Jurassic Lark

velociraptor
Velociraptor mongoliensis by Fred Wierum

Jurassic Lark

My nephew is into his dinosaurs,
And he’s digging up mem’ries lain buried since school,
(But still neatly sorted in synaptic drawers),
With all of those crazy-long names by their scores,
Though actu’ly some of them sounded so cool !
How should we say it ?  The textbooks display it
Phonetic’ly – tie-ran-oh-sore-us – of course !
So easy to get it, there’s no need to sweat it !
But sometime’s a wrong ’un would lodge in all twisty –
And once it gets in there, it’s part of our hist’ry.

For instance, how much we all loved Diplodocus,
And gave that third syllable all of our focus.
So never Diplodocus, that sounded odd-i-cus,
Plodding along with no hocus to poke us.
And don’t get me started on cow-pat-a-saurus –
Your patsy falls flat, see – just hear how we chorus
This heavyweight’s name is – by god – Brontosaurus !
As known in the bones of all schoolyards before us.
So pronto, restore us our sauropod’s nommus –
Don’t think you can plunder our thunderbeast from us !

Which brings us around to the Puh-terodactyls –
To eight-year old boys they were neater than fractals !
We’d doubt they could flap much, but bet they soared high –
Though not dinosauruses…saur-iss-eez…saur-eye..?
Brackies and Plessies and Tritops abounded –
Though from diff’rent eras, so not all together –
They’re non-chronologicus, just to be clever.
We’d all love to fight for faves our faves for discussion
Like Dimetrodon, cos he sounded so Russian,
Or Archaeopt’ryx, with the bestest name ever.

And then there were the Trillobytes !
That’s how we called ’em in our local playground.
That’s how we called ’em, so that’s how they were –
And given a choice, then I’ll always prefer
Our primary version to t’other way round –
Brill-o-bites, thrill-o-bites, silly old Trillobytes,
Nobbly or spiky, or all armadillo-like !
Cambrian glamour to Permian quitters,
Those three-lobal, pan-global, crystal-eyed critters –
Heroic, and stoic, and Palaeozoic !

My nephew is into his dinosaurs,
But the toys have come on some since I was a lad
With the latest researching reflected, of course,
But the loss of those classic mistakes makes me sad –
Take Stegosaurus, in Lego or plastic,
It now looks fantastic, with tail held-up high –
But I’m far too au fait to its droopy behind,
With a second bum-brain (that we no longer find).
But I guess I can’t really complain that we’re wiser –
And hey, it’s still sporting a prize thagomizer !

But what of the T-rex, the king of the chompers ?
I see that he still bears him his stubby front arms,
But they’re no longer pronate – fergeddaboutit !
Cos my nephew informs me their bones will not fit,
So they turn-in their palms, like they’re waiting to clap.
And there’s vegan Iguanodon, slowest of stompers –
A ponderous chap with a Godzilla-stance ?
Forever a thumbs-up, the herbest of vores !
And yet now at a glance, he’s a boring old square,
When reduced to all-fours with his arse in the air !

If only we’d known of Velociraptor !
If only we’d known of the feathers and fuzz !
Ah well, I guess that we’ve moved on a chapter,
And I must adapt or I’ll end up extinct –
But I feel that old buzz, and I swear it’s because
Of the grin on my inner-twin child as he winked.
And I see Brontosaurus is back with a bang –
So that oughta well-learn ’em, don’t mess with this gang !
It’s time to return, but I’d best not get preachy –
I’ve much to catch-up, but my nephew can teach me.

I Spied a Spider

brown araneus cavaticus barn spider
Photo by Juan on Pexels.com

I Spied a Spider

I’ve seen this spider around, I’m sure…
Yes, yesterday or the day before –
Precisely where she’s hangs right now,
So there she was before, I vow.
Hasn’t she got webs to spin –
I wonder if she’s dead, or just a skin ?

I’ve seen that spider around, I know,
Maybe a weeks or two ago –
I’m rarely here about my biz,
But when I am, well, there she is –
Hasn’t she got legs to move ?
A gentle blow…and yes !, she lives, I prove.

I’ve seen that spider around, I bet,
From month to month, we’ve clearly met.
She lurked right there, and always will –
Just dangling from her strand, so still.
Hasn’t she got flies to catch ?
I guess she must keep guard upon her patch.

