadie she goes, and she’s gone.
I know a young missy who’s terribly busy Upon some endeavour or other – Her hoardings and strewings and feverish doings Are lost upon even her mother. She’s so all-commanding she just leaves us standing, Awash in the glow of her starlet – For we who are left are the warp and the weft All throughout which she’s threading her scarlet.
Here she comes Sadie, dispelling the glums – She dazzles where sunlight is shone. Here she comes Sadie, and Sadie she comes, And Sadie she goes, and she’s gone.
Some worms are roundworms and some worms are flat, Some worms are skinny and some worms are fat, Some worms are stripy and some worms are brown, Some dress in velvet and some sport a crown, Some feed on slurry and some feed on nuts, Some live in gardens and some live in guts.
Some worms are serpents and some worms are bugs, Some worms are dragons and some worms are slugs, Some worms are speedy and some worms are slow, Some worms are eyeless and some worms can glow. Some on the surface and some underground, Some worms are flatworms and some worms are round.
Rhyming Couplets 