The old ladies gathered twice a week To play at bridge. My mother hated that, though wouldn’t speak To change the game. She’d simply sigh, and push her weary glasses Up a smidge With her bidding always full of passes, Sitting out the frame.
She would have gladly played at hearts or whist, If they could try it ? Yet feared the only choice was suffer this, Or staying home. They concentrated far too much to chat, So she kept quiet – And so, for want of company, she sat There all alone.
“Those other games”, the ladies often said, “Are so unfriendly, Competing with each other – where instead, We play as teams.” And so they dealt-out bridge, and never rummy, Quite contently, While mother only uttered, as the dummy, Silent screams.
The mud is underfoot again, The garden paths awash with grime – But now the sky has stopped the rain, It must be snail time.
The birds are nowhere to be seen, The leaves are dripping from the lime – And yet, the air is fresh and clean – It must be snail time.
They come out of their hiding, Sliding over puddles millimetres deep, While wearing their umbrellas – Soggy dwellers on their slow and silent sweep. Where do they shade when the Sun is out ? Where do they hunker in the drought ?, While waiting for the showers That empowers them to wake up from their sleep.
The worms are up upon the lawn, The garden ants are on the climb, The clouds are brightening, like dawn – It must be snail time.
Walking along the canal, I see the duckweed is in bloom – Bank-to-bank, a carpet For the mallards’ living room. The moorhens leave a wake of clear That slowly zips together, The swans have clumps upon their prows, And flecks on ev’ry feather.
Rivers are no good, of course, They hurry up their flow – But out on the canal, It teaches how to take it slow. The coots are scooping mouthfuls, And the geese are busy working – But beneath the green and stillness, I can sense there’s something lurking…
My cactus is in bloom, It feels so wrong, It feels so out-of-line – It’s job is just to loom, All decade long, With no intent. It always seemed so stoic Old as yore, With little outward sign – But was this shy heroic, Waiting for It’s chance to vent ?
My cactus is in bloom, What should I do ? It’s out-of-temper’ment – It just sits in my room, All decade through, In stalk and spine. It always seemed so zen, So green and squat – But this is decadent ! Was it just waiting, then, Until it got It’s chance to shine ?
It’s raining outside my kitchen window, And raining inside my washing machine. The drizzle soaks as the drum turns slow, Both giving their world a clean. But the revs are building as the downpour splashes And the glass is pelted by each, Till the spinning thunders as the lightning crashes With the white light bringing the bleach. Till things settle down as we wait for the clunk That unlocks both the door and the sky. And the scent is fresh and freed from the funk, As we hang them each out to dry.
General Post Office, Lombard Street, London by Thomas Rowlandson
UBI
I can’t imagine having a job I like enough to go on strike – If you want it, come and get it, I’ll be on my bike. I guess I’m lucky enough to know I can always find another one – It’s just as rubbish as the last, But then, who works for fun ?
I can’t imagine having a job, In any worthwhile medium – Is there dignity in labour ? Sure, But far more tedium. I know some folks who love their work, But I can’t plug into that socket – Am I enriching the world right now, Or just my boss’s pocket ?
I can’t imagine having a job, Except to keep me warm and fed – Just think of all I could achieve, If I only stayed in bed ! Time’s too short to not be treasure – Count the moments, not the weeks… Let’s live our lives for love and leisure, Like the ancient Greeks !
A family get-together – Ev’ryone’s here, And here we all are. There’s Harry and Joan and Heather, And John with a beer, From near and far. And there’s little Robbie, holding, What’s that ? A teddy ? But no, not a bear. Why is his mother scolding him ? He’s crying already, That doesn’t seem fair. No wait, he’s fine. Oh, red wine please. So, still at the school ? Oh no, at a bank… Now Tommy, you’re such a tease ! Don’t be so cruel To Ellie and Frank. My, that’s a jumbo hankie there ! Do you need to wipe So many tears ? I’m joking of course, our Claire – When he talks tripe, You seem to be all-ears. I’m getting too long in the tooth For all this junk, It’s all so grey, Annette. I’m tired, if you want the truth, I’ve packed my trunk, Yet I don’t forget. But this is a pleasant wishing – Everyone’s here, And here we all stay. Except…is someone missing ? For all this cheer, Why does nobody say ?
Looks like these AI flyers were thrown away for having the wrong colours for each party…
The After-Poll
When it’s all over at the count, When the officer has returned, When the make-up of the new House is discerned, When the questions that are paramount Are answered with an X, When the voter’s blade has swung on many necks – As the ship of state is sailing on, Is the wheel turned left or right ? Is the outlook grey, or is the morning bright ? Just how new is the new dawn – Is it rosy, is the sky still blue ? Who are we now, and where are we heading to ?
I found this image as a banner for former Cambridge councillor Sam Davies, but cannot find a credit for it.
Just Another Election Day
Always on Thursdays, these days, Always a busy day in the week – It’s just the fate of the next five years, So best to keep it meek. Never a public holiday, We don’t want to make a fuss – Just pop-in, if you think you can spare the time On your way to the bus.
We see the early-morning party leaders Be the first to the poles – Fulfilling their photogenic roles, Though too late for the newspaper-readers, Whose headlines show the colours of their souls.
So the bookworms are shunned from the lib’ries, And the kids kicked-out of the schools, As the powers that be, begrudgingly, Let us have a say in the rules. It’s all so British and half-cocked, All ashamed of the rallies and cheers – Just cast your vote in silence, Then shut-up for five more years.
And the highlight of the day, Are all the dogs who wait so patiently By the signs in heavy font on the TV, As their owners have their say – While a third of us stay home in apathy.
Country folk are godly folk, They sing to holy Jesus, Sing how he’s the one they set their heart upon. Yet over Nashville way, no joke, They worship olive trees, yes, Sing to Grecians in their mighty Parthenon. They built a statue of Athena Dressed in gold and ivory, With ancient eyes of blue that never blink. They built a temple to the Virgin, Yet in rivalry – Cos she ain’t the usual Virgin that they think –
Hallelujah, hail Athena ! Sing it loud and sing it free ! You beat Poseidon with his trident, And now Jesus with his trinity. We need a goddess, not a patriarch To stir these sisters free – In the Athens of the South, your spark Lights up your mystery.
Country folk are gawdy folk, They love their rhinestone rings – Yet their churches are just warehouses of prayers. Is Jesus stoney broke That he can’t afford some decent bling In which his shouty preachers flog his wares ? But over at Athena’s place, There’s statues in the pediments Of epic battles fought in ancient times – She may be stoic in her face, But not so harsh and regiment To frown upon our splashing-out the dimes.
Hallelujah, hail Athena ! Sing it free and sing it loud ! Lady Wisdom, Lady with the Owl, Intelligent and proud – We need a goddess to the arts For fans to worship when we hum – A diva moving-up the charts, Who’s number one till kingdom come.
The original statue was sculpted by Phedias in 9563HE. This replica was designed by Alan LeQuire in 11990, using gypsum cement, fibreglass-infused plaster, and gold leaf (not ivory, like the original, but close enough – and surely Phedias would have loved to have access to these…) It is, I believe, based on ancient descriptions and other statues, but I’m sure some original interpretation has been included, and quite right too !
Rhyming Couplets 