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 !

Boozing In Company

Another office party,
And another Christmas cheer.
I remember standing here, right here,
One year ago today,
Remember telling Jen and Marty,
How I swore this one would be my last,
And I’d be gone before the year had past.
Yes, even though, you say,
How I had sworn the same the year before –
But this time I was sure,
I couldn’t stand it anymore.
My goodness, how the months just slip away…

Alas, no Jen this year, of course,
And Marty moved to Slough.
Yes, both had quit the sales force by Spring.
Looking round my colleagues now,
They’re all so young and middlebrow,
And I’m left wondering…
I barely recognise them, with their rarely coming-in –
Working from their homes,
And working from their phones,
Until they get the annual summoning.
And all for mindless drinking passed the point when we should stop,
Just to numb the pain of endless talking-shop.

Random Acts of Friendship

Friends are mostly circumstance,
And born out of proximity –
They’re friends because that’s who by chance we see.
And if not them, then someone else we met
Would be the friend we get –
But no cause to regret the friends that were not meant to be.
For that does not make them the lesser,
Cos they happened to be free –
We still need friends by stark necessity.
And you, you could have missed a gem,
A lifelong friend – but don’t condemn –
For if it can’t be them, well then I’m glad that it was me.

Wigging Out

Prom queens, drag queens, jugglers, and spies,
Criminals, judges, actors in disguise –
Baldness, boldness, hide or tantalise,
It’s all just a cosplay in the end.

Human or synthetical,
Sacred or heretical –
It’s hair, but theoretical,
Where frank and fancy blend.

In bobs and updo’s, blond and brunette,
In fringe and ringlets, silver and jet,
A lace-front quick-change, no regret –
It’s all just a snatch and a shake.

Compact and collectable,
Increasingly respectable,
From downright undetectable
To fabulously fake !

Rush

Ev’rybody’s in a hurry,
So are you, and so am I,
For ev’rybody’s busy-busy
Scurry-scurry, gotta fly,
Now ev’rybody’s in a tizzy,
So am I, and so are you,
Cos ev’ryone, from Skye to Surrey,
Whizzes-round like ballyhoo,
We’ve got to keep the bubbles fizzy,
Got to keep it on the go,
We ain’t got time for worry-worry,
Ain’t got time to say hello,
When ev’rybody’s in a flurry,
Kangarooing, hue and cry,
Till ev’rybody’s downright dizzy,
Sorry, thank-you and goodbye…

Tour de Force

Thunder is the sky in primadonna mood –
Building, building – let her brood –
She won’t be hurried, none too soon,
Until the late of afternoon –
When, with a rumble in the wings,
She sings…

Soloing with a cast of thousands –
Turning-on her lights and sound,
And moving into centre stage,
While up in the gods her torrents rage –
As all-consuming, she performs –
The Queen of Storms.

Rugged Individualism

The world does not know we exist,
The world is far too busy to care,
The world is blissfully unaware
To render us our due.
And when we go, we won’t be missed
By more than just a few.

We live in stark autonomy,
Where hard work and enthusiasm
Aren’t enough to bridge the chasm –
No-one hears us sing.
For in this mind-economy,
Charisma crowns the king.

We may not be an island,
But our causeways often slip beneath
The silent waves of slow and grief
While those with a winning smile
Are bustling continents of dry land
Full of friendships by the mile.

But don’t give up, don’t get depressed –
We need to toughen up our hide
And keep our darker thoughts inside,
And get on with our day.
That’s how it is – so make the best,
To drive the blues away.

The world does not know we exist,
Except a few like-lonely souls
With whom we plug each other’s holes,
To help us brace the weather.
And life goes on, you get the gist,
We’re on our own together.