Holy Trinity, Batman !
The Son is the Father,
And the Father is the Son,
And the Ghost is the both of them,
And yet is also none.
They all three knew the Virgin,
Since they all are but a-one:
So the Son is dad to Father,
And the Father son to Son.
They always are and always were
Since time was first begun,
So the Kid’s as old as time itself,
Yet Dad’s the oldest one.
So Son is full of peace and love,
But Father’s down on fun,
And who knows what the Ghost’s about,
When all is said and done ?
Hallmark Horticulture
1.
Roses are red,
And violets are blue…
Except to a bee
Who can see in UV –
Who knew ?
2.
Roses are red,
And violets are blue –
Or so it is said,
But I wonder if true ?
Perhaps in the future –
But for a while yet
Most roses are fuschia,
And violets are violet.
Deep & Meaningless
We cling to the words to remember the tune,
But they can be anything –
Who cares what words we sing ?
As long as it’s catchy, then no-one’s immune !
It’s tunes that are catchy –
The words can be scratchy.
It doesn’t take poets to make songs a hit –
They’re nobody’s onus,
They’re there as a bonus.
As long as they rhyme and their rhythm will fit,
Well, that’s good enough –
Make them any old guff.
We all love some songs that make no sense at all –
Naive and inane,
But we’ll sing them again.
For music is music – it has us in thrall
From concert to single,
From opus to jingle.
We’re all of us guilty, we’ve all sung along –
We’ve all shown disloyalties,
Boosting their royalties,
Meanwhile ignoring some meaningful song
That wants to be soaring,
But just sounds so boring.
The cat’s meow
Is in the melody –
So, altogether now,
One, two, three –
A-wop-bop-a-loo-bop,
A-boop-boop-be-doop,
Do-wah-diddy-diddy,
Goo-goo-ga-joob,
Zip-a-dee-doo-da,
Coo-coo-ca-choo,
Day-o, day-o,
Me gotta go.
Do do-re-mi notationists also refer to ‘middle do’ and ‘re sharp’ ?
Area 42
Aliens, aliens,
Somewhere they’re out there !
The odds are so great,
And the physics agrees.
They just need a planet
With temp’rature fair,
With water that’s liquid,
And low stellar breeze.
And who would have thought it,
But when we went looking,
There’s thousands of planets
Just lurking all over.
So down in their oceans,
What might they have cooking ?
Alas, they’re too distant
To send out a Rover.
Ah, but imagine if we could !
Just grab our towels and jelly beans
And stride our cosmic neighbourhood !
If only we could learn the means.
Until such time, it might be wise
To doubt the news, and watch the skies.
Forget about greys
Or a buxom blue femme,
We know they’ll look nothing
Like anything here.
For they’ll be as strange
As must we be to them,
From opposite ends
Of the final frontier.
So let’s not be too harsh
On yoofoo believers
For who knows what’s lurking
Beyond our ken ?
But things are too distant
For radar receivers
To show us the saucers
Of little green men.
Ah, but imagine if they could !
Above high clouds, they’d scrutinise
Our quaint provincial neighbourhood.
Alas, I must dispute your cries.
The only people up there, guys,
Are far outside our lonely skies.
Pro Crastinator
I promise that I’ll sweep the floor,
When I get around to it.
I promise that I’ll paint the door,
Feed the hungry, clothe the poor,
Or find the grail, learn to knit,
And cure the cancer, stop the war –
I promise you all this and more,
When I get around to it.
Counting Magpies
One for nada,
Two for nowt,
Three for a shrug,
And four for a doubt,
Five for zero,
Six for oh,
Seven for knowing there’s nothing to know.
Peggy Picas
Magpie, magpie, all upon your lonely,
Have you an omen or an auspice to portend ?
Tell me, oh magpie, perched all one and only,
What do you impart, my fortune-casting friend ?
Magpies, magpies, twosome in my setting,
Have you an omen or an auspice to bestow ?
Tell me, oh magpies, the pair of you abetting,
What do you impart – am I set for joy or woe ?
Magpies, magpies, thrice upon my vision,
Have you an omen or an auspice to enprime ?
Tell me, oh magpie, a trio on your mission,
What do you impart for my future-coming time ?
Magpies, magpies, four of you here gathered,
Have you an omen or an auspice for my mood ?
I tell you, oh magpies, I think your signs are blathered,
You’ve nothing to impart – you’re too busy finding food.
Armistice Sunday Blues
If this were a day just to celebrate peace,
And the end of the stupidity –
If thenceforth we’d learned and if henceforth we cease
All nationalist hostility –
Then maybe I could be a little less blue,
And not blame the soldiers so much
For orders they only were following through
For empire, oil, and such.
And yes, I am fully aware that a war
Is complex, and that leaders are deep –
But still they are all politicians at core,
With pollsters and headlines to reap.
So soldiers get orders and carry them out,
And sometimes civilians die –
But that’s total war, and it’s too late to shout –
We knowingly grabbed for the lie.
They don’t want me carping, but fighting there too,
But I know this war isn’t cricket.
When his country comes calling, the patriot true
Tells his hypocrite homeland to stick it.
Salient Thoughts
Passing through Ypres,
We paused for a moment to take in the Cloth Hall.
By the cathedral we parked,
And we wandered the Grote Markt,
Charmed and yet chilled
By the way they had carefully rebuilt it all.
The shops were all shut –
(We’d come on a Sunday, just wanted a look)
English words blared from their posters and flyers
So locals or ex-pats ? We didn’t enquire.
Their windows were filled
With helmets and biscuits and rifles and books.
Then down to the Menin Gate –
Far too triumphant and proud of its names:
Look at how many I bear !
They all did their duty and lie who-knows-where.
Just look at our killed !
And dare you resist us, and dare you lay blame ?
Rank upon rank of surnames,
With first-names reduced to only initials.
People I found myself wishing
Had told their nations to carry on fishing –
But instead, they had fought.
And here were their names, to make it official.
The flags barely moved,
And a few of us found ourselves holding our breath,
And it all seemed so lonely and still
And so thankfully long since the kill,
And yet still overwrought –
A faded and motionless orgy of death.
Ah, hindsight you rogue !
But let us not hate the hard lessons you tell.
So maybe it’s time to finally suture,
Time now for Ypres to find a new future.
And here’s a thought:
Maybe let’s spell it as Ieper from here on as well.
Index of First Lines
I just can’t think who wrote it,
And I never learned its name.
But I know it begins
With a line about sins –
Or maybe a line about shame.
I know I used to quote it,
But it’s long since slipped away.
But I know at its head
Is a line about Fred,
Or maybe a line about Ray.
I always meant to note it,
But I let the words grow faint.
But I know at its start
Is a line about art,
Or maybe a line about paint.
My mem’ry just can’t float it,
For I’ve racked yet can’t recall
But I know at its lead
Is a line that I need –
Just that line, just that first line is all.
