Author: Toastingfork

Not afraid to rhyme.

Anatamour

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turned on white and black torchiere lamp
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Anatamour

I love the way your halves combine.
I love the way you place each lung
With careless grace and good design
On either side your centre line,
And equidistant from your spine.
I love the way your ribs are strung.

I love the way your shoulders fit,
I love the way your arms construe.
I love the way your kidneys sit,
So each, the other mirrors it
To keep the couple quite legit.
I love the way your hips are two.

I love the way you wear your legs,
So nicely paired, and just enough –
For with a third, the question begs
Of where upon your frame it pegs.
I love the way you keep to regs.
I love the way you’re up to snuff.

I love your face with eye and eye,
I love the way they both are blue.
I love the way they flit and fly
In unison, to watch me pry
Upon thy tygrish symmet-try.
I love the way you’re balanced-through.

The penultimate line is inspired by how I always read the fourth line of a certain poem of William Blake’s.

One Spot, Two Spot

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ladybird on finger
Early Ladybird by Gavin Clack

One Spot, Two Spot

Ladybird, ah Madame Ladybird,
It really is so good of you to call !
Is this just a flying visit,
Won’t you rest and pack your wings up small ?

Ladybird, ah Madam Ladybird,
Have you flown by chance a good long way ?
Looking for a husband, Miss ?
Or are you wed with many eggs to lay ?

Ladybird, ah Madam Ladybird,
I see now that your wing-case is ajar –
Must you up and go a-hunting ?
Won’t you stay a while ?  You’ve flown so far.

Ladybird, ah Madam Ladybird,
Must you dash so soon to beat the rain ?
Shall I greet you on the morrow,
Or are we to never meet again ?

Part-Time Poet

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Part-Time Poet

I’m only a poet on Tuesdays –
For most of the week, it’s ignored.
When all of the rest
Of my life is distressed,
That’s all I can really afford.

I’m only a poet on Tuesdays,
I’m only an artist in brief.
By Wednesday, it’s gone
As the week presses on,
And my words are all buried beneath.

The Elusive Mister Morningstar

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Satan
Satan by William Blake

The Elusive Mister Morningstar

Who was it brought flood and killed
Now all bar eight and two-by-two ?
And who was it the plagues fulfilled,
And ev’ry firstborn slaughtered through ?
And who was it dictated Law
With racist hates and petty spites ?
And who was it commanding Saul
To genocide Amalekites ?

Who was it with love divine
Came not with peace but with a sword ?
And who was it made Constantine
Kill all who prayed to Jove as Lord ?
And who was it Indulgence sold,
And rent the schismic Church apart ?
And who was it sought relic-gold,
And clast the icons, smashed the art ?

Who was it turned Papal might
Crusading east with zealous cares ?
And who was it sent butcher knights
To Temple Mount and Friday Prayers ?
And who was it built witches’ pyres ?
And made that bigot Luther split ?
And who was it filled Henry’s ires,
And Bloody Mary’s roasting spit ?

Who was it set Cortez loose,
And murd’rous-censor Thomas More ?
And who was it hid child abuse ?
And Cromwell’s terror ?  Holy war ?
And who roused Torquemada’s will ?
And Galileo’s truths deny ?
And who keeps Ulster troubled still ?
I swear it wasn’t I.

This is my response to Mick Jagger’s Sympathy For The Devil, which I think is an absolutely appalling piece of poetry.  Does it mean to suggest that the Devil is worthy of sympathy ?  If so, why does it have him confess to having his fingers in such ruthless pies ?  Does it intend to damn him as an unrepentant sinner ?  If so, then boredom-city !

Childless Genes

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Genetic Modification

Childless Genes

I am the product of four-billion years-worth
Of winners and breeders, and fighters and choosers.
But now they shall wither, extinguished forever –
For billions they flourished, yet still wound up losers.
But hold on, my genes are my sister’s, my brother’s –
They’ll swim through the side streams, these spawny succeeders.
For they are the product of four billion years-worth
Of fighters and choosers, and winners and breeders.

Seismic Sirens

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Vesuvius
Vesuvius in Eruption by Joseph Wright

Seismic Sirens

“A senior Iranian cleric says women who wear revealing clothing and behave promiscuously are to blame for earthquakes.”

– Geology Now

It only takes an ankle,
Or the merest hint of wrist,
And oh, calamities abound !
These wenches shock the very ground !
The seething earth they rankle
With each rendezvous and tryst.
It only takes a look or pout
To make the boiling magma spout.

Prog Log

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Prog Log

Pick a part that plays: obey it.
Snatch a patch ablaze, and spray it.
Rack it up with praise, and pray it.
Pump it full of haze, and grey it.
Graze it and weigh it.
And raise it and pay it.
In a thousand little ways – array it.
Amaze it and sway it,
Abrase it and fray it,
But however we lay it, let’s lay it down dense.

There’s nothing here of consequence,
Or making sense – and do we care ?
That show’s so-over, over there –
It’s more than incongruity can bear.
Those bare-faced bears’ credulity
Is worth just one and two and twenty pence.
We’re seeking for a mark to steer,
The dark to clear –
But hark !  Is that a Mellotron I hear ?
Waiting for our gaze to slay it,
Searching for the phrase to say it,
Just pick a part that plays,
And play it.
Man, that’s so intense…

A piece of sheer nonsense, just for the sake of the sound of the words.  I make no apologies.

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

Not Telling

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Not Telling

(A skipping chant)

I’ve got a secret,
Maybe I shall speak it –
Maybe I shall leak my secret indiscreet.

I’ve got a story
Told to me by Rory –
Maybe I shall store my story safe and sweet.

To how many folk
Shall I utter not a croak,
Shall I never chat or jaw
What I saw ?

And how many days
Shall I mutter not a phrase,
Shall I never breathe a word
What I heard ?

Your hunger’s getting bolder,
Your guesses getting colder –
But promise to be good
And I’ll tell you when you’re older.

Five fives are twenty-five
And three threes are nine
I’ve got a secret
And it’s mine, all mine.

There have actually been whole studies conducted into skipping chants and clapping songs, and it seems ti’s a surprisingly conservative world, with endless variations around a few old standards – number one in the playgrounds for the past few decades has been A Sailor Went to Sea, latterly morphed into We Went to a Chinese Restaurant.  I don’t hold out much hope of entering the canon, and quite honestly until it’s been playtested by proper six year olds, we’ll never know if it even meets the brief.

Jilted

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broken heart love sad
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Jilted

I offered to take her to Pisa –
I knew she’s never been.
I offered the beauties of Giza,
And ev‘er‘ywhere between.
I offered her Sinan and Plato and Gluck,
I offered her Ozu and Donne
I offered her Titian and Tolstoy and Hooke,
And ev’rything, ev’rything under the sun.
The whole of the planet was waiting before us,
And all of its wonders were ours.
But no, she left with the stranger from Taurus –
I could not compete with the stars.