Valentine Sestina

supermarket
image by Sandi Ward

 

Valentine Sestina

Carrots, caulis, spuds…I’ll need some more,
A pack of coffee – fairtrade ?  It should say.
They’ve haven’t any left ?  Well, that’s a bore.
A loaf of sliced should last till Saturday,
Three pints of milk, or should I get in four ?
It’s only sold in litres, anyway.

An rosy apple keeps the doc away,
Although, I ought to see the dentist more…
Oh yes, some roses for the special day,
And juicy steak – perhaps some sirloin boar.
The things we have to do to simply say
The things we’ve said so many times before.

Honestly, what do we do this for ?
Did great-great-grandmama, back in the day ?
And must our children’s children evermore,
Until the very Earth has given way ?
But who would ever wish to be that bore ?
And so we bite our tongues and never say.

Is money to be made from love ?  I’ll say !
It brings our brashful boasting to the fore:
We peacocks strut and dance the night away
And when we’ve had enough, we cry for more.
But better to be Caesar for a day,
And when the tide must rise, to ride its bore !

But don’t let bonhomie become the boor,
Who talks too loud and always gets his way
By swinging round a verbal two-be-four –
Instead, let your initials have their say
When paired upon a lovers’ sycamore.
But there I go, just jawing on all day.

Now strawberries are good for five-a-day –
Such passion-fruit the steamy hothouse bore…
Champagne, of course – is this a good one, say ?
No garlic, though…oh my, it’s almost four !
I need to get this supper underway,
To make my wife become my paramour.

 

 

Rock Pocks

umlauts

 

Rock Pocks

Speckled is your Öyster and freckled is your Crüe,
Spıñal is your Motör and Hüsker is your Dü.
The diacritic critics may de-tittle in their punditry –
But I say, let umlauts roll with wänton-döt fecündïtÿ.

 

The ‘n’ in Spinal should of course have an umlaut, not a tilde, but the WordPress font just isn’t up to such awesomeness.

 

 

Still Got It

dude

 

Still Got It

You attack my lack of a knack as cack,
Then you knock my stock as a crock of schlock.
You may try this lie to decry my high,
But you can’t supplant, nor your rant enchant.
So go on, be gone !  Now your con looks wan –
You’re a quack with jack, now my knack is back.

 

 

Last Train to Nowhere

landscape view of railway station during sunrise
Photo by Stefan Gabriel Naghi on Pexels.com

Last Train to Nowhere

Another day passes me by on rails –
I somehow missed my station,
Or maybe it’s not even on this line.
I should be gathering traveller’s tales,
But ev’ry new location
Is just another wait on Platform 9.
From the milk trains to the midnight mails
Towards some destination,
But the fast express has left me behind
Somewhere between the gaps to mind.
The signal’s red, the soot is black;
My future lies on up the track.

 

 

The Second Week of January

 

17095178280_513b4aa99b_k
A Sad Ending by Rasputina2

 

The Second Week of January

Christmas is done with,
The New Year is come,
The feasting is over,
The outlook is glum,
Our work is resumed
And the weather is cold,
So uproot the glitter
And out with the old.

They’re sprouting on pavements
And swarming on greens,
They loiter on verges
Like unruly teens,
They cluster round dustbins
And litter our lanes:
Straggly and soggy,
These sorry remains.

They served us so proudly
A fortnight ago,
They warmed up the winter
And gave us a glow.
But now they are cast out
With scant a goodbye –
Destitute, homeless,
And waiting to die

The council is working
To round up the strays
And shred them to chippings
For Agas to blaze,
Or sit beneath see-saws,
Or borders to don.
By Twelve Night they’re coming,
By Burns Night, they’re gone.

We Just Don’t Get It

architecture bluebird theatre building cinema
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

We Just Don’t Get It

We never shall be cast in bronze,
Nor cast in Hollywood;
We never shall out-cool the Fonz –
For all we think we should.
We never shall be cursed in print,
Nor quoted, much less taught.
We never shall be worth a mint,
Nor worth a second thought.
And yet we’re sure we matter more
Than all these other mugs –
But genius the Hordes ignore,
And History just shrugs.
We never shall be cabaret,
Nor glorified in fame.
We matter not so much – but hey,
We matter all the same.