Every Sunday

photo of brown and white short coated beagle lying on a pillow
Photo by Dina Nasyrova on Pexels.com

Every Sunday

For ever since I can remember,
Sundays were the worst –
Growing up in villages,
We longed for them to burst,

With their uptight prim and properness,
And Sunday-Best remarks,
With nothing ever open
’Cept the churches and the parks.

We longed for the tension to flare up
In an all-out family war –
But of course, they never would,
They just went muttering as before.

Our parents either marches us off
To hymns and holy dread,
Or took a lazy breakfast,
With the Sunday papers spread.

Then out to visit relatives,
Or kicking round at home,
Or maybe made to wash the car
Or read some worthy tome.

It was a Blue Peter sort a day,
Vaguely seen as good for us
In that terribly wannabe middle-class way,
With an Archers omnibus.

Then come the evening, on the box,
Some cop show or a flick –
And sometimes there were arguments
On who would get to pick.

Even as kids, we felt the sense
Of desperation in it all
With families forced by ritual rest
To slow down to a crawl.

With Monday looming over,
And with homework to be done,
We clung on as long as we could, until
Early to bed, no more fun.

Ping-Pong

a load of balls

 

Ping-Pong

Here’s a sing-song on playing ping-pong,
With a rat-a-tat-tat on the tic-tac-toe
With a whack and a smack and a snickersnack,
With a there and back to the come and go –
But the pitter-patter must clatter, I bet
When heard from the other side of the net.

Here’s a song-sing on playing pong-ping,
With a mi-re-doh to the swash and the swish,
With a tock-tick tock-tick clacker-click,
With a slow-slow-quick and a bosh-bash-bish,
With a fum-fo-fi-fee la-la-land –
But how does it sound if you play left-hand ?

Here’s a sing-ching on playing pong-pong
With a buckle-my-Schubert under par,
With a nee-nah nee-nah stick it up your jumper,
Baa-baa blast-off twinkle star,
With an eeney-meeny knees-and-toes –
But how does it sound if you’ve got no nose ?

Here’s a see-saw on Plato plink-plonk
With a yan-tan-tesseract mamma-me-and-you
With an all-for-one and a four-four-two,
A diddy-diddy-doo-da and lop-bop-be-doo
With an ella-menno-pee and a ringo-john-and-paul
But how does it sound from inside the ball ?

Here’s a *dok-dok* on playing *pat-a-pat*
With a *boing-boof-bok* and a *spit-spot-SPLAT*

 

 

Tick-Tock, Writer’s Block

nursery rhymes

 

Tick-Tock, Writer’s Block

The ants are marching ten-by-ten,
Running through my brain,
Where nine little Indians
Are dancing for the rain,
With eight green bottles
That they’re trying hard to fill,
And seven for a secret
When Jack falls down the hill.
Six geese are laying,
Though they’ve nothing yet to show,
With no knick-knack or paddy-wack
Where five men went to mow.
This little piggy stayed at home,
When the hickory-clock struck four
But three in the bed, in my empty head,
Find counting such a bore.
So two chirping crickets
Are all that’s left behind,
As one lonely tumbleweed
Is blowing through my mind.

 

 

Twenty Seconds

washing hands

 

Twenty Seconds

1
Eeny meeny, counted Queenie,
Fingers one two three and four –
A fish alive and thumb makes five,
And on the other hand there’s more.
So rub-a-dub and squeeze and scrub,
And this little piggie wee wee wee
Index middle ring and little,
Pinkie perky owe-you-tee.

2
Queenie went to market
To buy a bar of soap
She went to Deal and Margate,
And Cape Town on the Hope,
But a laundry-maid from Washington
Had bought up ev’ry crate,
So Queenie had to wash with none
But ashes from the grate.

3
Queenie on her lone and only,
All her friends are all indoors –
All down with spots and chicken pox,
And tummy-aches and sores.
Queenie finds the streets are empty,
Like the swings and slides and stores –
They cannot come and play today,
They’ve all been through the wars.

 

 

Coming of Age, Twice Over

twins
Self Portrait by Auguste Vinchon, also showing his imaginary twin brother (the original is on the one on the left).

 

Coming of Age, Twice Over

When I was just your age, you twins,
I dreamed of heading West,
Of hitching rides between the inns
That stretch from hill to crest.
I planned to leave at earlybird –
And yet…I never did.
For on that very morn, I heard
Your ma was got with kid.

