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.
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 !
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...
The garland-weavers’ co-op Having pruned the May-queen’s crown With the wrong sort of dead-heading, Give the Springtime Sun a frown. Well, the pole-erectors union Won’t take this lying-down !, As the tulips will not open, While the waterlilies drown – And the morris-men eschew the white, And the Beltane brides the gown, As the fellowship of fairy-folk Are marching through the town.
Despite the chimes and fireworks, Despite the cheers and resolutions, New Years start off slow – As continuity, not revolution. The banks begin on holiday, The schools are easing into term – There aren’t too many early birds, But then, there aren’t that many worms. The world is in need of a lie-in, Before the problems start to press. Even I am barely trying, Slurring rhymes with extra esses.
Parking ticket winging its way to Mr C. Gull by Craig A Rodway
Red-Herring Gulls
The sudden shriek of a seagull Takes me back to the ozone, back to the seaside – To those Summers of sand and Ninety-Nines, Where the fish is fresh and the Sun still shines. From ever since I was knee-high, Be it Morcambe, Cromer, or Ryde. The seagulls were my holiday guide.
But these days, the seagulls are ev’rywhere, Yes, even in Winter, even in the bleak – When gloomy days in gloomy suburbs See dozens pecking kebabs from the kerbs, With ev’ry beak in a mocking shriek. Well, go ahead, gulls – for a second there I was back on the prom without a care.
Only July, and the first acorns down, Here and there on the lawn. Windfalls, surely, they don’t look mature – Hard to imagine an oak will spawn From these early-birds I found. They look too lean, too small and green To be a mighty giant’s dawn. Only July, and the first acorns down, The tree advances a pawn.
Though now I look around, I see An oak with its first grey hairs – Of little concern, but a leaf on the turn, Like unattended Summer repairs On an old and lazy tree. And there on the lawn, the start of a yawn, A warning from up-the-stairs – Only July, but the prep-work is the key, To order its affairs.
I love to grab a handful of holly-leaves, Pale and tender in the Spring, Before they’ve darkened, hardened, sharpened, Tanned their leather good and bent. I love to hug a branchful of holly-sheaves, Ere each shoot has gained its sting – To shakes its hand with good intent, To thank it for last Yule well-spent.
In Spring, I can sniff-out the sap as it rises, And comes overshooting the branches and twigs Of the cherries and lindens and suburban figs – A street full of pollen – my nose recognises That Spring has returned to the gardens again, In the asphalted forests of wychelm and plane. My hay-fevered neighbours are rather less happy, But I scent the chestnuts, the sweet and the horse, And the avenues of the acacias, of course ! Municipal headiness leaves me quite sappy – The syrups of sycamores, weepings of willows, That’s wafted by birdsong in sugary billows.
Rhyming Couplets 