We Just Don’t Get It
We never shall be cast in bronze,
Nor cast in Hollywood –
We never shall out-cool the Fonz –
For all we think we should.
We never shall be cursed in print,
Nor quoted, much less taught.
We never shall be worth a mint,
Nor worth a second thought.
And yet we’re sure we matter more
Than all these other mugs –
But genius the Hordes ignore,
And History just shrugs.
We never shall be cabaret,
Nor glorified in fame.
We matter not so much – but hey,
We matter all the same.
Following Yonder Star
“There came wise men from the East to Jerusalem, saying…we have seen his star in the East.”
– Matthew 2:1-2
When we first saw the star, we knew.
The whole of our lives we were waiting for signs,
And here was just such a clue –
And oh, what a clue ! How she shimmers and shines.
What is her news ?
A King of the Jews !
And just in time for the midwinter feast !
A saviour is born,
So set off at dawn,
And follow His star in the east.
As we followed that star, we thought
That our route would take us a strange way yet –
For if Judea were sought,
Then why does she lead us on into Tibet ?
But on we must trek
With the star as our check,
Until the ocean was stopping us dead.
So we chartered a ship
To continue our trip,
Because she was waiting ahead.
So we followed the star by sea –
Always due east would she lead our band,
Until we wise men three
Were finally washed on an unknown land.
And on we went
’Cross the continent
And strange were the people and customs upon.
Then at the next moat
We hadn’t a boat,
So we build one – and so we sailed on.
And we followed the star some more,
Across the African sands we were coming,
Until at last at the Jewish shore
We reached the land for which we were plumbing.
We took from our camels
Fine skins and enamels,
And spices and lapis, all fit for a priest,
And strange silks and feathers
We’d gathered together
From all of the lands of the east.
We knew we could trust her, we sighed,
She brought us all safe where we needed to be.
Now where is the child ? we cried,
Where is the one who we travelled to see ?
We told the bazaar
How we followed the star
To the King of the Jews, of whom we bespeak.
Then up spoke an urchin –
“How long you been searching ?
They just nailed that guy up last week.”
Waiting for the Adoration
Twelve days waiting in a barn for them, we were,
For two weeks, nearly, with the horses.
Two weeks waiting for a bit of gold and myrrh,
And a warning not to fall to Herod’s forces.
The shepherds came by early, but they couldn’t stay for long –
As they’d left their sheep all grazing in the pasture.
(I hoped the wolves weren’t prowling, nor the north-wind blowing strong,
And their truancy not noticed by their master.)
Surely now the census had been tallied up and done,
There must have been some room back in the inn ?
But there we slept, and waited, till the angel told us “Run”…
…Or was it we went home, back to our kin ?
And that, my lad, is how you spent a fortnight in a manger,
On the hay of cows – or so we’ve always spun.
They must have used the Julian, those fine-attired strangers,
While you were pure Gregorian, my son !
Footnote
Your tetrastich hits up the top of your page,
And lonely it sits on its white and crisp stage,
Too precious to muck in, too scared to engage,
Your verse gives no truck for a cut in its wage.
Those unsullied acres were begging to share,
An ocean of paper that’s nothing but spare.
Have you, as its poet, no other to air ?
Then come on and show it ! Let’s put it in there !
Waiting For His Call
As she wakes to the wrench of the radio’s blare,
She’s not there.
As she tries to decide on the blouse she should wear,
She’s not there.
As she dawdles her breakfast of yoghurt and pear,
As she spends all her morning with coffee and stare,
As she foregoes her lunch for pilates with Claire,
She’s not there.
And all her afternoon that passes in her chair,
And on the bus and on the train while fishing for her fare,
And waiting at the checkout as she vaguely winds her hair,
She is always and never quite there.
Resolutions
Soothe the fridge its fears of less abundancy,
Let it know it must cut back its stocks.
Tell the ashtray straight of its redundancy,
Warn the sofa and the gogglebox.
