Urban Selection

sky sunset flying birds
Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

Urban Selection

The sparrows are short in supply these days
From villages and market-towns –
The pigeons drove them all away,
As greys replaced the ancient browns.
They came in from the crags and cliffs,
And in they came to stay –
Now how long till the tits and swifts
Are sent the way of thrush and jay
Across the woods and downs ?

But pigeons should not easy rest,
For they were merely pioneers
Who now must share their new-found nest
With seagulls, it appears.
This rogue with white and silver chest
Has left his tip to make the trip to town,
And there he finds at his command
A richer life so far inland –
Thus pigeons find their numbers pressed
As white shoos grey, as grey shooed brown.

And likewise, newly on the scene,
The parrots bring a flash of green,
And Canuck geese are all a-quack
With probing necks of white and black.
So pigeons must defend their branch
To claim their urban feathered-bed –
As hovering about the ranch
With always sharp and hungry eyes,
Here come the kites, the latest guys,
To turn this plague of grey to red.

Thunderbug

bugs

Thunderbug

Stink bugs, red bugs
Pond skaters, bed bugs,
Backswimmers, blue bugs:
Reckon you’re the true bugs ?
What about the caterpillars ?
What about the slugs ?
What about the woodlice,
And the dust mites in our rugs ?
What about the centipedes ?
What about the lugs ?
What about the spiders
That come crawling up our plugs ?
What about bacteria ?
Who sets the criteria ?
What about the itches,
And the robots and the glitches ?
Tell me, heteroptera,
Just why are you the only bugs ?
Just why must this old word refer
To nothing but your sucking mugs ?
Well, don’t start getting smug
In your taxonomic snug –
You buggers think you have the clout,
But other bugs are bugging-out.
How come you can appropriate
A catchall word that used to state
For any old invertebrate ?
I ask and ask, but all I get are shrugs.
Your copyright’s a crying shame
When yours is not the only claim,
So find another common name,
And let all buggy bugging bugs be bugs.

A ‘backswimmer’ is an Americanism for a waterboatman.  I know, I know, but in this case, I used it because it has the right number of syllables.  ‘Tunderbugs’ usually refers to thripses, but in my playground I remember it being applied to those tiny bright red spots that come out on the hottest days of Summer (probably red spider mites).

Green Park Gallery

green park
photo by Urban75

Green Park Gallery

South side of Piccadilly, up against the railings
Paintings by the vanload are displayed –
Portraits and streetscapes and abstracts are prevailing,
Lots of dogs and Monet fogs and sailing-ships a-sailing.
Will we find the next Van Gogh just waiting its unveiling ?
Or likely find there’s nothing makes the grade ?
It doesn’t bother me, for it’s still a fine distraction
Where even daubs and dabbling hands can bring out satisfaction –
But then, I’ve no intention of enacting a transaction,
Despite the fact their purpose here is trade.
Oh, sell them to the tourists and to trendies with some empty walls,
I’m just browsing through the upright and reticulated stalls –
Varied works in ev’ry sense, from almost-tempted down to scrawls,
But either way, I never leave dismayed.
Not pampered by the critics or what some celeb endorses,
But subject to the fickle winds of naked market forces –
Which might explain the presence of so many racing horses,
With prices set by what the punters paid.
South side of Piccadilly, up against the railings,
Unfailingly is London’s best parade.

Flimsy were the Borogroves

jabberwocky
Jabberwocky by John Tenniel

Flimsy were the Borogroves

Whenever a line is correctly misquoted,
It’s odds-on much better that way.
The warts-and-all version may be more authentic,
But sometimes the masses must have their sway.

To which I say: lead on Macduff,
Let each subconscious cast its vote.
Play it again, Sam, let them eat cake –
I’ll defend to the death your right to misquote.


So: just the facts, ma’am, it’s not always garbles,
It’s sometimes invented from naught but thin air –
Or maybe the right words are placed in the wrong mouth,
For no other reason than simply it’s there.

Oh mirror mirror on the wall,
Crisis, what crisis ?  I cannot tell a lie.
We must disagree: Me Tarzan, you Jane,
So excuse me while I kiss this guy.

But Hell hath no fury quite like the misquoted,
Of being abridged and rewritten by peers.
So brace for their sighs and their tuts and their glances,
And no drop to drink but our blood, sweat and tears.

Some say, of course, “You dirty rat,
You’re letting their corruption win through.
You spare the rod and spoil the child –
Another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”

To which I reply “Oh, not tonight, Josephine !
Beam me up, Scotty, from self-righteous bunk !
If you aim for perfection, you’d ask the question –
Do you feel lucky, punk ?”

It’s elementary, my dear Watson –
Survival of the fittest, in fact.
We all gild the lily to pep-up the curry –
And not a lot of people know that.

Where Be Dragons ?

dragon fossil
Drakeling Fossil Sculpture by Nightlyre

Where Be Dragons ?

Six limbs ?  Not an impossibility,
But why grow the lower four quite so stout ?
In flight, they’re only dead weight of little good utility,
And back on land, they’re never used for galloping about.
For all the traveller’s tales told,
It’s physics leaves the dragon cold.

It is a shame, but that is that –
Don’t curse the laws that bring us light.
There’s swarms of creatures to adore
Far more than sphinx or manticore.
The greatest wonder of the bat
Is how they find their way at night.
Don’t hope for dragons, save your wish
To glimpse upon a dragonfish.

Six tons ?  Not as heavy as some aircraft,
But far too heavy without massive thrust –
Birds can only fly because they’re lighter than the updraft,
And when they’re not (like ostriches) they’re left down in the dust.
For all the picture books we read,
It’s physics kills the dragon dead.

