Winter Lows
Ev’ry time the waves of tired
Leave me drained and uninspired,
The nagging fear I just can’t shake
Is will I ever get to feel awake ?
Ev’ry time a freeze sets in,
I shiver in my fragile skin,
And all that I can think of then,
Is will I ever be made warm agen ?
Solo Traveller
Happy holiday, saddos !
In your needlessly double-rooms –
Honestly, single berths are only
For cots, and losers, and tombs.
Here’s your single-stayer supplement
To tax you for being alone
And your sad little single table
Where you silently scroll your phone.
Why did you even bother leaving home ?
Why do you care ?
What’s the point of meeting people
When you’ve nothing to share ?
Ah well, it’s all to our profit,
As you pass your gloomy weeks –
A mix of lonely spinsters
And asexual frigid freaks.
We do our best to rub it in, of course,
That’s always fun –
To let you know you’ve failed at life,
To holiday for one.
But in the end, you bring our other guests down
By being there,
You suck the sun right off the beach
With your self-contented air.
Ginger Snaps
I know it must be Summer
When my frecks come out to play,
When my polka-dotted face
Becomes a sunshine giveaway –
When my pallid-grey complexion
Finds a whole new way to live,
With its tanning only happening
As if beneath a sieve.
They serve as a reminder
For the cream and overalls –
For I cannot risk the sun for long,
Before the lobster calls.
No harbinger of cancer, though –
These are no liver spots –
But a crop of chestnut mushrooms,
Or brunette forget-me-nots.
They pop-up on the first hot day of May,
In time for lunch,
And settle-in for Summer –
Though they seem a jolly bunch.
In a burst upon my bridge,
And in a dance across my cheeks,
They’re a throwback to my childhood,
A tattoo for sunny weeks.
Perhaps I’m not so pasty,
But my darkness only bites
In an extroverted flocking
Of acute melanocytes.
My pixels are in contrast,
And my apples are in bloom –
I know it must be Summer
When my solar flares go boom.
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.
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,
If you should reach the Autumn’s calm.
Free 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 –
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
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.
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 hold 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 some cooing in the stable
At the birth of this month’s chick.
Rhyming Couplets 