Author: Toastingfork

Not afraid to rhyme.

What are you, then ?

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What are you, then ?

Self-seedling, settler-sprout –
A start-up venture risk-taker,
Pushing-through and on the scout,
You upward-mover, windy-shaker.
What will you become, young bud ?
Are you a goer or a dud ?
So little green, and so much mud –
Watch out !  I hear there’s slugs about,
I fear this is no easy acre.

One lone leaf, and you’re a grass,
Or bulb, or orchid, or a palm.
But two, and you’re the other class –
They’re both an embryonic farm.
So what will you become, new shoot ?
Will you grow tall, will you bear fruit ?
So little leaved, but taking root –
Well lass, let’s meet at Michelmas,
To greet you once you’re safe from harm.

All the World’s a Soundstage

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A still from It’s A Wonderful Life.  That’s us, at the back.

All the World’s a Soundstage

We are the redshirts, the unnamed extras
Who maybe get a line or two –
We’re barked at once by assistant-directors,
We hit our marks and leave on cue,
But won’t be back next week, it’s true –
We only get one day in the sun.
We won’t make the credits, we’re not in the crew,
And when we hear cut we know we’re done.

We are the parents and colleagues and friends
Who get to star in little shows –
The kind that never starts or ends,
But runs forever, where plots are slow.
We haven’t got many watching, we know,
And the scripts aren’t great, but they’re often fun –
It’s not that bad, and the parts all grow,
Until we’re cancelled, one-by-one.

It seems churlish to say how much I dislike It’s A Wonderful Life, but it does have the decently to be conveniently out-of-copywrite. And let’s face it, that film has made an awful lot of people very happy. So I really should just shut up.

A Love Like Vague

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Photo by Prathyusha Mettupalle on Pexels.com

A Love Like Vague

Nothing spoken, nothing tensed,
Or nothing sharply out-of-phase,
But something that is slowly sensed,
A re-tuned hum, a distant haze,
That draws me daily through the maze
With more for than agenst.

Nothing solid, nothing whole,
Or nothing with a cutting edge,
But something with a little soul,
A knowing twinge, a gut-felt hedge,
That walks me out upon the ledge
With just enough control.

Limb-Slungs & Beam-Shanks

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This illustration seems to come from The Burke Museum, but alas I have no idea who drew it.

Limb-Slungs & Beam-Shanks

Some daddy-longlegs are spiders in cellars,
And some daddy-longlegs are leg-craning flies.
Some are strange scorpings who walk in the harvest,
But all have more leg than they should for their size.
Some daddy-longlegs are tip-toeing fellers,
And some daddy-longlegs are mummies-on-stilts.
Some have evolved from their cousins the farthest,
But all are as lanky as when they were built.

Amateur Amore

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Cyborg Girl by Brian McRae

Amateur Amore

Adults, parents, they all say the same –
That my love is just puppies, is all.
This is my first crush, my first move in the game,
And to fall in love just means I’m gonna fall.
Sixteen, they say, that’s nothing,
This is just a beta test –
This girl, this guy, is yesterday tomorrow.
They say, don’t talk of loving
When I’m lonely and obsessed –
It’s only right I have to suffer sorrow.
Neophyte, dilettante, call me what you will,
But just don’t tell me I’m practicing a skill !

Adults, parents, they’re quick to exclaim
That my love is a see-saw, you know ?
They won’t meet my steady, won’t even learn their name,
When they soon need to forget old so-and-so.
Sixteen, they say, is nothing,
This is just experience –
A chance for some rite-of-passage fun.
Well, I may be new to loving,
But it’s still my present tense –
And I have to think that this one is the one.
Fledgling, tenderfoot, call me ingenue,
But I’ll break my heart myself, no thanks to you !

Suds’ Law

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Suds’ Law

I’ve often thought there’s something zen about the washing-up,
Of the rhythm of the saucepan and cycle of the cup,
Of plunging-in all dirty and pulling-out so clean,
Of the slight-self-satisfaction of using no machine.
The sculpting of the bubbles and the water steaming-hot,
Of the stray spoon in the bottom and the ring beneath the pot,
Of never glancing sideways at the mountain yet to come,
But only at the plate between our finger and our thumb.
A swirl until it’s squeaking sees its spotlessness restored,
As it’s stacked into a stoic jenga on the draining-board,
Then polished and re-housed once more – or left to drip and dry,
Till the water streaks the glasses and the runoffs calcify.
Splashes on our shirt-fronts, splashes on the floor,
Till the water’s grey and tepid, and we fill the bowl once more.
Yes, the art of washing-up is quite humble in its zen –
And come back after dinner, we can do it all agen…

Poetry Briefing

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Photo by Miguel u00c1. Padriu00f1u00e1n on Pexels.com

Poetry Briefing

I should have written a shorter verse,
Where a couplet’s too verbose –
As slim as is a haiku terse,
Or a limerick at most.
A sestet tops, or a triolet,
Or a nonet’s fading ghost –
As tightly as a minuet
When sent by pigeon post.

I never should have waffled-on
Beyond the break, you see –
All trace of pithiness was gone,
As the twelve-bar blues run free.
If sonnet-length should not be crossed,
I should curtail this spree –
But no – I fear all hope is lost
As the ballads call to me…

Love-Dreams & Blintzes

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Photo by Oleksandr P on Pexels.com

Love-Dreams & Blintzes

(In reply to Moss Hart’s & George Kaufman’s You Can’t Take It With You)

A libertarian fantasy,
Giving up the nine-to-five,
To live for art, untaxed and free,
In a sprawling, zany hive.
These rocketeering gals and gents
Devote themselves to fun
By living off of unearned rents,
And dating the boss’s son.
Watch out !  Here comes the Government !,
To pry through this and that,
The chocolate boxes spread dissent –
But they won’t get-back their hat.
Sucking-up to the duchess,
To the beat of the xylophone –
A community of the self-obsessed,
All far too rich to moan.
A black maid serves up ev’ry perk,
And cornflakes for their tea –
But what if she chose to give-up work ?
Why, then where would they be ?
A fairytale of carpe diem,
Laissez-faire unbound –
They may not take it with them,
But they won’t spread it around.

In a strange way, the play (from 1936) shows a future world of Universal Basic Income, only it’s set in a world of depression-era unemployment and poverty which it floats above, all while ignoring the very real suffering happening down the street. The extended Sycamore family are extremely privileged, and though they claim to be apolitical, they definitely want the Government to leave them alone with its tax and fireworks regulations and preventing the spread of violent revolt – all the while sneering at the working drones who hate their jobs while having absolutely no concept on how those people have to work to afford basic food and shelter (maybe even in one of Grandpa’s houses, breaking their backs to afford to pay him their rent so he can swan-around snake-hunting in Westchester).

Dressed in Morning

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Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

Dressed in Morning

“Dress brightly” was her last wish,
“Do not mourn in black.”
So there we were, in tears and anguish,
All denied the right to languish –
Such a multi-coloured pack
In wedding suits and flashy ties
At odds with how we felt inside –
But no going back.
And so, with fragile smiles and teary eyes
That no pink shirts could hide,
We stood and cried beside the other parties
Waiting at the crem.
We looked so lacking gravitas compared to them.
“What crowd of sombre-less folk are these ?”
They’d have thought, “So lacking sorrow,
Sending off their friend with such panache.”
And that we did, in rainbow fashion –
We can mourn tomorrow, ashen,
But today, we’re cutting quite a dash !