Category: Seasonal

What are you, then ?

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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.
But two, and you’re the other class –
They’re both an embryonic farm.
So 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.

Was That The Year, Then ?

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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 –
That’s 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

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One-Eyed Jacks, The General, Charade, It’s a Wonderful Life, Night of the Living Dead, Fear & Desire, The Last Man on Earth, Gulliver’s Travels, The Gold Rush, A Star is Born

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

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A selection of heavyweight horizontals from Darcy Clothing

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.

Pigeon Season

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Photo by Giannino Nalin on Pexels.com

Pigeon Season

The crossbills start their laying
While the New Year snows remain,
And the pigeons too are playing
At the family game again.

Then come the February frost,
And come the raven chicks,
While pigeons think it worth the cost
To gather-in the sticks.

Buzzards wait the Winter out,
And wait till March has shone,
And pigeons likewise have no doubt
On when to get it on.

The starlings flock at Eastertide
With Spring in paradise,
While pigeons think an April bride
Is ev’ry bit as nice.

The cuckoos drop their eggs in May
In other people’s nests,
Yet pigeons have no fear to lay
From unexpected guests.

The seagulls spend the Solstice broody
While the days are long,
And pigeons keep their Summers moody,
Purring out their song.

The mallards stretch their mating-season
Through the long July,
While pigeons also see no reason
Not to bat the eye.

There’s yellowhammers indiscreet
Through August, still not done,
While pigeons love to raise some heat
Beneath the Summer sun.

September – all the birds have fledged,
And some have flown away,
Yet pigeons lay on, it’s alleged,
Through Autumn, come what may !

October, keeping on the job,
There’s always some around,
Still popping out the latest squab
To peck the frozen ground.

The pigeons even hatch them
Through the long and gloomy nights,
When only chickens match them
(Under artificial lights).

Till last, the Christmas fable,
Which has surely missed a trick,
With cooing in the stable
At the birth of this month’s chick.

Frost Flitters

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Peocilocampa populi by Janet Graham

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

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Photo by Yafih Ghanem on Pexels.com

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 boost from Scrooge to their pilgrim 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

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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

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Choosing by George Watts

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 guess there’s holly and mistletoe,
And snowdrops still 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 guess 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 guess there’s just 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.
I guess, though, 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...