You Are The Hero !

Detail from the original slipcase for Steve Jackson’s Sourcery ! by John Blanche

You Are The Hero !

Remember all those gamebooks from back when we were boys ?
(And girls…though mainly boys.)
Remember how, on tenterhooks,
We’d have to make the choice
Of our turning left or turning right ?
Remember all the monsters and the ploys that we would fight ?
Remember all the dice we’d roll
To see if we would kill the troll ?
And prove our might ?
Remember all the traps upon the roads ?
And treasures that we’d prize ?
Remember finding clues and secret codes
If we chose wise ?
Remember flipping through the pages
On our quest to smash the mages ?
Turning to the paragraph with bated breath –
Would we find the one true path,
Or would we meet with death ?

Well, both, of course.
Ev’rybody cheated,
And nobody rolled dice.
(Not even would the girls obey.)
For nobody could force us how to play.
Whenever we would be defeated,
We would not think twice,
But just shrug and carry-on along our way.
We wouldn’t sigh when we were slain,
And start from chapter one again,
As laid down by the authors of these epic Middle Ages –
Instead, we’d keep our fingers in the pages,
Testing out each turn –
To see which would reward and which would burn.
And we were right to cheat so blatantly
When said and done –
For all the boys (and girls) agree
That gaming should be fun…

Ah, the good old five-fingered bookmark ! But they weren’t all fantasies

All The Letters I Can Write

Emily Dickinson by Wesley Merritt

All The Letters I Can Write

Emily, Emily, scribing all day,
And so many poems, so much range !
Seventeen-hundred-odd and change.
Emily Dickinson, come what may –
With rhymes that fade in the second-half,
For over a dozen-by-gross of graft.
Sure, they’re short, what you have to say –
Though I prefer ‘pithy’, by the way-
But you tell it so often, all it’s worth,
So don’t mind the length and feel the girth !
One-and-three-quarter thousand, that’s the score.
And finally, I’ve bettered and more !
I’ve blasted past, as I chase two kay,
With the short, and the long, and the inbetween,
There’s something for ev’ryone to ignore !
And sure, they’ve never been published or seen –
So just like yours, and look at yours now !
For you are my hope, my dream, my vow –
To keep on writing anyhow…
Emily, Emily, never in drought,
In your study, your sanctum, your safe redoubt,
Where you homespun ev’ry lyric and lay –
In ev’ry sense, you’re here to stay.
So, two grand of verses ?  I’m in with a shout,
While shut in my garret, not going out…

Parallel Paragraphs

Photo by Jimmy Chan on Pexels.com

Parallel Paragraphs

Don’t just write what you know,
But let your words off the lead in the wood –
To run and bark where the nettles grow,
In a left-hand neighbourhood.
Use your writing as reason to read,
To shake up the status quo –
Sometimes the blank page plants a seed
To write what you want to know.

Motorway Dreamer

Dodge Interceptor by Kevin Bulmer

Motorway Dreamer

That ain’t a Dodge !
What’s a Dodge ?
Something Yankee.
Just trying to bodge with some Hollywood chic.
But this was the Eighties,
Capris and Mercedes –
American cars were all tanks, they weren’t sleek !
For no British kid ever did
Know a Dodge –
And no stodgy old hodgepodge
Could juice-up your toy.
So out with your Rambo,
And give him a Lambo,
For coast-to-coast pure post-apocalypse joy.

The image above is from Fighting Fantasy book 13 – Freeway Fighter (1985).

Pilar’s Eyes

Photo by Jojo Tesini on Pexels.com

Pilar’s Eyes

Two blue-eyed parents ?
Then how can a brown-eyed child be ?
If brown is dominant,
Her true-colours are right there to see.
Ah, poor Hercule,
Inheritance is trickier than that –
It’s not down to a single gene
To slot into a simple clever fact.

A type-O body ?
Then how can there then be a type-A son ?
This child is not his blood,
Once the cutting-edge analysis is done.
Ah, poor Lord Peter,
Kinship is less iron-clad these days –
It’s not down to a single letter,
Pumping through the logic of your plays.

