People are Stupid (and We are People)

Welcome to the cock-up club !,
You find us in good company,
For all of life is here.
It only takes a simple flub,
Or wrong-conclusions jumping free,
To sign up for the year.
We’ve all pushed at those doors,
Ignoring signs
That clearly say to pull.
We’re all stripped to our drawers,
From time to time –
With wits of cotton-wool.
But dare to look us in the eye,
With chin held high,
And take all come-what-may –
“I may have lost the plot,
But it was still my shot,
And mine to throw away.”

Welcome to the cock-up club !,
Where fellows blunder in size-twelves
When hacked-off at the knees.
A school-of-hard-knocks learning-hub,
Where silly-billies kick ourselves
With foot-in-mouth disease.
We’ve all passed through those doors,
Pulled up a chair,
And slumped and sulked a-while.
My tale is much like yours,
We’ve all been there –
At least let’s gaffe with style…!
Let’s dare to look them in the eye,
And dignify
Our faults without a frown –
“We may have made mistakes,
But they were ours to make,
And ours to double-down.”

Dead Man’s Hand

The old ladies gathered twice a week
To play at bridge.
My mother hated that, though wouldn’t speak
To change the game.
She’d simply sigh, and push her weary glasses
Up a smidge
With her bidding always full of passes,
Sitting out the frame.

She would have gladly played at hearts or whist,
If they could try it ?
Yet feared the only choice was suffer this,
Or staying home.
They concentrated far too much to chat,
So she kept quiet –
And so, for want of company, she sat
There all alone.

“Those other games”, the ladies often said,
“Are so unfriendly,
Competing with each other – where instead,
We play as teams.”
And so they dealt-out bridge, and never rummy,
Quite contently,
While mother only uttered, as the dummy,
Silent screams.

Suburban Safari

A family get-together –
Ev’ryone’s here,
And here we all are.
There’s Harry and Joan and Heather,
And John with a beer,
From near and far.
And there’s little Robbie, holding,
What’s that ?  A teddy ?
But no, not a bear.
Why is his mother scolding him ?
He’s crying already,
That doesn’t seem fair.
No wait, he’s fine.  Oh, red wine please.
So, still at the school ?
Oh no, at a bank…
Now Tommy, you’re such a tease !
Don’t be so cruel
To Ellie and Frank.
My, that’s a jumbo hankie there !
Do you need to wipe
So many tears ?
I’m joking of course, our Claire –
When he talks tripe,
You seem to be all-ears.
I’m getting too long in the tooth
For all this junk,
It’s all so grey, Annette.
I’m tired, if you want the truth,
I’ve packed my trunk,
Yet I don’t forget.
But this is a pleasant wishing –
Everyone’s here,
And here we all stay.
Except…is someone missing ?
For all this cheer,
Why does nobody say ?

We’re Crap, And We Know We Are

What is it about the English
And our football fatal flaw ?
We treat the pitch like a nine-to-five,
Content with a goalless draw.
‘No-one likes a show-off’ we say,
As the donkeys bray and bore –
Then we lose to a team with speed and style
Once more.

So sing it on the terraces,
As we play for the penalties –
In-ger-land are slow and bland
Cos we’ve got the British disease.

Our league may be exciting,
But that’s thanks to the immigrants –
So we take the fans for granted
As we play in our underpants.
‘It’s the winning that counts’ we tell ourselves
As we plod through the next campaign –
Then we lose to the quarter finals,
Yet again.

So sing it on the terraces,
As we’re brought back down to size –
In-ger-land are getting canned
Cos we’ve eaten all the pies.

There’s a Brexit metaphor to be had here, I’m sure, but the truth is that we were just as unimpressive while we were still in.

Season’s End

Another season over, hey ?
There’s no more football after May,
I think the FA Cup was Saturday.
Oh wait, this is an even year,
So the World Cup or the Euros must be near,
Within a month or two.
I doubt I’ll watch it much or cheer,
But hear results from colleagues, as you do.

I’m not so much a fairer-weather fan,
As a blue-moon pair-of-eyes, I guess.
My attention span is twice-a-season, maybe less.
It pops up on my radar
In a pub or in the press,
Or I maybe hear the sports news in my car.
Two-nil, three-one, goalless draw,
But don’t ask me the offside law.

However, at those moments
When it bubbles up again in-mind,
I wonder how the local team are doing ?
Have all of their opponents left them far behind, once more ?
All administrated, relegated, powerless to score ?
Or are they flying high this time,
Pursuing record-signings, epic cup-runs, in their prime ?
And am I missing out on must-see viewing ?

But then the next song plays, and I forget.
And all their efforts pass me by to no regret.
I might yet catch a casual match, or maybe not
But either way, it’s soon forgot.
So, no more football after May,
Not that I’ll really notice that it’s gone.
Another season over, hey ?
And someone won and lost, and life goes on.

A Love Like Vague

Nothing spoken, nothing tensed,
Or nothing sharply out-of-phase,
But something that is slowly sensed,
A re-tuned hum, a distant haze,
That draws me daily through the maze
With more for than agenst.

Nothing solid, nothing whole,
Or nothing with a cutting edge,
But something with a little soul,
A knowing twinge, a gut-felt hedge,
That walks me out upon the ledge
With just enough control.

Suds’ Law

I’ve often thought there’s something zen about the washing-up,
Of the rhythm of the saucepan and cycle of the cup,
Of plunging-in all dirty and pulling-out so clean,
Of the slight-self-satisfaction of using no machine.
The sculpting of the bubbles and the water steaming-hot,
Of the stray spoon in the bottom and the ring beneath the pot,
Of never glancing sideways at the mountain yet to come,
But only at the plate between our finger and our thumb.
A swirl until it’s squeaking sees its spotlessness restored,
As it’s stacked into a stoic jenga on the draining-board,
Then polished and re-housed once more – or left to drip and dry,
Till the water streaks the glasses and the runoffs calcify.
Splashes on our shirt-fronts, splashes on the floor,
Till the water’s grey and tepid, and we fill the bowl once more.
Yes, the art of washing-up is quite humble in its zen –
And come back after dinner, we can do it all agen…

Dressed in Morning

“Dress brightly” was her last wish,
“Do not mourn in black.”
So there we were, in tears and anguish,
All denied the right to languish –
Such a multi-coloured pack
In wedding suits and flashy ties
At odds with how we felt inside –
But no going back.
And so, with fragile smiles and teary eyes
That no pink shirts could hide,
We stood and cried beside the other parties
Waiting at the crem.
We looked so lacking gravitas compared to them.
“What crowd of sombre-less folk are these ?”
They’d have thought, “So lacking sorrow,
Sending off their friend with such panache.”
And that we did, in rainbow fashion –
We can mourn tomorrow, ashen,
But today, we’re cutting quite a dash !

Freudenfreude

Can’t we stop the cynicism
Just for once, and just for now ?
Just for the hell of being alive,
For being bright and bold !

Stop looking for cataclysm,
Any chance and anyhow –
And just let’s well-and-truly thrive,
Before our fire grows cold.

To our ev’ry enemy,
May you find a happiness
Within the happiness of others
And the smiles that they deploy.
To coalesce serenity,
Then treat us like your brothers –
Kill the envy,
Hug the joy.

Can’t we try to stop the schism,
Can’t we live-and-let-allow ?
Embrace the infidel, and strive
For unity to hold.

Can’t we see we are a prism,
Hurtling through a world of wow ?
So let’s all yell as we arrive
By ringing-out the old !