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
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
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
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
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
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 ?
Wash Day
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.
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 !
Suburban Safari
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 ?
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 ?
Rhyming Couplets 