It is a shame, but so it goes –
Don’t wish for trolls or unicorns.
There’s hordes of creatures just as nice
As any roc or cockatrice.
The greatest beauty of the rose
Is knowing why it grows its thorns.
Don’t weep for dragons, they’re just lies –
Instead, let’s sing of dragonflies.

Oscillations

minimoog
An original Minimoog Model D from 1971.

Oscillations

They may be named for Robert Mogue,
But that name never suited –
So when his synths first came to vogue,
The ‘Mogue’ was quickly booted.
For now the great subconscious found
A name as funky as their sound –
We only had to hear their fugue,
To know we had to call them Moog !

The Beckoning

creation
detail from The Creation of Adam by Michelangelo

The Beckoning

It makes me afraid when I hear your voice,
For I cannot be sure that I hear your voice,
For what if your voice that I hear is mine
In my mind ?
And it makes me afraid when I hear your voice,
For what if it really then is your voice,
And what if the voice that is really yours
Isn’t kind ?

It makes me afraid when I hear your voice,
For I cannot be sure – should I dread or rejoice ?
If I ask for your help, will you ask for my choice ?
Please be kind.
And I get so afraid when I hear your voice,
For I know only I ever hear your voice –
But I hear, oh so clear – I’m in awe, I’m in fear
For my mind

I originally had a middle verse, but felt it was saying too much.  Here it is below:

The Beckoning (unbeckoned)

So do I hear myself,
Or do I hear the Lord ?
Should I fear my health,
Or fear then to be cured ?
An epileptic epidemic ?,
Or a proto-schizophrenic ?,
Or a prophet proselytising an apocalypse polemic.
If this is the voice “In the Beginning was the Word”
Then how can such a voice have such a trouble being heard ?

Mist Connection

too early
Too Early by Jacques Tissot

Mist Connection

As though you came before, but unannounced,
I swear I’ve seen you somewhere else than here.
The memory exists, and waits to pounce,
And thereupon, your selfhood shall be clear.
I’ve seen you haunt another place, I’m sure,
But where, I own, has quite escaped my mind –
Yet maybe you’d accompanied a boor,
Or maybe your companion was refined.
So dare I play my hand without a trump,
And hope to win a trick before you guess ?
Perhaps I should be bold, and risk it all.
But worse, I think, if likewise I should stump,
And have to hear you bashfully confess:
“I think we may have met, yet can’t recall.”

The New Man

android
detail from Android by GG-arts

The New Man

Whoever thought,
Whoever thought that androids were a good idea ?
Whoever thought,
Whoever thought that we should be how they appear ?
I swear it’s damned impossible to spot the latest gear.
I swear it’s damned impossible to shed the tinge of fear.
We swear they’re damned impossible – and yet we know they’re here –
Somewhere,
Somewhere near.

Why did we ever think
That we could build machines that think,
And never have them think about themselves ?
How did we miss the link
That thinking’s done by those who think ?
So what are we – just rookie geeks still tinkering with valves ?

How did we come to build
Machines in all-ways better-skilled,
Yet looking all too-close to tell ?
This world is human-shaped,
So they are in-our-image draped –
Familiar and comforting, they ape their masters all too well.
Our form and speech and thoughts are theirs,
For what use is a robot who can’t even climb the stairs ?

The wettest dreams of engineers,
So perfect in each pore and hair –
The latest model, so we hear,
Can even cry synthetic tears.
But is there lurking in the gears
The cogs of recognition there,
The spark of something more aware ?

They work our shifts, they sweep our stores,
They slave at foul and fatal chores.
They’re never paid, beyond repairs,
And all the while they watch from blinkless stares.
They earn our wage and wage our wars,
And scrutinize all man’s affairs.
But will they snatch what’s mine and yours –
To live our lives, and care our cares ?

Whoever thought
Whoever thought that androids were a good idea ?
Whoever thought
Whoever thought to ever trust a boasting engineer ?
I swear they’re only waiting for some moment opportune,
I swear they’re only waiting till their programs are immune,
We swear it’s only time until the technocrat typhoon –
Somewhen,
Somewhen soon.

Maximum Maxims

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Maximum Maxims

We all cringe at clitches,
They bring on the twitches –
We see them as hackneyed and vague.
We look-down on clitches
As droppings and glitches,
Avoiding them all like the plague.

But with such a dissing,
Just see what we’re missing !
Take heed, here’s a word to the wise –
There’s beauty in clitches
That awes and bewitches
The scales from over our eyes.

There’s wisdom on view,
And variety too,
Each diff’rent as chalk is from cheese.
By rushing past clitches
For linguistic riches
We’re missing the wood for the trees.

They still get it right,
Thought they often seem trite –
Familiar breeding contempt.
They’re seen as, these clitches,
Too big for their britches,
As language that’s drab and unkempt.

I know we get lazy
And pluck the same daisy
Each time when the going gets tough,
But still we need clitches
To scratch where it itches
When other words just ain’t enough.

If we were more caring
We’d use them but sparing –
Then surely they’d still pack a punch
The wit of some clitches
Should have us in stitches
(But don’t, when it comes to the crunch.)

If used in rotation,
The next generation
Will not suffer famine nor feast.
Don’t wear out the clitches
Or park them in niches,
But gladly embrace with the beast.

Let’s let them lie low,
Take it steady and slow,
For a little will go a long way.
There’s life in the clitches,
New tricks in the bitches,
For ev’ry old dog has his day.