Koala bears in woolly hats, Emus strutting in the snow Spruces march across the Outback – Let it go, Oz, let it go… I know you’re mostly immigrants From colder, Northern climes, But not all cult’ral heritage Will work in modern times. Ditch the chimney for a combi, Lose the furry robes and gloves, Let the gum replace the holly, Let the budgies play the doves. Embrace your new contrariness, Your world turned upside down – This Winter masquerade is not The only game in town. Santa chilling by the barbie, Kangaroos to haul the sleigh, Redback’s guarding Baby Jesus – Season’s greetings, and g’day.
Fish are r-selectors, They spew their eggs upon the deep. On the current, on the hope That a few of them will seep their way to adulthood, Playing the odds and making good.
A few, though, are protectors – Mouth-brooders, seahorses, Their eggs in an extra envelope. But once they’re born, of course, they’re on their own – Even in a shoal, they swim alone.
But sharks are k-selectors, Giving birth to one or two – Yet then they leave their pups to cope. So fish are absent parents, true, but don’t condemn – I guess the numbers show it works for them.
The Watcher – Tribute to Edward Hopper by David Wickline
Hide
Shhh…let’s lie low here for a while And let our camouflage do its thing – Let’s watch the daily rank-and-file As it passes by on the wing. Birds or people, far or near, They flock till they part their ways. If we keep still, we’ll dissapear As they chase their busy days. It’s good to sometimes sit and think With a patient air and a weather eye – Let’s slow our breaths and barely blink, And watch the world go by.
Beetles, tortoises, and nuts, Pearls in shells and wasps in galls, Hermit crabs in disused huts, Rolled-up armadillo balls, Frogs in mud and chicks in eggs, Goods in crates and crates in hulls, Drinks in bottles, bones in legs, Feet in shoes and brains in skulls.
Telepathy – could it be radio ? Could we ever evolve to receive it ? You’d better believe it ! Pigeon already can, you know, Or at least, the magnetic field, So science has revealed. And then there’s electricity, Made by the platypus and eel To help them stun or feel. And, for sheer simplicity, We all see visible light, or course – Well, that’s the self-same force ! But could we ever transmit ? Even bio-luminescence, Is a rare and gloomy presence, Though it looks like it might fit – Lengthening the waves it sends, Detected only by its friends Who see much deeper in the red – Though still strictly line-of-sight, And not exactly bright. So next – a wire inside the head, An aerial – but what does it solve ? And how could it ever evolve ? And the energy required To beam-out further than a voice Will never make it nature’s choice. No, we’ll never be wired, We’ll never buzz with secret speech – At least, not till we’re cyborgs each…
Now that the herd is in the barn, And now that the flock is in the fold, Then huddle close and I’ll spin you a yarn, The one my father told. And he was taught by his in turn, And he by his, the self-same airs That someday your own kids will learn When you tell them, and they tell theirs.
Sometimes, late at night, Out on the plains, or on the road, When the bats are in full flight To the singing of the toad, There can be heard the gallop Of a lonely charger wild, Through the ups of York and Salop And the downs of Kent and Fylde
There’s those who claim they’ve seen him, And they claim he rides a grey, A snow-white grey so gleaming That the very stars give way. A king, they say, with bow and crown, And horseshoes of cold steel – And ev’rywhere those hooves stomp down, The people come to heel.
Though some say he’s not invading Through our castles, towns and huts, But rather the land he’s raiding Is our throats, and veins, and guts – Riding, riding, ever onwards, There is no defence – Though some may call him Conquest, And others Pestilence.
But many will say No!, he rides a chestnut When he roams abroad, And he wears a shining breastplate, And he holds a tempered sword – And he is War, yet not invasion, But one folk upon another, Year-on-year, at any provocation, Brother killing brother.
But fighting is fighting, and always near To the likes of us who are called-on to bleed, And arrow or sword, it’s the same old fear When facing-down the next stampede. Or maybe a few who see this horseman Get to then escape to tell – Yet whether Mongol, Moor, or Norseman, All those roads lead straight to Hell.
Still, I have also heard it told by folks That the horse is jettest black, And gaunt enough that each rib pokes, With scarcely strength for saddle or pack – But its passenger can’t weigh much, at least, He’s spindly as his balancing scales – Clearly the lord of the Famine, not feast As he measures-out losses from frosts and gales.
Then others say his is the best-fed mount In any town it passes, Glossy as the fur-coat of a count, ‘Gainst their threadbare nags and asses. And the dirt where its hoofprints have trodden is barren now, The only thing growing is the drought – The fields are always so shy of the plough When Famine goes riding out.
Yet the final vision of our phantom knight Is the strangest of all they claim have seen, When robed in black, or robed in white, On a pale steed – dun, or maybe green. Some say a skeleton, lacking flesh, And what does he carry ? An hourglass of time ? A downturned torch, or a flail to thresh ? Or a sickle to scythe the stalks in their prime ?
