Wordwear
Poems are delicate shoes,
And prose is sturdy boots –
The footwear that we choose
Is governed by its use:
So when we need to tread with care
Or dance between ideals,
We may choose verse, and lace a pair
Of taps or kitten heels.
For poems are stilettoes,
Sharp and with a click –
While prose is from the ghettos,
Stout and with a kick.
So when we need more tongue and strength,
Where mud and thorns compete,
We’ll don our boots to march at length,
In plain and simple feet.
Exotic Ice
Twenty thousand years ago,
Then all we see from here
Was nothing but Devensian –
All white and cold and clear.
It took a thousand years of snow
To lay the drifts so deep –
A slab of ice far denser than the hills,
And fast more steep.
Welcome to blighted Blighty,
Frozen over, unawares,
Though the Southern downs were merely tundra,
Roamed by mammoths and bears.
But the thaw would bring a mighty change,
An invasive species, exotic and strange,
To cast the native beasts asunder –
Humans, expanding their range.
The High-Shod Strut
Once a-time, a set of boots
Would mean a sturdy pair –
A sign of well-protected feet
Parading down the lane or street.
So from the crushing jacks of brutes,
Or workmen’s safety-wear –
They took their time to implement,
Behind the laces of intent.
But now a-days, we’ve turned the boot
Into a quick affair –
We slip them on and zip them up
To wash the car or walk the pup.
We find there is no substitute
For easy mid-calf flair,
We’ve sheathed each shin and sprung each arch –
We’ve filled our boots, so let’s quick march !
Basilica Cistern
The columns are far too carved
To just be buried neck-deep in water –
They have to have been acquired from older stock,
Reused to order.
What once held temple pediments,
Perched on Corinthian tops,
Are now a vaulted forest
Lurking underneath the shops.
There swim some carps between the bases
Of this Roman reef,
That graze the algae off the wishful coins
That glint beneath,
While downside-up Medusas watch
The tourist lines go by –
They’ll still be here a thousand years from now,
Through wet and dry.
Alas, yes. So here are this year’s entries. I’ll be honest, a few of these are a bit shoe-horny, where I had more than one idea for a word, so one of my verses would have to find a new home…
Remember as ever, these are just meant to be an idle doodle, not Pulitzer-bait. They’re also trying to be fun, so let’s keep it light. Also returning from previous years are the the random artworks that barely relate but are a good showcase for some interesting finds.
Trek (although it’s really another ‘boots’ poem)
Nomadic (bit of a stretch, this one)
Drive (as in motivation)
Camp (a real stretch, this one)
Expedition (though really another ‘landmark’)
Landmark (and also a bridge into my Halloween poems)
Englischer Waltzer
Eins zwo drei, eins zwo drei,
Beefeaters, wellingtons, toads-in-the-hole,
Morris and molly and May-round-the-pole,
Our feet may be English, but German our soul,
As we spin to the Saxony stride.
Volkswagens, Porsches, and Beamers and Mercs,
Beethoven, Handel, and Kraft-at-the-works,
Our ears may be English, but German our quirks,
As we turn to the Teutonic tide.
Some say Bavaria,
Some say Vienna –
The where and the when are
Long lost in the swirl.
Spinnen and spinnen,
In cotton and linen –
From Bath to Berlin,
In a wurlitzer’s whirl.
Fish-and-chip, tea-and-jam, bubble-and-squeak,
Stiff-upper sorries and tongues-in-our-cheek
Our words may be English, but German our speak,
As we pulse to the Prussian parade.
Rottweiler, doberman, alsatian, spitz,
The Hamburger Hans and the Frankfurter Fritz
Our names may be English, but German our glitz,
As we shimmy with Swabian suede.
Wange to wange,
From oompah to banger –
It’s no doppelganger,
But dancing for reel.
Schneller and schneller,
In ev’ry bierkeller –
It’s no tarantella,
But spooling its spiel.
The Magnolia Jungle
Indoor cats grow fat
About the flat,
From all their lack of pace –
They spend all morning sat
Upon the mat,
Just cleaning fur and face.
Then mooch-in for a chat,
Or stroke and pat,
As though they own the place –
And sleep upon a hat,
Or idly bat
The drapes with easy grace,
They’ve got it far too soft and easy,
Never getting cold or sneezy,
Staring out the windows, queasy,
At the thought of empty space.
Hiding from the wet and breezy,
Doing as they damn well pleasy
Till they’re corpulent and wheezy,
Hiding in their cushy base.
Indoor cats grow fat,
Without a rat,
To give them cause to chase –
But they don’t care for that,
They run this flat –
Or prowl, in any case…
The Taste of Failure
Yet another piece of art
That leaves me cold, alas.
Just another and a yet-another ‘no’.
The wrong approach, the wrong result,
Too simpering, too crass,
And my mood is never right to watch the show.
It makes me feel so guilty,
So unworthy, so frustrated,
To be whingeing when around me all are joys –
I wish I could’ve relished
All the culture that I’ve hated,
But I can’t control what moves and what annoys.
Now, it’s fine to be quite vocal
In a place where that’s expected,
But let’s not dwell on the downers for too long –
Just say our minds, then keep our peace,
Don’t be so disaffected
That we’re ever harping-on the same old song.
The world is full of other people’s taste
Of ev’ry measure –
All because the world contains both them, and I.
Suppose I should be glad
That it is bringing so much pleasure –
And I don’t pretend it’s easy, but I try…
But the one thing I have well-learned
(Though I don’t always obey it)
Is to hush my humphing lips before they run –
Don’t be a carping-critic
Who will always loudly say it,
To prevent my fellow viewers having fun.
Yet another movie,
Or a song, or work of art –
But hey, there’s so much more I’ve yet to see –
Statistic’ly, there must be stuff out there
That pumps my heart,
Just hiding in the piles of not-for-me.
White Whiskers
Cats love milk, everyone knows it,
Even the cats know it’s true –
All of common culture shows it,
Cats just love the moo !
Since Aesop told the ancient Greeks,
The white has dyed the wool –
As ever since, our folklore speaks of it
By the saucers-full.
Except…they can’t digest it,
No, not even when it’s creamed –
They’re done with being breast-fed
Since their kitten-selves were weaned.
And yet, the tales are prominent
Throughout the milky West –
I guess we lactose-tolerants
Think good-old breast is best !
But blame for this situation
Is not ours alone, at that –
For this dangerous temptation
Is such catnip to a cat.
For mogs won’t learn the lesson,
As they glut with ev’ry lap,
Never knowing how they’re messing
With a lit’ral booby trap.
The reference to Aesop is a bit of a cheat, since his fable The Litigious Cats centres on a dispute over a piece of cheese rather than milk – but cheese is just as unstable to felines, so I reckon it counts…
In Reply to the Handwriting Appreciation Society
I cannot think of something worse
Than writing long by hand –
How much is my electric verse
Beyond my wrist’s command ?
It’s only thanks to ones and noughts
My words are ever read –
Or else, my messy, speeding thoughts
Would never leave my head.
For who would bother to unpick
My blotchy, crossed-out pages ?
But thankfully, I type and click
My wisdom for the ages.
Rhyming Couplets 