I’ve seen that spider around, I’d swear –
This year, last year, she was there !
Hanging from the self-same thread –
And all I know is, she’s not dead.
Hasn’t she got eggs to lay ?
But I’ll forget her once I’m on my way.

When I wrote this, I had quite forgotten that I had already dealt with this topic two years earlier in Daddy Longlegs, which is uncomfortably similar.  I’m also not really happy with using biz, but rhyme-needs must.

The Book of Common Prayer

nature sky sunset the mountains
Photo by NO NAME on Pexels.com

The Book of Common Prayer

In the days of the week,
And the months of the year,
We’re clinging on yet to our Paganite past –
In the gods we don’t seek
And yet still keep so near:
Forgotten the stories, remembered the cast.

In holly and ivy,
And heather for luck,
They still work their magic on God-fearing hosts.
In gargoyles so lively,
In faerie and Puck:
Heretical heroes now villains and ghosts.

In the names of the planets,
And shapes in the stars,
They still rule the heavens, till night-time is done
They never will ban it,
Too deep are their scars –
We praise our new God on the Day of the Sun.

Appellation Celebration

name days
Swedish name day list for February 1712 – incidentally, notice how the month runs to February 30th.

Appellation Celebration

Name days – we don’t really do them in Britain,
They just feel too Cath’lic and rather mediaeval.
There’s no formal ban – the restraint is unwritten –
It just isn’t done, it would cause an upheaval.

And anyway, what about Kylie and Kevin
And Tracey and Daisy and Scarlett and such ?
They haven’t a saint all between them in Heaven,
So no second birthdays for Dylan or Dutch.

Though don’t give ideas to Clintons and Hallmark !
They’ll bunch us together and round up each stray –
So Sepp bunks with Joe cos they’re in the same ballpark,
And Dawn and Aurora must share the new day.

But Jack is no Jacob, nor Denholm no Dennis –
Their origins differ, they don’t mean the same.
But who cares in Athens or Moscow or Venice,
Where Simon Says sharing’s the name of the game.

And actually, even within the whole region,
They cannot agree on which dates should apply –
So Emma is honoured in April in Dijon,
But over in Stockholm, she’s praised in July.

Name days – we don’t really do them in Britain,
It’s one of those rituals it’s best to ignore.
And somehow, I doubt we will ever be smitten –
Except, of course, Wodan and Frigga and Thor.

As far as I can tell, name days have not been a feature in Britain, even before the Reformation.

Then again, given how Britain has never limited what we may call our children, I suppose it would require thousands of names on the calendar.

Proem to a Poem

lecturn

Proem to a Poem

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome, all –
We’ll shortly be commencing:
I promise we shall soon enthral
Those senses we’re suspensing.
So let me introduce, my friends,
This ev’ning’s main recital –
Where joy and anguish each contends,
And lovers crave requital.
An epic true, a ballad grand
As stanza follows stanza,
Heroic does this potent hand
Bring forth extravaganza:
The finest Truth on life and death
That verse has ever captured.
So hush the lights and stop the breath,
And brace up to be raptured.

Bashful Bulbs

white petaled flower
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Bashful Bulbs

Snowdrops, pale and shy and still,
As if they’re afraid to face the bracing breeze.
Downcast propellers, silent in the chill,
So loathe to disturb the hush beneath the trees.
Always huddled together in their crowds
With the neck of a swan and the wimple of a nun;
Tensed to bare the worst from the clouds,
And wilting away in the first warmth of the sun.

Eponym’s Syndrome

clinician writing medical report
Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

Eponym’s Syndrome

When news is bad, then no-one thanks the messenger –
But rest assures, there follows much renown.
To make ones names can prove a fickle blessing:
Why, just ask Dr Parkinson or Dr Down.
Perhaps Dr Tourette has got off lightly,
In only causing ridicule and jokes,
Whereas for Dr Alzheimer or Dr Weil
There’s no-one ever pleased to hear those folks.

As if they’re gothic surgeons in a castle or a lair,
Meddling in such knowledge as should best remain unknown:
With Dr Hodgkin’s evil laugh and Dr Creutzfeldt’s crazy hair,
All nations tremble at the wrath of Drs Asperger and Crohn.


