Thrice-Summoned

An early 20th Century Halloween greeting card.

Thrice-Summoned

When the rumour had spread in the playground
That to utter a name three times was the trick
For a spirit to teleport-in, unbound –
Well, that left me with nits to pick.

I was the kid who wanted to know,
Just what was the interval and decay ?
How spaced the words could we let things go
Till the algorithm would fail to display ?

Was a mirror needed ?  For all, or just some ?
And what would a mispronouncement produce ?
I wanted experiments, testing the outcome –
Like would bettle-gurz still invoke the Juice ?

It came down to the grip of a true name –
For use their true name, and hold them in power.
And thanks to my parents, I well knew the shame
Of a boy with the mid-name of Passionflower.

So when the rumour had spread in the playground,
The taunts commanded that I must appear.
I pitied those spirits we likewise hounded –
Yelling their names till the dead can hear.

But nevertheless, I so wanted to know,
If my voice could reach to the great beyond ?
I called three times, deliberate and slow,
And waited to see on who would respond.

Despite my suspicions of phoniness,
I tested the theory all the same –
But wasn’t surprised by my loneliness –
For all I called, still nobody came.

Guising

Alas, I have been unable to find out any more information about this postcard

Guising

Did people ever really think that spirits roam in late October ?
So the safest thing to do was simply blend-in where they tread ?
Or that their feeble efforts would fool anyone who’s half-way sober,
With no more than sheets and make-believe to raise the dead ?

Was it to fool the spirits ?, or the humans ?, or themselves ?
Or a warning to the Church that it was not so at-the-head ?
Perhaps the latent superstitions conjured up such elves
As an outlet in the face of poverty and mortal dread ?

I think we always knew it was a chance to have some fun,
And to dress-up and be mischievous, and stay-up late-of-bed.
Even those who still believed in spirits, saw through ev’ryone –
But let the children have their fun, and spare a crust of bread.

The word ‘mischievous’ needs to be stressed in its first syllable – MISS-chiv-ous. Some people pronounce it is miss-CHEEV-ee-ous, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with this – except in this case, as then the line won’t scan.

Catholic Swans

Photo by Petr Ganaj on Pexels.com

Catholic Swans

The pair of swans along this stretch this year
Haul ten in tow.
Ten grey balls of hatchlings in a row.
Yet in a month or two, I fear
That only five remain –
As pikes and gulls and foxes thin the strain.

In the past, my ancestors would breed
The same way too –
Investing in the odds to see them through.
Famine and TB could not succeed,
For I am here today –
Yet dread how many died along the way.

For months the swans will teach their young,
But still their numbers drop –
They surely notice what they cannot stop.
Of all the ten that they’ve begun,
Just one or two will fly –
It’s no life for a parent, but they try.

The Moniker Mutations

Photo by Yan Krukau on Pexels.com

The Moniker Mutations

Here’s little Johnny Jones,
The sprog of Jack and Jane –
They all live together
In Lower Linnet Lane.
He has a pet tabby
That he christened Jezebel,
And he thinks she has a better name than he has,
Truth to tell.
I mean, ‘John Jones’,
That’s utter tautology –
In only two syllables,
Not even three !

He could have been a Sean –
Had he been more Irish-born
But it just wasn’t on –
He was only ever fit to be a John.

Now if he were a rock star,
What would he be called ?
Well, his mother’s maiden name
He thinks was Archibald.
So Jezebel Archibald ?
Or maybe Jesse Archie ?
That doesn’t really work,
It all sounds rather starchy.
But he also has a pet fish
He keeps in a jar –
So how about Goldie Linnet ?
That sounds like a star !

He could have been an Ivor,
Like a Welsh-born striver,
But that chance has gone –
He was only ever in the frame for John.

But this gets him thinking,
Now his lamp is rubbed –
If he were born a Viking
Then what would he be dubbed ?
He would have been known as
Johnny Jacksson there,
Or maybe Johnny Janesson
These days, to be fair.
Or else John FitzJacob,
That has a real ring –
His grandad is a Roy,
Which would make him out a king…!

He could have been a Ewan,
Had Scottish been his doing –
Now there’s a name to don !
But he only gets to dress-up in his John.

But what about in Russia
In a Checkov play, for fun ?
Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov,
Searching for his gun.
His parents call him Sport
For his energy and judo –
So in the Roman Empire,
He’s Ioannes Ionius Ludo.
All-in-all, much better
Than his Johnny, that’s for sure !
Maybe ‘God is gracious’,
But this name is just a bore.

