Walking Fishes

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Walking Fishes

Bichirs, eels, and climbing perches,
Sometimes swim and sometimes crawl –
See their wriggles, flops, and lurches,
Up up out of the water all.
Like lobe-fins did so long ago,
They make a hopeful bid to leap and grow.
Distant species such as these,
Who gulp the breezing air with ease –
Distant species, all who please
To give the land a go.

But why do gobies only skip the mud of late,
And not before ?
Just what has changed to make it worth the risk to skate
Upon the shore,
And dip their ray-finned toes upon the sands of fate
Once more ?
For surely, this cannot be new –
This must be something that they do
Since days of dinosaur.

I guess that they were out-competed,
Couldn’t play the odds –
I guess they found the land replete
With hungry tetrapods.
So why did they think they ought to ?
Small fish from a big pond,
Who sought beyond for everlasting worms,
And spurned the nice-yet-dull –
These fishes-out-of-water,
Inventing bicycles.

Mudskippers diverged from the other gobies around 140 million years ago, or at around the time of the American Civil War according to this method.  Of course, that doesn’t mean that their particular lineage of goby started venturing out of the water until much later, though I cannot find any details as to when this first happened.

Saurosaurus

Alas, this is another by that ever-prolific artist, Anon…

Saurosaurus

Did God like dinosaurs ?
The towering of sauropods ?
The horns of triceratops,
The T-Rex with his massive chops,
And soaring-over pterosaurs
Were all these monsters god’s ?
Did he marvel at their size,
Their armoured backs and pumping thighs ?

Were these both bright and beautiful to him
A great romance ?
And did he curse the asteroid
That saw his lineage destroyed ?
Are mammals just a consolation, then ?
A second chance ?
Does he look down on what we’ve bred,
And slowly, sadly, shake his head ?

Did god love dinosaurs ?
His scary scaly boys ?
And does he toast us with his cup
Each time we dig a fossil up ?
Are we bringing back the scores
Of memories and joys ?
Does he anguish at their lack ?
And wonder, should he bring them back…?

Confession of a Faithful Husband

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Confession of a Faithful Husband

I do love my wife, I don’t hide my ring –
But the thing is, she’s not here.
I get so lonely on endless business trips,
So short of cheer.
Then Rachel from the presentation
Pops into the bar,
And the smiles come all-so-easily
On the verge of gone-too-far.

But I, it seems, with my guilty conscience,
Cannot just kick back,
And seize the moment, live the day,
With Zoë in the sack.
I reckon I could have been that hound,
I could have learned to lie –
My wife would never even suss,
If I’d grow the balls to try.

Somewhere in his hotel room tonight,
There’s another me
Who’s shares his bed with maybe Jane from Sales,
And with liberty.
I hate him, and I hate how I envy,
While chatting with a girl in red, 
And I try not to give-off some signal of all
That I wish we were doing instead.

I do love our wife, I remind myself,
As I think how he’s not alone.
We’d both spent a hour in the bar with Kaz,
As we muted our mobile phone,
With plenty of eye-to-eye, and gin,
And far too at-our-ease –
But where he fulfilled his promise to Kaz,
I proved to be just a tease.

Once Upon a Tune

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Once Upon a Tune

Sing another story-song,
About a love gone wrong, perhaps,
Or unrequited longings long,
Forever under wraps.

Rag-to-riches, rites of passage,
Tell your message verse-by-verse –
From the wreckage of a savage love
Or maybe witch’s curse.

Country, folk, and western,
Aren’t the only storytellers –
From Ancient Rome to Preston,
Were the yarns of many fellers.

There’s always time for stories,
Don’t be sorry for the tale –
There’s life in allegories,
And there’s drama in the mail.

Emotions aren’t the only theme –
With which to team a tune.
We sometimes need to daydream
On a lonely afternoon.

So play another story-song
To singalong, my friend –
From a start that’s low and strong,
To a climax at the end.

