Out of Lock
If keys should lurch
From out our care,
Then spare the search:
They are not there.
So cars and gates
And unwound clocks
Have naught to sate
Their hungry locks.
The keys are lost,
They won’t be found –
For dropped or tossed,
They’ve gone to ground.
These keys live on,
They are not dead –
They’re gutter-gone
And softly fled.
International Women’s Day
Some women are doctors,
And some women are dockers,
And some women are punk rockers,
Fire-fighters, romance-writers,
Occupants of bishops’ mitres,
Pacifiers, rabble-rousers,
Mini-skirted, wearing trousers –
Anything a man can do,
For good or ill – a woman will,
And ev’ry bit as bad or skilful, too.
Some woman are bikers,
And some women are bakers,
And some women are homemakers,
Blond-plaited, bowler-hatted,
Rugby-balled and cricket-batted,
Fat-catted millionaire,
Manning-up to grow a pair –
Anything a man can do,
For left or right – a woman might,
And ev’ry bit as grim or brightly, too.
Newzak
I think I’ve been lis’ning to far too much news –
For though it is vital we learn of out-there,
It leaves me frustrated, and flustered and grated,
I’m hating, debating, yet never quite sated,
And thoroughly impotent, hopeless to care –
As yet more disasters are grimly amassed,
With each one more urgent and loud than the last –
Till headlining news becomes hutch-lining olds of the past.
I think I’ve been lis’ning to far too much news –
It just isn’t good to be quite so aware.
It leaves me intruded (in which I’ve colluded) –
I’m brooding on feuding, informed yet excluded,
And thoroughly cynical, drunk with despair –
As yet more injustice, or just kiss-and-tells,
All rage between grimmest and tritest of hells –
And worst is the knowledge that this is precisely what sells.
Lingua Inglese
It wasn’t a planned or a pre-destined course,
But brought on by conquest and culture and chance.
So half of the ears of the world are in reach,
And so many throats are alive to the word.
They flock to our phonemes that stream from our source,
Our syllables speak and their speakers advance –
For held on our tongues is the honey they teach,
That calls to the world and will always be heard.
But just as it rises, so shall this same force
Then favour another to make their tongues dance.
Our moment must pass – then our ripening peach
Shall sour their lips, with its stones spat and slurred.
Yet now all is golden, yet now they endorse
For all of its failings and spellings askance.
So use it and wisely and sweetly in speech,
For as long as its fluke is the fluke that’s preferred.
Omniphonics
The beauty of English is all those who seek it
With all of their Anglisized ears.
The whole world is lis’ning, for evil or good,
Our blessing and curse is to be understood.
The beauty of English is ev’ryone speaks it –
The trouble is, ev’ryone hears.
Shower Song
Nothing can wash my sins away
But water,
And nothing can scrub my soul
Except the steam.
Nothing can slough my skin away
In shorter,
And nothing can soak me whole
And all agleam.
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.
A 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 let my wife become my paramour.
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.
But of course, when it comes to the real stars of heavy metal, nobody is higher than Boötes !
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.
Rhyming Couplets 