Some years will start out with a bang, In such a hurry to begin – While others wake-up with a tang, A few days late from lying-in. They can’t remember what they sang, They can’t remember how much gin – They never bounded, never sprang, With more a grimace than a grin.
And some years open with a vow Of trouble brewing, much mayhem, As worries knit our fevered brow, And gall is tasted in our phlegm. But on they came, they’re here now – Let’s not be too quick to condemn. I’m sure that we’ll survive, somehow – We’d best get on with living them.
Looks like we’re on our own this year, Just us and a million others, The eccentric and the volunteers, Cut off from our human brothers. Some in Antarctica, some in their cells, And some in their quarantine – In one-bed flats and empty hotels, With the world reached through a screen. For the rest of the year, there’s nothing wrong with it, It suits us fine, or we make the best, But when the world gets the holiday spirit, Then we’re suddenly nobody’s guest. Looks like we’re on our own this year, Remote from the thoroughfares. Let’s sing like nobody can hear, And let others fill our empty chairs.
Photo by George Dolgikh @ Giftpundits.com on Pexels.com
The Ghost of Christmas Present
When we were young, before we earned a good wage, Then presents were the thing. Whatever toy was all the rage, We’d write to Santa, page by page, While fully knowing, any age, That parents were the ones who gave the bling.
When we were young, and hoping for the good stuff, Then presents were the thing. We dropped our hints, we played it tough, We wanted this, and sure enough, They’d always get us something duff, From parents clutching hard to apron string.
When we were young, and pocket money spent fast, Then presents were the thing. We’d waited long these six months past, Our only chance was here at last – But no ! Once more we were harassed By suitable and sensible and bettering !
When we were young…but now we’re good and older, And presents are a chore. We pay our own way, we are bolder, We don’t need a toothbrush-holder. What we need’s a crying-shoulder, Not the same old ritual as before.
Now we are old, we buy throughout the year, Yet presents still want more ! What can you get me ? Dear oh dear, I have all that I need right here. Should I hold off acquiring gear To add it to a list you’ll just ignore ?
Now we are old, and hopefully we’re wise, And presents lurk in drawers. Let’s be honest, compromise, And save our gifts for the little guys – Let’s pay it forward, share the prize – Even though we’ll get it wrong, of course…
Poppies on dresses, poppies on golf-clubs, Poppies on penny-for-the-guys, Poppies on the grills of Beamers and V-Dubs, Poppies on Mowbury pies. Round-up refuseniks, I hate the lot, Let’s paint poppies on their doors – For the poppy is the sign of the patriot, And mine is bigger than yours.
Breathe deep, my dear, Fill your lungs With the vapour of the day – The hint of frost That pricks your throat, The faint tang of decay. Breathe, A little too rapidly – In with a stutter, Out with a rasp. Breathe deep, my dear, Breathe me in – The better to scream, The better to gasp. Or try to hold me in, Until your chest must heave Its own desire – For sooner, my dear, Or later, You know you must Expire.
It’s the orders of service that stick in my memory – Always the same, just the name and the photo would change. Funeral dues for my far-distant family, Seconds and greats twice-removed, from the sticks or the Grange.
The organ would parp but the bells never tolled, And the bunches of flowers were lilies or roses or daffodils. The pews were so hard and the stones were so cold, As, forcibly suited and combed, I was begged to sit still.
The Lord Is My Shepherd, The Old Rugged Cross, The same old hymns, in the same old badly sung. The same “so sorry for your loss” And same “they had a good life/died too young”.
And even the eulogies followed a formula, Strangers with unrehearsed mumblings delivered too fast – The reminiscences couldn’t be warmer, But too late to tell me now, their moment has passed.
Then it’s the Lord’s Prayer, and into the home straight With one final blast of All Things Bright & Beautiful – Which always struck me as having the wrong weight, Far too happy – though dirged into something more suitable.
But as I grow older, the deaths have grown closer, And it falls to me for arrangements and guests to be planned – When I’ve no time for grief, yet I need to bring closure, I remember those orders of service, and I understand…
She surely must notice the calls that she’s missed, Though why is she never beside her phone ? I know that she knows it, that I exist, But thinks, it would seem, that I’m best left alone. Though when we’re together, I swear, it’s a blast, But then ages shall pass before the next – I sometimes wonder if this is the last, Our drifting apart by unanswered text.
I mean, I’m not a creeper of anything, Only call her once a month, I’d say, To let her phone complete it’s ring And leave a message that she’ll never play. Is that too much ? I don’t want to stalk her, I don’t want to be a pest to her, or a joke. I know she playfully calls me a ‘talker’, But that’s cos it’s always so long since last we spoke.
It’s not that she is intention’ly callous, But she lives such a busy, busy life – There’s a definite absence of malice, Although the accidental malice of absence is rife. I wish I had so very many friends That I wouldn’t mind to lose one to the void – But I must work and must defend My ev’ry closeness, forever a bit paranoid.
I know, I know, we all must share, And we’re kind-of lucky to get her. She’s like a cat, with her tail in the air Who sometimes allows us to pet her. We’re only friends, I say with a shrug, At her drive-by company – I must learn not to let her bug, To ignore her ignoring me.
Never thought I’d see the day – The morning clear and weakly bright, but there’s an early chill. Better get it underway. Who’d’ve thought a morning’s walk would take an act of will ?
I try to force a smile, I tell my over-polished shoes I never looked good in black. This is gonna take a while, But once the ending brings the end, at least I get to walk back.
It’s cold on the edge of town, As what goes up must all come down and down, And ruby, gold, and emerald will all blur into brown- And we are done.
There ought to be a lonely bell, But we have overrun. Our hollow words are meant so well, But numbness smothers sorrow.
There’s no warmth from the Sun, The moment’s gone, the race has run, And I guess that I’ll be moving on tomorrow.
My snaps are all insects On pavements and plants – I’ve nothing with humans, But dozens with ants – A phone-full of photos, A life at the lens, Where people are strangers And beetles are friends. I’m charting my neighbours Who live near my pad, And where six legs are better And two legs are bad – A pocket of pixels, A screen’s-worth of lights, To magnify midges And marvel at mites. Their silence attracts me, Their beauty astounds me – I don’t even notice The people around me. But people are easy, Not tiny and shy – They’re big and they’re messy, And can’t even fly.
Rhyming Couplets 