Legitimate Bastards

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Legitimate Bastards

If I call you a bastard
I don’t mean a bastard
In terms of your parents –
So don’t get so cross.
There’s no-one says bastard
As that kind of bastard
For fifty-plus years –
I just don’t give a toss.
Who cares who’s your father ?
Don’t get in a lather –
I mean you’re an arsehole
In need of my scorn.
I called you a bastard
Because you’re a bastard –
A blighter, a beggar,
However you’re born.
So if you’ve no papa,
You’re mum ain’t a slapper-
Cos people are people,
And no harm to me.
I don’t call you bastard
To call you unmastered –
Cos I ain’t an unfeeling bastard,
You see.

…because “s/he” is unpronounceable…

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     …because “s/he” is unpronounceable…

Singular Theys were always generic,
The individual everyman,
Of either gender, but numeric’ly one –
Not hard to understand.
But once we knew who it was,
Then he or she was He or She
They didn’t stay a They, because,
We now could specify, you see.

This calling Barry and Susan They
Is fresh, and it still sounds strange,
Though it’s prob’ly here to stay,
And language always likes to change.
We’ll get it, if you give us time,
To navigate the new.
Our speech evolves, it’s not a crime –
Just ask the Singular You.

Wireless-less

Wireless-less

Left my phone at home – what a pain,
Now I haven’t a thing to read on the train.
I hope that nobody needs to reach me –
My own stupid fault, but I guess this’ll teach me.
And the loss of my music is just as bad –
But I wonder if there’s a poem to be had…?
A rant at the waste of a day I must frown on…
Then again, what will I write it down on ?

Saints of a Lesser Rank

St Valentine proudly bearing some anachronistic double roses. Thanks, AI…

Saints of a Lesser Rank

The names we give our churches
Are all bound by strange constraints –
There’s an unwritten convention
To the way we dole-out saints.
So every town must have its Mary,
And its James or Paul, if space,
And all the All Saints crowding altars
Ever since the days of Thrace.
But as for Valentine, whose name
Is just as big as these, or bigger –
On the street, this saint for couples
Cuts an oddly lonely figure.
P’raps to worship him on ev’ry Sunday,
Sending prayers above,
Must seem to stuffy vicars like indulgence,
Gorging weekly love…
Yet how can priests with vows of chastity
Behold this worldy man,
Who teaches us to worship with our bodies ?
Best to scoff, and ban…
And yet, on February nights,
And far from Canterb’ry or Rome,
We pilgrims come together in his name
At makeshift shrines at home.

I have previously discussed a preference for local saints over here.

Hampstead Heartaches

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Hampstead Heartaches

Even the rich deserve to love,
They have it hard enough, we feel –
Having to live with all that guilt,
While all their wealth is jerry-built.
How can they hope to show their stuff,
Unless they give it up for real ?
To work a job and earn a crust
In hope they one day earn our trust.

Even the rich deserve to love,
To prove they’re more than privilege.
We shouldn’t judge the state they’re in,
Or hate them for their perfect skin.
I really hope they care enough
To share their fortune round a smidge –
To favour ev’ry love-struck son,
In hope we all can be the One.

The Price of Sharps

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The Price of Sharps

I remember when my father gave me
My first penknife, as a lad,
A ritual passed-on from his dad.
“I see you’re growing up, our Davy”
Like me, it was Sheffield made,
With a penny taped upon the blade.
“We always do that – that’s tradition.
You need to give that back to me,
To pay me for the present, see ?
It’s just a silly superstition,
But it’s how it’s always done –
Best to play along, hey, son.”

So now it’s my turn, as the father,
With my boy departing home
To study Greeks and Ancient Rome.
“You’ll have to learn to cook now, rather
Than depending on your mother.
A world of flavours to discover !”
And I gave him a set of knives
With which to peel and dice and chop,
Without a penny taped on top.
It felt at odds with modern lives –
Instead, let’s pass on tools and shears,
And pay them forward, down the years.