Billie is a bad guy, And Billie’s not our friend, She’s a mean girl, dead-eye, As she’s gloating to pretend. She doesn’t need approval, And she doesn’t need to care, And she wants our swift removal If we for-a-second stare. An independence fable ? Or a power trip ? It’s just a hunch. But we can’t join her table, As she eats us for her lunch. But can I really shake her ? And is it all an act ? I’d best back off, bellyacher, Cos I don’t know her like that…
Day 14 – Lady – #inktober #inktoberpoem #inktoberpoetry
I must be getting old, But this doesn’t feel so much fun anymore. Lis’ning to a pub band this weekend, And suddenly the music’s not my friend. The racket left me cold – It wasn’t they were bad, as such, for sure… But the PA was too loud – now there’s a phrase That I never thought I’d utter all my days…! They looked so middle-aged, And so much less rock-&-roll as hokey-cokey. So bald and fat and wheezy, just like me, As they played their wall-of-sludge cacophony. For all the singer raged, His voice was lost within the karaoke – I hate to say, but cranked up to eleven, How they felt so out-of-place in rural Devon. It’s me, though, truth be told – My hearing just can’t tease their notes apart. Though what has left me breathless ain’t the loud, But the unrelenting crushing of the crowd. I must be getting old, If I’m waiting for the interval to start… So sad and sobering a Sunday a outing Now…where are all those clouds that need a shouting…?
At first, I was dumbfounded by the rush, And squeezed within the crush, And now I think I’ve danced myself to hush – My chords aren’t made of steel.
I just don’t have the breath to tell you, Panting, how I feel – I just ain’t got the means to yell, Or roar, or even squeal.
I just don’t have the the vocal chops, Or the power in my burning lung. I can’t go shrieking from the rooftops Like I did when I was young.
I cannot thrust my diaphragm, To serve as my pneumatic ram. I’m far too dizzy, too deflated, Far too hyperventilated – Strung-out, wrung-out, Lost my shout, And my words have got no clout upon my tongue.
I haven’t got the oxygen To sing the chorus yet agen, I guess it’s time to shut up when My whistle just ain’t whistling.
But let me mumble, let me rasp, In one more whispered, breathy gasp, Before the words slip from my grasp: Thank you all for lis’ning.
I was born where the Avon bends, The Tamar darts and the Dart up-ends, In a parrick you might miss at night, Where the Otter and the Parrett fight.
I was born where the stones stand-up, When my Pa taught me to long-man up, To roll my arrs and burr my talk, And fly my mane like a horse of chalk.
You might-be even hear the fiddle-folk Beneath the sunset glowing cliffs of red – You may just hear the bleat and croak From herds of raw-wools singing low, And spinning-out their thread. From this side of the Barrow, So it’s said, Tomorrow’s days ahead.
So come and take a trip with me Upon the Highway 303, The outer-limits of outdoors Await between the downs and moors.
It’s said we don’t like strangers round these parts – By grockles, I’ll be bound… Don’t fret, we hamlet folk won’t fuss, Cause who could be more strange than us?
You might-be even hear a banjo twang Beneath the moonraked moonlight, down our way. You may just hear a lively gang Of applejacks upon Midsummer night, If you should stray. From this side of the Severn, So they say, All Heaven comes to play.
We’ve sung these songs before, These Silent Nights, these Gaudetes – We’ll sing these songs for evermore, I’m sure, All Christmas Days – Pious in their message, Dressed in angels at the manger – And how familiar they are, And not a one a stranger.
But in a thousand years from now, Shall these songs still be heard ? You have my word…
But other songs exist, Like Deck The Halls, like Jingle Bells, That long were added to our list, Persisting each Nowell. Joyful in their scoring, While ignoring Mary’s son – And how familiar they are, When sung by ev’ryone.
But in a thousand years from now, Shall these still stop the show ? I think we know…
And ev’ry year come songs, These All I Wants, these Fairytales – But will they still be sung-along so strong, Or will they fail ? Hopeful in their jingle, Mingling underneath the tree – But how familiar they are, We’ll have to wait and see.
So in a thousand years from now, Shall we remember still ? I think we will…
I asked AI for impressionistic carollers, but they just look blotchy…
The Lantern Carol
There may have been snow, There were surely scarves, As they stood on the corner Beneath the stars. They may have had sheets, But they knew the words – And the harmonies That they sang in thirds. And we hurried on by, But we heard their songs – The old familiar Sing-it-alongs. In a pool of light, They played their role – Under the lantern Hung on a pole.
And their breath was hung With the notes they sung, As a frosty white, By the lantern’s swaying light.
There may have been snow, There were surely mitts, As they stood on the corner Singing the Ritz. They may have had sheets, But they knew the text, And no hesitation On which comes next. And we hurried on by, But we heard their cheer – The old familiar End-of-the-year. In a pool of light, Their heart and soul – Under the lantern Hung on a pole.
And their breath was warm With the notes they form, In the inky night By the lantern’s only light.
A chamber filled with cylinders of air beneath the skins, A cavern dedicated to the art of beating things, A desert for the trumpets, and a wilderness for strings, But oh, this is a heaven for the drums !
Where cymbals tsk-tsk-tsk all day, And tambourines are shake-a-shake, And castanets come out to play, With wood-blocks in their wake.
Congas and tom-toms and bongos in pairs, In a four-four and three-four and quick-march in double-time, Bass drums and kettles and tablas and snares, To the beat of the bodhran and ting of the wind-chime.
And oh, the sticks and hammers and brushes ! So many way to make a bang ! To shake-up the silences, heat-up the hushes, With stirrings of sturm-und-drang !
So ring-out those cow-bells, and anvils and cannons, and gongs, And all that belong in here – And if you have nothing, then play with your stomps and your claps, And your finger-snaps, my dear !
From sleigh-bells to maracas, via triangles and dhols, In a chamber filled with shimmers and alive with clangs and tolls – It’s a cavern to percussion, and to nothing but percussion, And yet home to ev’ry drum that swings and rolls.
I’m not a fan of the big road pushing through the valley floor – It should have been a high-speed rail line. But just what have you got against a chip-set factory ? And the jobs that get to work while you just whine. I guess the loss of green and habitat’s a shame, for sure, But your farm was pretty monocultured too – The world needs fewer humans, as I hope you would agree, And a lot less of consumption, making-do. We haven’t all got daddies leaving farms to us, and more, No, we many have us very little leeway. So take your million-dollars and your nimby don’t-tax-me – Cos this ain’t your farm no more – now it’s our freeway.
The curtain’s hanging over us, This is our final scene. We hope our lines are close enough And energies still keen. We’ve just the time for one last turn Before we take our bows – For any encores that we earn, And management allows.
The future’s big in front of us, It starts tomorrow-dawn, And so, for all we grunt and cuss, Our brand-new lives are born. We’ve barely time to learn our parts Before we take our chance, And who knows where the future charts ? It’s one long song-and-dance.