He could have been a Hans
Or a Joni, or a Vanya,
Or Gianni, or a Jean –
Infact anything is better than a John !

The Lord God Made Them All

Passalus Cornutus by Ontario Sessional Papers

The Lord God Made Them All

The Teacher of my prim’ry school,
Had a class terrarium –
I used to think it far more cool
Than an dull aquarium.
What was in it ?  It wasn’t ants,
Or butterflies, or bees,
Nor stick-insects on potted plants,
Or circus-ready fleas.
Woodlice would be far too small,
But these were large as brooches –
And the Head had ruled out, I recall,
Tarantulas or roaches.
I do remember chirping,
But I don’t think they were crickets –
Rather, they were something lurking,
In their tank of wood-chip thickets.
Very shiny black, they were,
And safe for us to handle –
The kind of pet the schools prefer,
That wouldn’t cause a scandal.
Ah yes, they were bess beetles !
And the best beetles around.
They were so pretty, yet discreet,
When burrowed in the ground.
They lived their lives on rotting wood,
With their not-so-many grubs,
Which they cared for like a parent should –
By giving belly rubs.
And they’d recycle wood, as well
And clean the forest floor –
Whenever they were low, it fell to me
To give them more.
The Vicar, when he came to school,
Just loved to point them out –
He found they were a useful tool
To help us be devout.
Even the fathers got involved,
As their kids reached adulthood –
It seemed these insects somehow solved
The trick to being good.
These were godly creatures, he would say,
 Almost Confucian –
He never mentioned how they came that way
Through evolution.
Or how they’d eat their excrement, their frass,
To redigest.
That wasn’t the sort of thing for class !,
And wouldn’t be on the test…
Me, I loved to handle them,
They never bit or scampered.
Even their young I couldn’t condemn –
Those maggots plump and pampered.
And they even sang to them, soft squeaks,
And lived a year or two.
In insect terms, these guys were freaks,
Yet ev’ry bit as true.
Bess beetles, betsy bugs,
These patent-leather passalids –
All wrapping up their larvas snug,
To help pupate their kids.
Industrious, yet safe and pure,
In their tight-knit family –
There’s a metaphor in there, I’m sure,
But it was lost on me.

Salty Moulters

Salty Moulters

Sea monkeys aren’t monkeys,
Never will they be –
They don’t live in the trees
And they don’t live in the sea.
These brine shrimps are no chimps,
They’re bugs with jointed limbs –
Such fascinating little imps,
Or tiny specks who swim.
There’s plenty fun invertebrates,
But these are pretty scant –
If you want pets that resonate,
You’re better off with ants.
Funky, shrunky monkeys,
Who are oh-so very wee –
They’re glorious, but also junk,
As dinky as a flea.

Humbug in Excelsus

An AI stained-glass Windows 11…

Humbug in Excelsus

A new god is stalking the wintertime solstice,
He knows who you are, he’s checking his list.
For Greenland and Finland, a new holy war –
And pilgrimage grottos in every large store.

So want, children, want – believe in the glamour –
Your faith is his power, your wishes his manna.
So buy, parents, buy, dash yonder and hither –
He’ll lift not a finger, yet always deliver.

All Roads Lead To Roam

Skywards Bound by Kathrin Longhurst

All Roads Lead To Roam

Where are you roving, our Romany Rhona ?
I’m running to Rome to pursue my persona.
I have to keep going as long as I can,
Or the Pope, when I get there, will be an old man.

Where are you heading, our Harefooted Heather ?
I’m striding to Stockholm to welcome the weather.
I can’t hang around, I’ve a long way to walk through,
Or Odin has no-one but ravens to talk to.

Where are you wending, our Wanderlust Wanda ?
I’m aiming for Athens to pep-up my ponder.
I must chase the rainbow, before it has cleared,
Or else Zeus will have reason to grow a long beard.

Where are you trekking, our Tramp-Treaded Trista ?
I’m casting to Cairo, to visit my vista.
I need to be off, so I’ve no time to chat,
Or else Ra will sink lower and red-faced and fat.

Amateur Amore

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 !

Looking With My Fingers

Photo by Soly Moses on Pexels.com

Looking With My Fingers

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 ?