It’s sure no way to treat such heroes,
To have their good name turned to bad
As patients spit their syllables,
And lose whatever little hope they had.
These doctors, whose labours we ought to hail,
Have found themselves as harbingers of doom.
Do nurses fear to yet invoke these names
That always seem to summon up the tomb ?

As if they’re puffed-up prettyboys all posing in their lab,
All engineering new diseases, socket-wrenching genes apart,
Chasing fame at any price, copywriting ev’ry scab –
Until we gawp at Dr Bell’s and Dr Turner’s works of art.


When news is bad, there’s no-one thanks the messenger –
But better, surely, that we know than not ?
And largely thanks to these unwitting fathers,
These conditions shan’t soon be forgot.
And yet, for each new syndrome that they spawn,
Their children must carry their touch –
There’s few whose work can reach so many lives,
And few whose name is cursed so much.

As if they’re ancient tragic heroes, fighting with the gods,
To bite the apple, steal the fire, always seek the new –
Can we catch their genius, to bear their brand against the odds ?
Though maybe less of Dr Frankenstein, and more of Dr Who.

Rock Pocks

umlauts

Rock Pocks

Speckled is your Öyster and freckled is your Crüe,
Spıñal is your Motör and Hüsker is your Dü.
The diacritic critics may de-tittle in their punditry –
But I say, let umlauts roll with wänton-döt fecündïtÿ.

The ‘n’ in Spinal should of course have an umlaut, not a tilde, but the WordPress font just isn’t up to such awesomeness.

But of course, when it comes to the real stars of heavy metal, nobody is higher than Boötes !

Grammar Schooling

grammar

Grammar Schooling

Don’t be a grammar poser,
That’s my advice,
Don’t be the prig who is overly-precise.
If it ain’t confusing,
Or clumsy in its choosing,
Then best to keep your counsel, and to keep your comments nice.
We hardly need a mentor
Who’s sticking in his snout –
You really ain’t the centre
That our language spins about.

You know, there’s words I cannot stand:
Like ethics-speak and business-bland,
Or phrases strained until they break…
But here’s the thing: that’s just my take !
There’s words I cannot stand to use,
There’s words that gag and words that bruise,
And words I hoped were dead and gone…
But here’s the thing: I don’t let on !

But I suppose
If language is the topic of the day,
Then gentle comments on our prose
May help in what we wish to say.
But here’s the crux:
They should be just suggestions, never rules –
For language is a lively flux
That shouldn’t be our master, but our tools.

And as for double negatives,
Those twice-as-minus negatives,
We don’t need regs to balance negs,
Ain’t never not no-way misunderstood.
Do we need to cite some Austen
And the double-no’s she tossed in,
Just to make them seem legit ?
I bet you glean their meaning good –
And so you should, if only you’d admit.

Language is adaptive and pragmatic,
Always looking for the new.
Language is a melting-pot schematic,
Always stirring up the stew.
And yes, it’s often needlessly erratic
And ambiguous, it’s true –
But also it’s the one thing democratic
That we each of us can do.

Its beauty, you see,
Is in its redundancy –
Multiple ways of saying the same.
It may not be logical,
Or pedagogical –
Boy, though, it’s prodigal – always aflame !

Language is free to use,
Language is hard to lose,
Language is yours and is mine and is theirs.
Conflicting, resolving,
Mutating, evolving –
We each are its authors, its subjects, its heirs.

So don’t be a grammar poser,
That’s my advice,
Don’t be the prig who will always tell us twice.
These rules you keep imploring
Are rules we keep ignoring –
And if we’re fine without them, well, they’re hardly worth the price.
These errors you detect
Are as dry as they are long –
You may be quite correct,
But you’re so so wrong.

Sonnet for the Goats

selective focus photography of white goat
Photo by Djordje Petrovic on Pexels.com

Sonnet for the Goats

Upon the rapture, all believers fly
In rising waves of bodies Heaven-bound,
Abandoning their carnal life on ground
As pious aeronauts come fill the sky –
And leave behind our world of how and why
Which seeks to question that which is profound,
While churches fill too late, and prayer resound
With desp’rate, plaintive pleas, to no reply.
“Oh Lord, we wanted to believe.  No use !
We tried so hard, why must we stay behind
With only hell or void beyond the scythe ?”
But God is done with us, and cut us loose
To face the here and now.  Be not resigned:
Let’s brave the future, godless but alive.