Pointless Deaths



Pointless Deaths

On ev’ryday, there’s somebody,
Who dies in quiet tragedy,
Who dies because biology
Cannot continue hence;
From choking on an apple pip,
Or falling from a clumsy trip,
To organs one day losing grip,
And none of it makes sense.

A fatal fallen power line,
Drowning in the Serpentine,
Little lumps we thought benign,
We never even met.
Neckties wrenched to stranglehold,
Coming over sweating cold,
Salmon eaten just too old,
And that is all we get.

Little cuts which never heal,
Failing brakes through perished seal,
Kidney stones as hard as steel,
Gone in a moment’s flick.
Poisoned by a buttercup,
Bitten by a friendly pup,
Simply never waking up,
We die too young, too quick.

Paralysed by peanut shock,
Thrown from steeds on solid rock,
Shaking loose a hornet flock,
So frail is life of man.
Golf balls crashing down to earth,
Infants dead before their birth,
And all our deaths are ever worth,
Is showing there’s no plan.



Rhino Dancing

pink sugar
Pink Sugar by Olivier Ponsonnet


Rhino Dancing

The best thing about her ?  Whenever she speaks
The tip of her sweet nose will flex up and down.
But only the button, you should understand –
The subtlest of bounces beyond her command.
Crowning her philtrum and charming her cheeks,
Her pogo-ing hooter is hitting the town.
Her bobbing proboscis is truly quite stellar –
But if she don’t realise, I ain’t gonna tell her !
You have to be close up to see it in action,
And more when she smiles and less when she frowns.
A wonderf’ly random and quirky attraction –
Who says the best noses are sported by clowns ?

The Long, Long Chord

vocalist performing on stage
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The Long, Long Chord

My mother always fears
I’d have ringing in my ears –
Of course, I never really thought I would.
But here I am, and hear I do;
She warned it me, I’m warning you,
A cautionary tale from the buzzing brotherhood:

The chainsaw guitars
With their scattershot strobes,
The piercing vocals
With scouring probes,
The throbbing basses
Vibrating my lobes,
And the beat –
The beat that was pounding my whole,
That was pounding against all my thoughts and control,
And was pounding my drums and my skull and my soul.

My thousand belting solos on my air guitar
(A Fender),
And my crooning to my hairbrush
Till my larynx cried surrender,
While my head was busy banging-
So my hair could whip its splendour,
And the only way to do it, dude, was loud.

My mother never understood,
The self-same song is nowhere near as good
Until it’s cranked up to eleven,
Till they hear it up in Heaven,
And its words ain’t sung no more, its words are howled.

But no, I’m not deaf, I still hear fine
It’s just when all is chilled and quiet,
There comes a gentle radio static –
F-sharp in my cranial attic.
My mother was right, I cannot deny it.

But it’s cool, it only serves
To call to mind the legend’ry crowd
That I still pump in there, far too loud.
So let it hiss, cos that hiss is a part of me –
And who needs a shell to hear the sea ?
It’s what I’ve got, so best just to surf it.
Cos you know what ?
On balance, it’s probably worth it.


sleeping girl
A Sleeping Girl by Edward Baily



She did not wake this morning, nor this afternoon, nor eve,
And all this week she’s spawning ev’ry dream she can conceive,
And the daylight still she’s scorning for the visions she shall weave,
Till her health begins its pawning for the means to stall her leave.



The poem is not about a statue, but I do like this sculpture.



A Little Way Off

The Letter
The Letter by Duffy Sheridan


A Little Way Off

Watching you daydream is like watching flowers bloom in slow motion.
– Russell McLondon

When your eyes unhook their gaze,
Slipping back in time by seconds,
When your thoughts roam out to graze,
Something not-remembered beckons.
You are taken through by where-knows what ?
It’s all so ev’ryday except for when it’s not;
Just like random numbers, only with less plot.

And your smile is only-just;
Never meant for those who see it.
And your breath is held in trust;
Softly, slowly, then you free it.
Waiting for your day to recommence,
You’re floating off beyond the realm of making sense;
Just like in the movies, only less intense.



Tillers of the Ground

agriculture plant blur wheat
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com


Tillers of the Ground

In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat of thy bread
For here all the days of thy life,
And this is thy price when thou hearken instead
Now unto the voice of thy wife.
And the wheat thou shalt grow and shalt harvest and mill,
Where’erso the oak-tree may thrive,
Is fruit of the labours of farmers who till
To better the grains they shall scythe.
In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat of thy bread,
But sweet grow the grains in their ears;
For whilst thou lay pampered, they fattened each head
Since thousands and thousands of years.



Human Nature of the Beast

jekyll & hyde


Human Nature of the Beast

We know that it isn’t correct these days
To dwell upon appearance.
We know we’re supposed to all scorn the gaze
Of probing and interference.
It’s what’s on the inside that’s worth all the praise,
If mutual respect’s to be more than a phase;
The package should never set eyeballs ablaze.
But have we the perseverance ?

We know this, we know this, we know it’s correct
That judgement should always be saved.
But on that first sighting, the verdict’s direct;
So tell our subconscious it’s badly behaved.
But in our defence, well, we must interject
That lust is a body that flexes unchecked;
So call it perverted, or lewd, or erect;
But still it comes grunting when craved.

We know that it isn’t correct at all
To dwell upon their beauties,
We know we’re supposed to quell the call
And concentrate on duties.
We know it’s absurd, but the order is tall,
And even the gentle and nobleest fall,
And find themselves sweated and slavered of maul
At the hint of a glimpse of such cuties.

We know this, we know this, we know to our soul:
We’ve all of us bile and phlegm.
But don’t be ashamed, they’re a part of the whole,
A hangover from our primordial stem.
The things that’s important, to keep in our mind
Is that any such thoughts must be kept in our mind,
And to never be let out to leer or grind;
There’s more to our beings than them.