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.
In Mind
Ask him a question, he answers precise and pristine:
The greatest and smallest, and ev’rything shaded between.
Ask him a question, the height and the year and the queen –
He knows all the answers, but hasn’t a clue what they mean.
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
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
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
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.
Waiting For His Call
As she wakes to the wrench of the radio’s blare,
She’s not there.
As she tries to decide on the blouse she should wear,
She’s not there.
As she dawdles her breakfast of yoghurt and pear,
As she spends all her morning with coffee and stare,
As she foregoes her lunch for pilates with Claire,
She’s not there.
And all her afternoon that passes in her chair,
And on the bus and on the train while fishing for her fare,
And waiting at the checkout as she vaguely winds her hair,
She is always and never quite there.
Resolutions
Soothe the fridge its fears of less abundancy,
Let it know it must cut back its stocks.
Tell the ashtray straight of its redundancy,
Warn the sofa and the gogglebox.
Brace the bathroom scales still anticipating weight:
Notify them of reducing bulk.
Rouse the bike and treadmill from their hibernating state –
And disappoint the wine-rack – let it sulk.
So Shall it Come to Pass
Like waiting for Betelgeuse to go Type II,
It’s coming – just watch the skies.
Like waiting for rumours to bubble and stew,
They’re coming – just watch the flies.
Like waiting for baldness to creep up your skull,
It’s coming – just watch your scalp.
Like waiting for barnacles finding your hull,
They’re coming – they’re lurking in kelp.
Won’t be today, but could be tomorrow –
Until then, I guess that we’ll just have to borrow.
Like waiting for inflation to claim its stake,
It’s coming – just watch the pound.
Like waiting for inter-tectonics to quake,
They’re coming – just watch the ground.
Like waiting for showers to water the drought,
They’re coming – just watch the glass.
Like waiting for nettles to sting where they sprout,
They’re coming – they’re lurking in grass.
Could be tomorrow, but won’t be today –
There really is little more else I can say.
Like waiting for copper to turn verdigris,
It’s coming – just watch the roofs.
Like waiting for conkers to fall from a tree,
They’re coming – just watch the youths.
Like waiting for ebbaway tides to return,
They’re coming – just watch the crabs.
Like waiting for healing of blisters and burns,
It’s coming – it’s lurking in scabs.
Don’t ask me when, I’d say if I could –
It all comes along in when it’s ready and good.
An Offer I Couldn’t Refuse
I’m somebody’s godparent, somehow –
She asked me herself, and I couldn’t say no.
In church, I managed to not say the vow
As I hung at the back while she went with the flow.
Nine years of age, she is – older than most,
But she needed a place in a high-flying school
So Sunday-on-Sunday, her folks take the host –
Though they take it in turns, diff’rent weeks, as a rule.
Now, I don’t believe, and I don’t know if she does –
And as for the others that circled the font,
Perhaps it’s the thought that these children may need us
That brought us to church for this wary détente.
So yes, I’ll be here if she needs my advice,
Or a candle to light a dark night of her soul,
And help her to see that her doubts are the price
Of her learning from teachers instead of a scroll.
I hope that the vicar, when splashing her brow,
Diluted her faith in the Word and the Trance.
And left her beguiled by the magic of now,
And the spirit of why, and the wonder of chance.
So I’m a godparent. I guess, come what may,
I promised to help her to blossom and glow.
I’m neither a god nor a parent, but hey-
She asked me herself, and I couldn’t say no.
Rhyming Couplets 