And they give him a name, they call him Death. But surely all these versions are that – So death by what ? From a poisoned breath ?, Or the slurry from the mines, or rancid fat ? Maybe our souls aren’t chaff to the miller, But the smoke in the lung and the acid on the stone – Pollution, that’s the next big killer – And surely worth a horse of its own.
So light all the candles and ring all the bells, To ward off the Silent Divider, And warn them in Wigan and Walsall and Wells Of the grizzled new face of the Rider. From Wetherby weavers to Tintagel tin, From the tar-pits of Derby to Sunderland soot, So each time we breathe we invite the rogue in And his fingers leave shadows wherever they’re put.
Then listen, my children, listen for his hoofbeat, Listen as he slowly yet surely destroys By dogging the trudging of your own two feet In the choke and the grime and the constant noise. His other visions are horrors of our past, But it’s in our future that we all must die – And the fourth of the horsemen will take us at the last, As he kicks up the dust as he’s riding-by.
I suppose Pollution should cover the mass-deaths by human-caused tragedies, while Pestilence cover those from other living things while Famine has the natural disasters gig. This would mean that a plague of locusts is definitely one for Pestilence, while Famine would deal with meteor impacts. But don’t even get me started on green horses...
The Christian Martyrs’ Last Prayer by Jean-Léon Gérôme
Damnatio ad Bestias
The lions weren’t alone in the Colosseum To kill the priests – Not that there were none, But the Romans also had their fun With boars, and bulls, and dogs, especially dogs, To be the beasts. Their moment was the lunchtime lull When public executions filled the interval – And some, I guess, were Christians, Making up the Lions’ feasts.
Of course, a Colosseum death Was for the criminals – And Christians weren’t that often used To feed the animals. Persecution was rarer than lions – It happened, but only in spurts. But how to vilify Roman indiff’rence And un-martyred lack-of-hurts ? We needed far more dramatic saints, So unleash the lions and uncork the paints !
I saw a bird in town today, Pecking round the outdoor cafe tables – Plucking up the crumbs astray, Then flitting off to perch atop the gables. I only saw a smidgeon, Of a flash of green upon the fowl – So not the usual pigeon, Nor a bully blackbird on the prowl. I thought I saw some speckles, But it surely couldn’t be a thrush ? I’d wager seven shekels That they’d never brave this market crush.
So, it’s not a mavis, then – Too small and bright for crow or rook, I’d say, Too big for sparrow or a wren, And far too dark for chaffinch or a jay. A parakeet ? Baloney ! And even I know magpies from a robin ! That leaves the starling only – But then, just where were all the others mobbing ? I sacrificed a sandwich prawn To tempt it down, my enigmatic bird – And yes, it took my proffered pawn And yes !, a starling straggled from the herd.
Don’t you have meadows to pirouette over ? Don’t you have siblings all missing their rover ? Are you an orphan, or outcast, or rebel They taught to caw bass, but who wants to sing treble ? Or are you a mute who can not hold a ditty, Now seeking your fortune within the big city ? I’m much the same, really, I came for the glory – So here, have a peanut, and tell me your story.
To comment that Nature is always in balance Is viewing it just in the shortest of terms – Infact, as the countless extinctions all show How the strong will go on, and the weak will just go. For Nature exploits with its various talents, From predator apex to parasite worms, With no thought for planning or smoothing-out quirks – And the law of the jungle is ‘whatever works’.
Like the tusks of a babirusa Or a peacock’s sexy tail, Nature will often fail through greed – And as for the losers, let them all bleed !
From ancient bacteria breathing out oxygen, Right upto elephants knocking down trees, They do it regardless, they live for today – And the balance keep shifting, and life finds a way. So don’t think of Nature as perfection’s proxy When plague-rats are swarming with some new disease – For humans could not be more nat’ral, in truth, When Nature is selfish and red in the tooth.
Like the cheetah and gazelle, It’s an arms race to the bottom The tree of life is rotten through With its endless fascination for the new.
But warnings are warnings – why must we resist them ? We still haven’t learned not to piss in the wadis – We poison ourselves when we poison our neighbours – The stables need cleaning, but nobody labours. And sure, we are smart, but we’re part of the system – For just as our thoughts are a part of our bodies, So bodies are Nature, and Nature is us – As perfectly nat’ral as cancer and pus.
Like the lemmings booming and busting, There’s too many of us, however clever But Nature’s balance is never still – And if we can’t fix it, other life will.
Candirus – do they ? No. They don’t. Firstly they can’t, And second, they won’t. They parasite gills – Not penises, ever. They’d suffocate up there – That wouldn’t be clever.
They don’t swim up pee-streams (Even if laminar), Cos fluid dynamics Need far too much stamina. They haven’t a tool To wedge your tool wide, Nor have they the strength To push-up inside.
So next time you’re spreading A rumour or two That deep down you desp’rately Want to be true, When pissing on truth Cos it pleases your gut – Recall the candirus And keep your hole shut.
Rhyming Couplets 