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.
Goodwill
The days are so short, late of the year –
Won’t you come on in ?
When the sun is down, and the frost is near,
And the gales begin.
But there’s always a shelter under our gable,
There’s always an extra chair at the table
For any stray stranger who’s hungry, and able
To pay us with only a grin.
The weather gets cold, this time of year –
We’re chilled to the skin.
It gets so hard to volunteer
And rattle the tin.
But there’s always a welcome here in our home
To help turn the grey to polychrome,
For unlucky souls who unwillingly roam,
While the wheels of fortune spin.
The season gets busy, every year,
And we just can’t win,
With the thanks so small, and the price so dear,
And our patience thin.
But there’s always a place at the table that’s set
For the unbidden guest coming-in from the wet,
In time to remind what we often forget:
That there’s always room at the inn.
Regifting
Sometimes, presents are boring,
And nothing more than a pair of socks,
And they never thought to keep the receipt –
So we leave them mint in the box.
And next year, when we’re short of a gift,
We cheat –
We pass the parcel,
Round and round,
Re-wrapped and tagged,
And tagged and wrapped,
Until a welcome home is found,
Or else it’s broken, lost, or scrapped.
Sometimes, presents are boring,
And nothing more than love and peace,
And sparing a thought to live-and-let-live.
So we leave them, tossed-aside and creased.
But next year, when they’re short of them both,
We give.
We pass the wishes,
Round and round,
Beyond the walls,
Across the rift,
Until the needed hope is found,
Within an unexpected gift.
Foxing Day
On the Second Day of Christmas
We rode out with the pack,
And we galloped through the woods
As we waited the attack.
On the Second Day of Christmas
We cast the braying hounds
As they scurried for the scent
And they ran the fox to ground.
So blow the horns and raise the cries,
Let slip the hounds and shred the prize,
And show to all your blameful eyes
This menace needs controlling.
On the Second Day of Christmas
We wished for peace on Earth
As we hollered for the fox
As we wrenched it from its berth.
On the Second Day of Christmas
As we cantered through the mud,
And wished to all goodwill
As we slathered for the blood.
So blow the horns and raise the cries,
Let slip the hounds and shred the prize,
And show to all your blameful eyes
This menace needs controlling.
Villain Elle
Bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend,
Hanging around with her trouble-brewing sort,
They always knew how she’d turn out in the end.
Not an easy woman to defend –
Probably at what she really shouldn’t ought.
Bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend.
Build your hopes up – and watch them all descend.
Hanging around her will only get you caught.
They always knew how she’d turn out in the end.
Seeking action ? How much can you spend ?
Probably life for the trouble you just bought.
Bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend.
Sex and menace – hazardous to blend:
Hanging around, and you quaff her by the quart.
They always knew how she’d turn out in the end.
So they tell me – none would recommend.
Probably wise, but I’ll take my chance to sport
With bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend –
I can’t wait to see how she turns out in the end.
Overwhelmed by Subtlety
You undergo life just a little too much,
You taste ev’ry nuance and stray molecule
In vision and sound and in palate and touch,
You never can blend them to seamless and whole.
But the good and the bad must equally live
Inextricably encurled –
You are, I fear, too sensitive,
To suffer this imperfect world.
This verse was inspired by a friend who insists she can’t use teabags because she can taste the paper.
Rhyming Couplets 