It’s not really fair,
That your ingenuity is overtaken –
You made us feel so clever
When we thought we’d learned what science you’d awaken.
Ah, poor hindsight,
Your layman’s clues are too much on the nose.
It’s not down to a single twist
To show whose blood is blue and eyes are ohs.

The Thread of his Verbosity

Self Portrait, Yawning by Joseph Ducreux;

The Thread of his Verbosity

Oh what a piece of work is man,
To stand upon the world’s-a-stage
And draw-out lines that lose their scan,
As ev’ry sentence takes an age.

Lend me your ears, I come to bury haste
Within the hollow crown –
For highbrow should be deathly-paced –
You fiery-footed steeds, slow down !

To be or not to be ?  Then not to be,
There’ll be no be tonight !
For ev’ry dry soliloquy
Shall take forever to recite.

What light from yonder window breaks ?
The Sun is up before I’m done.
I speak these word for all your sakes –
To drill them in, and damn your fun !

Is this a dagger I see before me,
Slashing pages from my text ?
But hold !, for still the crowds adore me
Droning-on one hour to next.

Out, out brief candle ?  Nay !
I still must ponder in my sorrow.
How long shall I have my say ?
Until tomorrow and tomorrow…

The Reichenbach Zombies

The Death of Sherlock Holmes by Sidney Paget

The Reichenbach Zombies

They come, from out of the pages,
Lurching-on for centuries,
Reanimated for the ages
By the editors and mages
Harvesting our cherished memories.

Too valuable to rest in peace,
They’re resurrected, forced to dance –
But the spark of life is cold within,
And nothing but a rictus grin
Reminds us of that once and lost romance.

Infernal Inferno

Paradise by Gustave Doré

        Infernal Inferno

Best be wary
Of Dante Alighieri,
Whose hellish depiction
Is turgid fan-fiction –
Trekking round each Circle
With Mary-Sue Virgil,
While snarking in the sleaze
Of revenge fantasies.

Strange how the Church
Has bought-up all his merch,
And turned this random blogger
Into Pope-approved-of dogma.
But worst of all, is any fool
Who has to labour-through at school,
Just hoping for a joke or three
Within his so-called Comedy.

No wait, don’t hate,
Don’t follow the gate
That tells us “Nope,
Abandon all hope !”

My anger is alive
In Circle number Five –
But no, I must not dwell
In this self-made Hell.

For Hell is more feeble –
It’s simply other people
With whom we disagree,
Like Dante is for me.
But to be more analytic,
Then Hell is just a critic
Complaining for eternity –
Don’t let that carping voice be me…

Hercule or Hercules ?

Hercule or Hercules ?

I’m never a fan of the gutter press,
But sometimes even the filth have a scoop that we need to have told –
Corrupt politicians must always be hounded until they confess,
(Though spare us the muckracking piety wallowing under the fold).
Holding our powers to answer is really not where the threats lurk,
But wholly with kings –
And an anarchist press is better by far than an old-boy network
Pulling the strings.
So let no little grey cells be a tool of the latter,
In a toxic smoke-filled room.
If the Augean Stables need sweeping, then what does it matter,
Whose hand is pushing the broom ?

Blue Plaque Blues

Photo by Claudio Mota on Pexels.com

Blue Plaque Blues

A writer’s house is such an odd museum –
With all their private, not-for-public touch.
Does it forever colour how we see them,
Or just amount to telling little much ?
Must we rifle through their dirty laundry,
And publish all their letters, kiss-and-tell ?
And then complain they put us in a quand’ry
Of seeing flaws when knowing them too-well.
So why does hero-worship seek these holy relics, anyway ?
And basing truth on only what they claim the gossip-mongers say ?
Although I guess some writers would adore the fame they have today,
And sure, let all the crowds come snooping round their hallowed ground…
But as for me, if my words work there due,
Don’t let the creeps come crawling through my caches –
But burn my house, and all its contents too –
And leave the pervy fanboys only ashes.