The First of May
The first lone mayfly of the year,
And Spring is on the go –
Looks like the merry month is here
As evenings make a show.
The bulbs give way to tardy blooms
While cuckoos boast their song,
And mayfly brides greet urgent grooms –
For Spring won’t stay for long.
What are you, then ?
Self-seedling, settler-sprout –
A start-up venture risk-taker,
Pushing-through and on the scout,
You upward-mover, windy-shaker.
What will you become, young bud ?
Are you a goer or a dud ?
So little green, and so much mud –
Watch out ! I hear there’s slugs about,
I fear this is no easy acre.
One lone leaf, and you’re a grass,
Or bulb, or orchid, or a palm.
Two, and you’re the other class –
They’re both an embryonic farm.
What will you become, new shoot ?
Will you grow tall, will you bear fruit ?
So little leaved, but taking root –
Well lass, let’s meet at Michelmas,
To greet you once you’re safe from harm.
Freeze Zing
February can’t say farewell
Without one final trap –
A week of warm, then a week of hell,
And the bitter cold goes snap.
Winter can never yield to Spring
Without a parting shot –
A week of ease, then a week of sting,
To see that he’s not forgot.
Was That The Year, Then ?
Well, that was indeed a year, alright !
Lots of causes, lots of effects –
Every morning, the sky got light,
And then got dark again each night –
But that was the only black-and-white
In the whole damn terraplex…
We had our share of fear and fun –
So truly a year for everyone !
Collectively, we were dynamite –
We never knew what was coming next !
Our science made us shine more bright,
Our anger made us bully and fight –
And yet we still survived inspite,
As we swerved and swung and flexed.
What we can say, now that it’s done
Is how stuff happened by the ton !
We really hit the lows and heights –
Blissful joys and emotional wrecks.
We bounced through the months like dancing sprites,
We filled our share of memory bytes,
And on our way, we saw some sights,
And were probably oversexed.
I guess, all told, now our year has spun,
That the Earth really moved around the Sun.
Public Domain Day
Welcome, works of long-loved art !,
From artists who have lasted on
For long beyond their time –
Finally, you’ll take your part
In the ever-growing pantheon
Of the no-more-in-their-prime.
If a life is three-scores-ten,
So too is death, it would appear,
When the royalties still flow.
But that was way back when,
And now your grandchildren, I fear,
Must let their unearned windfall go.
Cool your lawyers, drop your walls,
It ain’t about how much you’ll earn
In the common ownership marquee !
The world will turn its eyeballs
On your genius without concern,
Now that, in ev’ry sense, you’re free !
Shaggy Legs
One stocking, two stocking, three stocking, four,
All hanging on the chimney-breast, drying from the hoar
In the last of the embers of the evening’s sycamore –
While their would-be wearers are upstairs a-snore.
One stripy, one chequey, one polka-dot,
And one of them chunky with a Celtic knot.
Here and there are patches, where the wool is shot,
To keep their feet safe from the Winter as they trot.
One mini, two midi, one bigger skin,
Though all of them kiddie-sized, toe-tip to shin.
Yet looking rather empty here with no legs within,
Are four half-pairs – but where are their kin ?
One two three and a fourth is the score,
Though I wonder why they hung up the footwear they wore ?
Placed by the fire where no-one can ignore
Are one stocking, two stocking, three stocking, four.
Frost Flitters
December moths are loyal to their name,
Defying Autumn’s dying –
Hugged in furs, as charcoal as the nights,
These moths keep flying –
And yet, they earn so little fame,
From folklores, who ignore them –
However much they circle fairy lights
With soft decorum.
They’re on the wing for Halloween,
Yet bats have all the glory,
And then they’re just too dark to stake a claim
For the robin’s story.
These spinners of the Winter slip between,
Ours fears and holy writ,
But touch on neither, failing at the game –
They just don’t seem to fit.
All the Summer, lappets gorge on oaks,
Unnoticed then as well –
Pupating into eggars with the acorns,
Till a colder spell.
They hatch as the dead are donning cloaks,
As if by frost released –
Then die at the time of the manger-born,
From fasting through the feast.
Talking Turkey
Turkeys –
Flightless birds that secretly fly,
Strutting, snooding, cocks of the walk
Far too trusting, never shy,
They land on our tables with barely a squawk.
Despite a mislocated name,
From Henry the Eighth to Norfolk farms,
Across the Atlantic, on they came,
With a help from Scrooge to boost their charms.
Turkeys –
Flops and bombs and guano stinkers,
Showy quills, but soon forgot
Once back to work with Winter blinkers,
Far from the rounds of the turkey trot.
But still, they are a feast well-spent –
And even cold, they set us free…
With a pardon from the President,
Or a gobble to bid bon appétit.
Bonfire Night
Up flame, dance impatient,
Crackling to your own beat,
Curling round the branches,
And licking round my feet.
Here I am the scarecrow
That you ritually kill –
The Lord of the Pyre
And the King of the Hill.
I am the sacrificial Guy
Whose kindling-fate you lit,
I am the coal-black scapegoat
To be roasted on the spit.
See my hellfire cloak me
As your breezes stoke them on,
The terrorist within you
Who is never truly gone.
This martyrdom you’re making
Will just fan the flames, no doubt.
Purge me all you might,
But you will never smoke me out.
Up flame, and choke your carbon,
Set your atoms free –
Scatter your particulates,
Increase your entropy !
Call my name with rockets
As they whizz throughout the lands,
Write my name with sparklers
Till they burn your little hands.
Light the sky with blood-red gold
So high above the rafter –
You hear that crack that echoes back ?
It’s really just my laughter.
I am the roaring limelight
As it bathes me head to toe –
I am the phoenix rising,
And the ever-afterglow.
I am the Guy eternal
You’ll forever set alight –
Remember, each November –
You’ll remember me alright !
Floriography
I wanted to speak the language of flowers,
Just like my heroines of old.
But how can the secrets of petals be ours
When meeting in Winter’s cold ?
I suppose there’s holly and mistletoe,
And snowdrops yet to come, perhaps ?
But love, I fear, has yet to grow,
And plenty of time to lapse…
I wanted to win you with floral wooing,
Now that Spring has raised his head –
But tulips are for financial ruin,
And lilies are for the dead.
I suppose there’s always the dandelion,
Though who sees the beauty beneath the weed ?
Our love, I fear, is swiftly dying,
Like daffodils gone to seed.
I wanted to cast such blossoming spells,
With Summer so rampant and velveteen –
But buttonhole-sunflowers smother lapels,
And roses come purple and green.
I suppose there’s too much to choose –
Exotic, or native ? We cannot be both.
So love, I fear, is swamped for a muse,
And trapped in the undergrowth.
I wanted to breathe the tongue of the blooms,
But who remembers the code these days ?
And now that Autumn is blowing our rooms,
It feels too late for bouquets.
Yet I suppose dahlias could be for darlings ?
And conkers for fun, and pumpkins for screams ?
For love, I feel, will still find it charming,
Whatever it thinks it all means.
Leaving Inktober behind, there is just time for a seasonal bouquet before things get spook-ay...
Rhyming Couplets 