One-Eyed Jacks, The General, Charade, It’s a Wonderful Life, Night of the Living Dead, Fear & Desire, The Last Man on Earth, Gulliver’s Travels, The Gold Rush, A Star is Born
Public Domain Day
Welcome, works of long-loved art !, From artists who have lasted on For long beyond their time – Finally, you’ll take your part In the ever-growing pantheon Of the no-more-in-their-prime.
If a life is three-scores-ten, So too is death, it would appear, When the royalties still flow. But that was way back when, And now your grandchildren, I fear, Must let their unearned windfall go.
Cool your lawyers, drop your walls, It ain’t about how much you’ll earn In the common ownership marquee ! The world will turn its eyeballs On your genius without concern, Now that, in ev’ry sense, you’re free !
The tinsel has been strung all week, The holly wreathed around the door, The cards bedeck the mantlepiece, The tree is lit-up like a store. But if we came inside to peek On where to kiss – no go, it seems… The mistletoe has yet to lease It’s tenure on the ceiling beams.
The trouble is, our hostess speaks, It dries out quickly in the warm – And pleasures in the kiss decrease, She finds, when beauties don’t conform. For who can peck on rosy cheeks Beneath such yellow-wilted leaves ? And so, the gooser of the geese Won’t dangle down till Christmas Eve.
“It isn’t really quaint and meek, You know, but a toxic parasite.” So says my clued-up, teenage niece – “Infact, just like this kissing blight: Demanding favours, beak-to-beak, And women feeling bound to please. From Pagan Briton, Ancient Greece – Let’s leave tradition on the trees.”
But we don’t need to be so bleak, My love, with New Year looming big ! Let’s open up our Winter fleece And warm our lips beneath the sprig. But if we came inside to seek A spot to kiss, we’re out of luck – The mistletoe, by cruel caprice, Has not a berry left to pluck…
Do you remember Transformers ? Those futuristic toys of not-quite-convincing cars That changed into those robots that looked alot like cars. But they were such barnstormers To the eight-year-old me so in love with the bizarre – Though I never got to own one, so I ogled from afar. Well I saw one on sale today, And I’m grown up now, and can buy one if I like, If I dare – and discover how it morphs into a bike. But in the end I turned away – As much as I am wanting to examine ev’ry joint, I know that joy would turn to boredom once I got the point. I only need to borrow one, The same as my desire to caress a saxophone – I just want to fiddle with the levers, then leave well alone. But just look at all that fun !, That pipework out of steampunk, that Lego-clockwork scrap, And those button-keys of typewriter, to spring a better mousetrap ! It’s like a foreign language That I know I should acquire, but I know I never will – I swear that it’s a lack of motivation, not a lack of skill… But if I could play a smidge, Like learning how to code, or strumming a guitar – I just want to know how does it turn into a car ?
A selection of heavyweight horizontals from Darcy Clothing
Shaggy Legs
One stocking, two stocking, three stocking, four, All hanging on the chimney-breast, drying from the hoar In the last of the embers of the evening’s sycamore – While their would-be wearers are upstairs a-snore.
One stripy, one chequey, one polka-dot, And one of them chunky with a Celtic knot. Here and there are patches, where the wool is shot, To keep their feet safe from the Winter as they trot.
One mini, two midi, one bigger skin, Though all of them kiddie-sized, toe-tip to shin. Yet looking rather empty here with no legs within, Are four half-pairs – but where are their kin ?
One two three and a fourth is the score, Though I wonder why they hung-up the footwear they wore ? Placed by the fire where no-one can ignore Are one stocking, two stocking, three stocking, four.
I know it’s a pretty dream, Virginia, That an adult might be true, But they’re lying through their teeth, my dear, And laughing back at you. They pat your pretty head, Virginia, And feed you a fairy tale, Then chide you when you fib, my dear, Their hypocrisy’s off-the-scale. The lesson to remember, kid, When asking for the gist, Is to never trust the printed word Of any journalist. For ev’rything the adults tell, Each lesson, tale, or fact, Is just a product that they sell, A vast and secret pact. Virginia, you need to know The rule they all live by – To keep hold of the status quo They’ll lie and lie and lie. I know it’s a crying shame, Virginia, That they won’t tell you straight That Santa Claus is a con, my dear – For goodness sake – you’re eight !
We spruce our spruces thoroughly, Bedecking ev’ry inch of tree With tinsel boas, bauble bling, And fairy-lights by endless string. And then we push it, fruits and all, Abruptly up against the wall – A lonely corner evergreen Where half the dressings can’t be seen. The lights at least from round the back, Like glow-works pilfering a snack, Can still be glimpsed-on now-and-then From deep within their needle den. But other trinkets pine away, Unnoticed all the holiday, Till hands come questing for the gains Of the few remaining candy canes.
Another office party, And another Christmas cheer. I remember standing here, right here, One year ago today, Remember telling Jen and Marty, How I swore this one would be my last, And I’d be gone before the year had past. Yes, even though, you say, How I had sworn the same the year before – But this time I was sure, I couldn’t stand it anymore. My goodness, how the months just slip away…
Alas, no Jen this year, of course, And Marty moved to Slough. Yes, both had quit the sales force by Spring. Looking round my colleagues now, They’re all so young and middlebrow, And I’m left wondering… I barely recognise them, with their rarely coming-in – Working from their homes, And working from their phones, Until they get the annual summoning. And all for mindless drinking passed the point when we should stop, Just to numb the pain of endless talking-shop.
December moths are loyal to their name, Defying Autumn’s dying – Hugged in furs, as charcoal as the nights, These moths keep flying – And yet, they earn so little fame, From folklores, who ignore them – However much they circle fairy lights With soft decorum.
They’re on the wing for Halloween, Yet bats have all the glory, And then they’re just too dark to stake a claim For the robin’s story. These spinners of the Winter slip between, Ours fears and holy writ, But touch on neither, failing at the game – They just don’t seem to fit.
All the Summer, lappets gorge on oaks, Unnoticed then as well – Pupating into eggars with the acorns, Till a colder spell. They hatch as the dead are donning cloaks, As if by frost released – Then die at the time of the manger-born, From fasting through the feast.
Friends are mostly circumstance, And born out of proximity – They’re friends because that’s who by chance we see. And if not them, then someone else we met Would be the friend we get – But no cause to regret the friends that were not meant to be. For that does not make them the lesser, Cos they happened to be free – We still need friends by stark necessity. And you, you could have missed a gem, A lifelong friend – but don’t condemn – For if it can’t be them, well then I’m glad that it was me.
Rhyming Couplets 