Brace the bathroom scales still anticipating weight:
Notify them of reducing bulk.
Rouse the bike and treadmill from their hibernating state –
And disappoint the wine-rack – let it sulk.
The Seven Days of Christmas
On the first next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
The final gift beneath the tree,
With label lost, its contents still a mystery.
On the next next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A pair of robins foraging,
To brighten up the garden ere the Spring.
On the third next-day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
Three late cards of season’s best –
There’s still just time to hang them with the rest.
On the fourth next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A four-log fire and easy chair,
And a draught-free door to shut the world out-there.
On the fifth next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A five-petaled weed who thinks it June,
And flowers far too late, or far too soon.
On the last next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A half-a-dozen sugared dates,
To see the old year out while the new awaits.
On the new next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A day of rest and taking heart,
With a long-drawn breath for a brand new start.
So Shall it Come to Pass
Like waiting for Betelgeuse to go Type II,
It’s coming – just watch the skies.
Like waiting for rumours to bubble and stew,
They’re coming – just watch the flies.
Like waiting for baldness to creep up your skull,
It’s coming – just watch your scalp.
Like waiting for barnacles finding your hull,
They’re coming – they’re lurking in kelp.
Won’t be today, but could be tomorrow –
Until then, I guess that we’ll just have to borrow.
Like waiting for inflation to claim its stake,
It’s coming – just watch the pound.
Like waiting for inter-tectonics to quake,
They’re coming – just watch the ground.
Like waiting for showers to water the drought,
They’re coming – just watch the glass.
Like waiting for nettles to sting where they sprout,
They’re coming – they’re lurking in grass.
Could be tomorrow, but won’t be today –
There really is little more else I can say.
Like waiting for copper to turn verdigris,
It’s coming – just watch the roofs.
Like waiting for conkers to fall from a tree,
They’re coming – just watch the youths.
Like waiting for ebbaway tides to return,
They’re coming – just watch the crabs.
Like waiting for healing of blisters and burns,
It’s coming – it’s lurking in scabs.
Don’t ask me when, I’d say if I could –
It all comes along in when it’s ready and good.
An Offer I Couldn’t Refuse
I’m somebody’s godparent, somehow –
She asked me herself, and I couldn’t say no.
In church, I managed to not say the vow
As I hung at the back while she went with the flow.
Nine years of age, she is – older than most,
But she needed a place in a high-flying school
So Sunday-on-Sunday, her folks take the host –
Though they take it in turns, diff’rent weeks, as a rule.
Now, I don’t believe, and I don’t know if she does –
And as for the others that circled the font,
Perhaps it’s the thought that these children may need us
That brought us to church for this wary détente.
So yes, I’ll be here if she needs my advice,
Or a candle to light a dark night of her soul,
And help her to see that her doubts are the price
Of her learning from teachers instead of a scroll.
I hope that the vicar, when splashing her brow,
Diluted her faith in the Word and the Trance.
And left her beguiled by the magic of now,
And the spirit of why, and the wonder of chance.
So I’m a godparent. I guess, come what may,
I promised to help her to blossom and glow.
I’m neither a god nor a parent, but hey-
She asked me herself, and I couldn’t say no.
Goodwill
The days are so short, late of the year –
Won’t you come on in ?
When the sun is down, and the frost is near,
And the gales begin.
But there’s always a shelter under our gable,
There’s always an extra chair at the table
For any stray stranger who’s hungry, and able
To pay us with only a grin.
The weather gets cold, this time of year –
We’re chilled to the skin.
It gets so hard to volunteer
And rattle the tin.
But there’s always a welcome here in our home
To help turn the grey to polychrome,
For unlucky souls who unwillingly roam,
While the wheels of fortune spin.
The season gets busy, every year,
And we just can’t win,
With the thanks so small, and the price so dear,
And our patience thin.
But there’s always a place at the table that’s set
For the unbidden guest coming-in from the wet,
In time to remind what we often forget:
That there’s always room at the inn.