When I was just your age, you twins,
I almost saw the world.
I almost got to grin such grins…
Till word came from my girl.
I longed to sail the ocean blue,
To joist with sharks and squids –
And oh!, I would have made it, too,
But for you pesky kids !

 

 

My Leaping Friend

29th

 

My Leaping Friend

The Twenty-Ninth came round today
It’s years since last she passed my way,
But on my birthday, there she was –
Alas, she couldn’t stay.
But that’s because that’s what she does –
She rarely comes to play.

I shrug, and try to not get sad –
For oh, when she does appear,
It always makes a special year,
Like an Olympiad.
It’s not a proper birthday, I might add,
When she’s not here.

 

 

The Extra Guest

odin
Odin by Georg von Rosen

The Extra Guest

I don’t remember being told
About old Father Christmas –
He’s just someone I’ve always known.
Popping down the chimney
That we didn’t even have,
With a candy cane or xylophone.
It somehow seemed so rational,
To fly from Perth to Honolulu,
Via Cape Town and Cologne –
But strangest yet, I never even
Thought of how he was a stranger,
All the year alone.

So when my parents placed
An empty chair upto the turkey,
I assumed it was for him.
And when a neighbour came instead,
Or refugee, or homeless man –
I didn’t find it grim.
As long as he possessed a beard,
I believed in Father Christmas –
Even with a pseudonym.
He wore a diff’rent face, each year –
But so did Mother Goose,
And Peter Pan, and Tiny Tim.

For all the gifts he gave,
Did he ever get one in return,
From Moscow to the Amazon ?
Each year, I’d long to thank him,
But the meal would soon be over
And my moment never seized upon.
Yet in my mind, he’d wink, and say,
“Don’t worry, I already know.”
And then he would be gone.
We never get to give a gift to him,
But ev’ry year,
Instead we pay it forward, pass it on.

Humbug on High

humbugs

 

Humbug on High

I’m sorry, kids, I cannot lie,
That flash you see across the sky
On this, the night of Christmas Eve,
Is not a magic flying sleigh,
However much you may believe.
I’m sorry, kids, I cannot lie,
The laws of physics still hold sway.

But do you know, kids, what you see ?
That dashing light, what can it be ?
The ISS is flying by –
Or rather, falling, always falling,
Falling through our Christmas sky.
And far more magic than a sleigh,
This shining star on Christmas Day.

I’m Making a List, I’m Checking it Twice

list

I’m Making a List, I’m Checking it Twice

Hey, kids ! I know a magic word,
That stops Christmas blues and scoffed disdain
From ever being heard

Now, kids, attempt to listen not
And don’t endure their upset or profane,
Nor cynicism’s rot

So kids, declare “Oh, humbug, yea !
Oh partypoop, oh blanket-wet, begone !
I won’t hear what you say.”

Then kids, a flush of thwarted rouge
Should stop them speechless dead, so follow on
With “killjoy” first, then “scrooge”.

But kids, don’t give their logic chance,
Just plug your ears and “Humbug !” them away
With loyal ignorance.

And kids, believe your parents’ lies
Of chimneys, reindeer, magic sack and sleigh –
Don’t doubt or analyse.

Oh, kids, you have obeyed me well,
And kept their urbane trickery afar
To keep you feeling swell.

Yes, kids, you must avoid such nous
Just like the good consumers that you are
And all is fine. Or else !

Spider Spiters

chalk spider

 

Spider Spiters

Innocent spiders close down schools
When ignorant humans panic.
Why the hell are we so prepared
To see them as Satanic ?
We wonder why our schools are broke,
And so is our inside –
Yet choose which phobias we’ll stoke,
And wear our hates with pride –
It only takes the merest sight
To send us shrieking with delight.
Our fears are learned, and screeching
Ain’t what our schools should teach in.

Far, far better we learn to love
The harmless ones, at least –
Let our babies play with monies,
Let our kids embrace the beast.
Rearing spinners out of eggs,
And never let the wolves repulse –
Daddy, bring a daddy-longlegs,
Mama, bring a widow-false –
Or better yet, we should be shown
To watch awhile, then leave alone.
And maybe then, here’s hoping,
The schools can all stay open.