Author: Toastingfork

Not afraid to rhyme.

Purple in May

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campanula & green alkanet
Campanula by apalca & Green Alkanet by Paul Kirtley

Purple in May

Throat-wort over here and five-tongue over there,
Clinging to the brickwork,
When other weeds won’t dare.
Any scrap of dirt will do,
Waiting till the bulbs are through –
And suddenly, they’re ev’rywhere,
Ready with their reddy-blue.

Butterflies this side, bumblebees the other,
Ferrying the love-notes,
Each bloom to its lover.
And then the scatter-seeds will blow,
And where they land, so there they grow,
As next Spring will uncover,
By sprouting mauve and indigo.

Throat-wort is an old name for campanula (aka bellflower, but I always think of bellflowers as larger and grander).  Five-tongue is a literal translation of Pentaglottis, the genus name of green alkanet.  The truth is, I needed two-syllable names for both of them.

The Singalong Song

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Britannia

The Singalong Song

We are not the greatest people,
That this world has ever seen –
Others will be worse and better,
We fall somewhere inbetween.
We could lie and claim a greatness
No-one would believe,
Or swear undying loyalty –
But none of us is that naive.

We ain’t gonna lie:
We do okay, we sometimes try,
We kinda manage to get by,
And do our thing.
Let’s cut the hype and tell the truth,
That we exist – we have the proof !
So doctors, welders, grans and youths –
Altogether, sing:

We are us,
And we are we,
And we ain’t you,
Cos you are you –
So you be you,
And we’ll be us,
And neither side will make a fuss,
And if you ever ask us why we sing,
We’ll say it’s just the way we swing.

We are not the oldest people,
Other folks have come and gone
Many nations came before us,
Others joined us later on,
We could lie and claim a legend
No-one would believe,
Or swear eternal destiny,
But none of us is that naive.

We ain’t gonna cheat:
No time to boast, no time to bleat,
We’ll keep our heads and keep our feet,
And take our chance.
Let’s cut the crap and ditch the doubt:
We’re here today, and that ain’t nowt !
So teachers, parents, guides and scouts –
Altogether, dance:

We are here,
And we are there,
And so are you,
And others too,
And ev’ryone
Is ev’rywhere,
And nobody will even care,
And if you ever ask us why we cheer,
We’ll say it’s just because we’re here.

Musical AI version generated by Suno.com – find more of them over here.

M-K-G-F-A-B-O

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Henry Russell’s first published plot from 1913.  (It was later discovered that Ejnar Hertzsprung has published something similar in 1911, hence the shared credit.)

M-K-G-F-A-B-O

Doktor Hertzsprung, Doctor Russell,
Why is your diagram such a tussle ?
Why is your axis the wrong way round,
Higher to lower, bluer to redder ?
Does it reveal some secret profound,
Hotter to cooler, younger to deader ?
Your sweeping main sequence is mirrored about,
Your plot’s lost the plot, and your graph’s up the spout.

Actually, I’m being a little unfair here.  The original plot was absolute magnitude (aka luminosity) on the y-axis, and the peak wavelength of light on the x (or ‘spectral type’).  Since high-energy blue light has many more waves in the same distance as lower-energy red light, so the length between peaks in red light is longer, and thus a higher number.  (Incidentally, Omicron2 Eriadne B was the first white dwarf discovered in 1910.)

When it was later realised that the wavelengths directly related to surface tempurature, the latter was substituted, but now the numbers were going down instead of up, and nobody bothered to flip it.  But thanks to the wonders of the internet, I was able to rustle up the following:

H-R Diagram - corrected

A Trip to the Country

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man person wall music
Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com

A Trip to the Country

I took a wrong turn on the radio dial
To the land of the Dixie-Sue,
So I dallied awhile in a banjo style
With the folk where the grass grows blue.
But hearing each someone-done-someone-wrong song,
Just left me unlonesome and quite without tear –
I felt like a tourist who didn’t belong,
So I moseyed on back to my old lithosphere –
It was flinty and solid,
If frequently squalid,
And men only wept to change key.
Who needed some twangs
And their heartstrings in pangs ?
Not me, no siree !  Golly gee !

I sought-out guitars that were not made of steel,
But rather of air and of lead –
And cranked to eleven their distorted squeals
That thrashed to the beat in my head.
But hearing each someone-shagged-somebody song
Just weighed on my mojo and sold-out my soul some –
I felt like a local who needs to move on,
Back to the pastures of home-cooked and wholesome.
My boots were a-struttin’
My whiskers were juttin’
I felt like a born-again new-kid in town.
Oh Lord, I was comin’,
My spirit was strummin’,
And ready to let go an’ hoedown on down.

So after awhile, I retuned the dial
Past all of the hipsters and nerds,
To the land where the Rhinestone Jesuses smile,
And ev’ryone hears all the words.
And I reckon I coulda been lost to those prudes,
But I have to be true to my roots in the end –
I’m nobody’s sunbeam – I’m one of the dudes !
I’m spawn of the Devil (I like to pretend) !
The power chords called out,
My godliness crawled out,
And soon I was grunting the plank-spanker’s song.
I’ve ceased all my questing in country & western –
Don’t cry for me, Mama, I’m where I belong !

Rapture Deferred

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rainbow over high rise buildings
Photo by Italo Melo on Pexels.com

Rapture Deferred

I woke that morning, I recall,
Surprised somewhat I woke at all –
And out my window, plain to see,
My street was smoky-ruins-free.
In fact, so fine a morning shone,
My coat I had no call to don –
The larks still sang, the doves still perched,
And nowhere sulphur rained, nor zombies lurched.

