Breathless
And a great stillness then knew me,
As a lightness of thought did rock me then.
I thought how the Lord had come to me;
Alas, it was but lack of oxygen.
Breathless
Category: Short Pieces
The Battle for Midweek
The Battle For Midweek
What can I say ? He’s just this guy
Who had his dreams, but not the will to make them fly –
And so he settled more and more for less and less, and by-the-by
He never did achieve that very much – he didn’t even try.
Each Word is a Species
Each Word is a Species
Un·in·ter·es·ted – so dictionaries claim
Has meaning specific, restricted by rules;
Dis·in·ter·es·ted – it now means the same
To ev’ryday users of linguistic tools.
So Dis has migrated to Un’s patch of speak;
Is language more poverished ? Meaning dis-hanced ?
Nat’ral selection defavours the weak,
But look how im·par·tial is grabbing its chance.
A Great British Tradition
A Great British Tradition
The banks all held a holiday, with ev’ryone invited:
These pin-striped bowler-hatted gents were thoroughly delighted
To paddle in the briny sea with crowds of day-trip workers,
And hike the green and pleasant hills and join the mansion-lurkers.
They greeted bakers, plumbers, teachers, ev’ryone from ev’ry measure –
Watched the doctors, taxmen, postmen, ev’ryone about their leisure.
’Cept for those, of course, who had no need for such a lazy day,
Because these reckless banker shits had stolen all their jobs away.
Skywriting
Skywriting
Infact, they both used pencils
Up until Nineteen Sixty-Seven,
When a privately-researched pen was announced
And NASA and Cosmonauts quickly renounced
Those flammable, lead-shedding pencils –
Americans first, with Apollo 7.
They should be so proud, that commie space-guys
Are writing with Yankee-most free-enterprise.
Open Season
Open Season
August is a month that’s open wide,
When windows welcome in outside
And shoulders sport their freckles with a pride.
August is a month of empty woes,
Of open necks and open toes,
And bright unfolded blooms upon the rose.
August is a month of busy highs,
With covered heads and shaded eyes,
But still with smiles as open as the skies.
Niggles & Naggles
Niggles & Naggles
I’ve always suspected, vaguely,
Though I’ve never attempted to probe –
But it simmers away to plague me
At the back of my frontal lobe.
Of course, of course, I don’t dwell long,
But it’s never, not really, quite forgot –
Of course, of course, I could be wrong,
But of course I think I’m not.
A Pile of Babbage
A Pile of Babbage
You built a Diff’rence Engine
Just to see if it would work,
Then locked it in a cabinet
And let it snooze and shirk.
In all of its magnificence,
It’s still in cog and joint.
You say it makes no diff’er’ence –
I say, that’s just my point !
The Gravity Pin
The Gravity Pin
Paperweight, paperweight, glorious paperweight,
Balanced on letters and jottings and files –
And whether beneath you are crooked or straight,
They are anchor secure in obedient piles.
Falling Worlds
Falling Worlds
(After Molière, The Learnèd Ladies, Act 3, Scene 3)
Another world has passed us by
Just as we were sleeping,
And fallen through our vortex as we lie –
A happenstance unseen across our sky.
For all the while the linens we were keeping,
A momentary spark can live and die.
Rhyming Couplets 