Category: Children

Looking With My Fingers

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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 ?

Shaggy Legs

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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.

Yes Virginia, There Is A Conspiracy

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Hallmark Christmas Card by Norman Rockwell

Yes Virginia, There Is A Conspiracy

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 !

Bough-Dangles

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Photo by Valeria Boltneva on Pexels.com

Bough-Dangles

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.

Winter Jacks

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Autumn Afternoon by Jane Jones

     Winter Jacks

Jack Frost and Jack Thaw,
Mortal enemies –
Fighting over water drops
In air and stone and trees.
Jack Frost gets in early,
But then Jack Thaw wins the day,
But once the Sun has set, we see
Jack Frost come out to play.

Angel & Demon

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Bacchante by Marina Dieul

Angel & Demon

Ev’ry cherub has a good side,
Has a cute and blond-curled nonesuch,
Muted-trumpet, harp-soft-touch.
But deep within, they surely hide
A grinning, sharp-horned, prong-tailed whiplash,
Bass-drum-beating, cymbal crash.

The truth is, in ev’ry Gabriel,
A Lucifer is also present –
Ready, should things get unpleasant…
But likewise, in the darkest Hell,
In ev’ry Beelzebub in town,
A Michael waits to calm things down.

Musical AI version generated by Suno.com – find more of them over here.

Blood & Treasure

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Whereupon the Maid of Heaven Looked Out of her Exalted Chamber by Duffy Sheridan

Blood & Treasure

Fortune’s just another word for fate,
A golden road to tread –
A set of contacts in one’s purse,
As gifted by the Universe.
A set of circumstances on a plate,
A warm and feathered bed –
The world is brandy and cigars,
As laid out in the genes and stars.

Yet fortune’s just another word for luck,
A trove of bonus corn –
For what is an inheritance
But life’s epitome of chance ?
You didn’t earn this gold you’ve struck,
Except by being born –
And yet you think you’re somehow worth
This prize you’ve stolen from the earth.

No Jeopardy But Me

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Star Compass by Donato Giancola

No Jeopardy But Me

The Steppers have gone,
Stepped onto their parallels,
Multiverse Earths,
Nirvanas, or hells.
And we’re left behind,
We, the unsteppable,
Sub-human luddites
And wholly forgettable.
My parents and sister
Have forged for a new life
A thousand-plus worlds
From Datum’s own strife –
They ran off to suburbs,
(And took all the chairs),
Where there’s fewer of my sort,
And plenty of theirs.
But me, I must lump it,
I’m not worth the saving,
I don’t get to witness
The future they’re braving.
They’ve promised to visit,
Each decade or so,
And write me,
Though post is so terribly slow.
And when they return here,
It’s only to teach
To their kids how to sneer,
And to pity, and preach.
I’m clearly not favourite,
Just a mistake,
I’m easy to leave
When I’m too hard to take.
Despised by my authors,
Abandoned to rot,
I’m just a disposable
Cog in the plot,
I’m holding you back,
So you cut your son loose –
With a smile from your god
To condone your abuse.

So Much Ink

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Photo by Ivo Rainha on Pexels.com

So Much Ink

The lib’ries of my childhood mind
Were dark and ancient rooms,
Where vaults of pages whispered
In their literary tombs,
And candlelights cast shadows
In the labyrinth of glooms,
As the monks, all dressed in brown,
Chained their precious volumes down.

The lib’ries of my childhood days
Were dull and grimly quaint,
Where silence wasn’t reverence
But boredom and restraint,
With long, prosaic rows of spines
With no allure or taint,
As the staff, all dressed in beige,
Locked away each racy page.

The lib’ries of my adulthood
Are not as deeply hewn –
They aren’t a gothic paradise
Or brutalist cocoon,
But just an easy place to spend
A rainy afternoon,
As the books, all dressed in white,
Spread their words by stealth & sleight.

Brass Neck

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An amended image from the original computer modelling by Darren Naish & Donald Henderson.

Brass Neck

All mammals can swim,
Or least, can float,
Just paddle each limb
And be the boat.
It may be slow,
And lacking grace,
But it lets them row
To a dryer place.

Even the elephant,
Hedgehog, or bat,
Even the fattest
Or scardiest cat,
Even the kangaroo,
Aardvaark, or aye-aye –
You know why it’s true ?
Cos they’re mammals, that’s why !

All, that is, except for one –
The landlubber giraffe.
Once evolution had its fun,
They’re not safe in the bath.
It’s strange the way that they capsize,
You’d think they’d learn to cope
When possessed of long and mighty thighs,
And a built-in periscope.

But on the land
They look such gentry,
Tall and grand
When standing sentry.
They are the backlash
To the trout,
Who make a splash
By standing out.