I walked on through that wrathless dawn,
     Alive !  Alive and springing !
I gaped for lack of demon-spawn,
     Alive !  Alive and swinging !
I fed the ducks, I named the clouds,
I mingled with bewildered crowds –
We wore no coats, we wore no shrouds,
     Alive !  Alive and singing !
Our lives would never be the same,
That day that Jesus never came.

I gawped that morning, hollered out,
Surprised I had the breath to shout
I danced with gnats, I waltzed with trees,
I hugged the rain and kissed the breeze.
I cried with strangers, wept with folk,
I stuttered ev’ry word I spoke –
I didn’t care, I couldn’t mind,
I thanked the Lord that I was left behind.

I ran on through that wretchless day,
Alive !  Alive and wheeling !
I laughed for lack of human prey,
     Alive !  Alive and reeling !
I leapt, I skipped or simply stood,
I didn’t care for ought or should –
I sang and sang because I could,
     Alive !  Alive and feeling !
Our lives were ours !  There was no shame,
That day that Jesus never came.

Le Voyeur & His Muse

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belly dancer
The Belly Dancer by Leon Devenice

Le Voyeur & His Muse

Chatting to Ciaci,
Her cattiness catchy,
She’s dressed in Apache,
And sipping Chartreuse.
And Chach ain’t so scratchy,
Or haggard and latchkey –
He knows how to catch
La Tchatcheuse.

He offers his arm, for
He knows how to charm her,
And though just a farmer,
He sure can seduce.
She cha-chas with Ciaci,
The natch from Karachi,
And soon he shall snatch
La Tchatcheuse.

I watch them a while
Admiring their style,
But I don’t think I’ll
Be goosing their deuce.
I leave her to Ciaci,
Her bold mariachi,
Defending his patch:
La Tchatcheuse.

But after their cha-cha,
He makes his departure.
She orders an Archers
And cranberry juice.
And still she is dancing,
And I chance a glancing –
She has me entranced,
La Tchatcheuse.

I watch as this cutie
Persists in her duty –
She boots up her booty,
And boosts her caboose.
I so want to join her,
But others purloin her.
Don’t fall for their coin,
La Tchatcheuse !

For one day I’ll ask her,
And one day she’ll answer –
And I’ll be her dancer
And then we’ll cut loose.
But right now, I tip her
And try to stay chipper –
I’ll wait for your lips,
La Tchatcheuse !

Triet

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score

Triet

        1.
Ten thousand hours, and for what ?
To competently plink and drone
In time, in tune – but that’s my lot:
Just strumming to the gramophone,
Cos covers is all I’ve ever got –
I’ve no new tunes of my own.

And actually, I must have sung
Ten thousand hours, and thousands more,
And still my voice is lowly strung.
I’ve had it with this urban lore !
I’m glad I haven’t yet begun
To waste my time to learn the score !

        2.
There was a time when music-lovers
Rarely dined on the food of love.
Before the wireless or phonograph,
You needed an orchestra on staff.
Before they built the Pianola,
Only a pianist could get enough.
For ev’ryone else, it’s chiming clocks,
Or the barrel organ and music box.

        3.
Imagine a song.  Any song,
Just as long as you love it.
Imagine that song was heard once,
And then never again.
Imagine that song is now gone,
But you know that you love it
But cannot recall a damn note !
Refrain the refrain.

Scorpion Grass

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forget-me-nots

Scorpion Grass

You gave me seeds to scatter
In the ground beneath my plum –
A lover’s gift for growing,
And for shooing Winter glum.
Just sow them and forget them,
And with any-colour thumb,
And these blue and tiny flowers
Sprout a little straggly scrum –
Yet year-on-year, these self-seed parts
Make up a spreading sum –
These almost-weeds, not worth the dig,
Are no chrysanthemum !
You gave me some forget-me-nots –
And later called me scum.
I’ve tried so hard to wipe the slate –
Yet ev’ry Spring, they come.

This poem was inspired by one by Dino Mahoney – I basically took his idea and added rhymes.

For England & St George

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St George
Saint George & The Dragon by the Salviati Workshop, Woolwich Garrison church

For England & St George

Up in Heaven-on-the-Clouds
You works on our behalf,
Pushing through the saintly crowds
To bat for Halifax and Bath,
And bring to Lynn and Dale of Borrow
Sun today and jam tomorrow.

Working hard in Upper Eden,
Pushing England’s cause.
You wouldn’t get the saint of Sweden
Cheering on so many wars.
Rule Britannia, Hope & Glory –
Welcome to the national story.

Tea and crumpets, trains and cricket,
Stratford to South Shields.
There you lurk, on moor and thicket,
Anglicising foreign fields.
Who needs Alban, Bede or Swithun ?
Give us Bowie, Dench and Niven !

But wait, I hear the Genoese
Have hired your service too –
And Catalans, and Portuguese,
And Greek and Germans join the queue –
The Georgian and the Muscovite
Are proud to sport your red and white.

And soldiers, archers, and the Scouts,
Equestrians and knights,
And farmers rearing sheep and sprouts
Are likewise firmly in your sights.
I do hope, George, with all this lot
That England’s voice won’t be forgot.

And then there’s leprosy and plague,
And syphilis to boot,
But here your role is rather vague
On how you earn your extra loot –
Helping patients come to terms ?
Or do you represent the germs ?

And back home in your country seat,
Its lord is rarely seen –
In ancient times, your sandalled feet
Came nowhere near our mountains green.
But hey, who cares from where you’ve strayed –
For Englishmen aren’t born, but made.

You spend your days in Greater Blighty,
Meeting with the Boss –
Asking him to make us mighty,
From Land’s End to Gerrard’s Cross
You always done us proud, our George,
When lobbying for Cheddar Gorge.