Author: Toastingfork

Not afraid to rhyme.

Pastoral Symphony

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Pastoral Symphony

The countryside is sometimes all a chorus of its own,
With the songbird sky-sopranos saying grace –
And the yapping dogs’ falsetto, and the tomcats’ mezzo tone,
And the hens and pigeons make an alto brace.
The sheep are then the tenor, the pigs are baritone,
While the cows are mooing low down in the bass,
And underlying ev’rything, the bees provide the drone,
While the clip-clop hooves of horses beat the pace.
And finally, the donkey starts, a soloist alone –
She’s the braying primadonna of the place !

The Prayer in the Purr

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The Prayer in the Purr

What do cats dream,
Those tabbies, napping in the Sun all day ?
Are they getting cream,
Or perhaps they fighting with a scar-clawed stray ?
Does it scratch their itch,
Or raise a threat that’s coming out to creep ?
Ev’ry time they twitch,
Are they trembling from a nightmare stalking sleep ?

A cat has no other cats to call for mental health,
It’s up to them alone to learn to wake themself.
Is that why they sleep when the Sun is shining stark ?
As if they’re too afraid to have to lie there in the dark ?

What do we dream,
We humans, snoring to the Moon all night ?
Cheering on our team,
Or racing through our minds from guilt and fright ?
So is it so odd,
If felines fear, and maybe find some faith ?
If cats have a god,
I hope she’s keeping well her clowder safe.

So when they come to humans, just to join us on our bed,
And even though we partly know they’re looking to be fed –
Yet just for a moment, we feel it feel so deep,
As if they’re seeking comfort here to calm their troubled sleep.

Cats in Progress

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Photo by Lucas Pezeta on Pexels.com

Cats in Progress

A cat may be a hairless sphinx,
Or taleless Manx, or beefy Coon –
But most are more a mini-lynx,
That have no need to tweak or jinx
That classic shape of ancient minx,
That slinks beneath the Moon.

The Siamese design is striking,
But it is a custom frame.
The common tabby has been hiking
Through our lands, and through our liking –
Kept by Pharaoh, Greek, or Viking,
Looking much the same.

But maybe, underneath that fur,
A change is slowly going on.
As certain traits succeed, and spur
A rise in smarts behind the purr –
They’re not the loners once they were
In ancient Babylon.

We humans chuckle, and pretend
That cats will do just as they suit –
But truth is, they still sculpt and bend,
Through generations without end,
To suit our need to be our friend –
And learn how to be cute.

Faffage in Five Acts

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The End of a Bad Show by Joseph Keppler

Faffage in Five Acts

Poetry is the enemy of plays,
And has no place upon the stage –
Its narratives are not well told,
Pentameters do not engage.
They think their verse is true and bold,
Yet tends towards the bloated beige.
Dialogue is the standard of gold,
Not monologues spouted for page-on-page –
We need nuts-and-bolts for the tale to unfold,
While wisecrack-a-tat is the wit of our age.
Poetry is the enemy of plays,
It sound so trite, verbose, and old.

Plot Armour

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The cover of Superman #75 by Dan Jurgens & Brett Breeding

Plot Armour

I recall when dead meant dead,
When heroes died and I’d believe it –
Weeping as they nobly bled,
So sad, so happy to receive it –
What a way to go, I said,
And what a grown-up tale I’ve read…
Before the retcon raised its head,
To gaslight ev’ry tear, and thieve it.

Dead Man’s Hand

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Bridge Game by Norman Rockwell

Dead Man’s Hand

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.

Afterpour

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Photo by Aziza Za on Pexels.com

Afterpour

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.

Floating Arums

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Photo by Petr Ganaj on Pexels.com

Floating Arums

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…

Cactus Practice

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Photo by Quang Nguyen Vinh on Pexels.com

Cactus Practice

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 ?