‘Tache-less
Those clean-shaved chaps all suffer hell
From a lack of stiffened upper-lips,
Their razor-bothered mouths are far too sleek.
When it comes to cunning twirling, well,
They simply cannot get to grips –
Their naked filtrums wobble when they speak.
No rakish pencil wits
For these tongue-tied sunburned Brits,
But the unconnected stubble of the meek.
No bushy walrus manliness
On faces long on gangliness,
Whose claims to hairy days are bare-faced cheek !
The Spotless Page
There’s a nagging need to write
That lurks within us, don’t you think ?
For the page is far too white
Until we stain it with our ink.
But more these days, I find
I tend to leave my paper bare –
Yes, their emptiness can blind,
But I prefer to simply stare.
There’s a nagging need to write,
And so I shall, some day, engage –
When my mind’s as crisp and bright,
And overspilling on the page.
The New Zoo
She has the memory of a goldfish,
In that she remembers pretty well.
She is a frog in a warming dish
That knows it is no place to dwell.
And she’s a giraffe who loves shut-eye,
An ostrich with her head held high,
A colourblind bull when the red rags fly,
And an old wife with new tales to tell.
Meditation
Staring deep in wonder at an apple,
Or contemplating where to move in chess,
Shutting-out the thoughts with which we grapple –
Boring, boring, boring mindfulness !
Lazy-arses squatting in believe-ment,
While others get stuff done so you can pray –
But beauty’s in distraction and achievement,
And life’s too short for omming it away.
Auto-Iconography
Why so many self-portraits ?
Vanity, or an honest appraisal ?
Why the endless tortured brow,
And wistful gaze of hazel ?
Are they honest, or distorted ?
Simply practice, or masterclass ?
Or is the cheapest model that funds allow
A looking-glass ?
Consumer Power
The clothes we wear, the food we try,
The very homes in which we dwell –
No matter how much money, cash is not enough.
The truth is, we can only buy
What someone else will make and sell.
And if we don’t like anything on offer ? Tough !
Sports Lawns
Mow and roll and mark the lines
To hem the court and pen the pitch
In Summer’s crisp and white designs of old,
To show which end is which.
And who would dare to stray beyond
This canvas where we set our scene ?
We’re safe in here from blade and frond,
On alternating stripes of green.
Soil Savants
Slime moulds lack brains
But still can get around –
Navigating maps and mazes,
Simple cells yet going places !
Building networks for our trains,
With tunnels through the ground –
Their tendrils stretch and seek and probe,
Across the petri-dish and globe.
Acorn Margins
I’ve heard that oak will make a hedge
If planted it in a row,
But I’ve never seen a single stretch –
Perhaps it’s just too slow.
Or hedgers baulk at pruning oaklings back
To make a wall,
When ev’rything about them says ‘Don’t hack,
But grow me tall.’
Raised Eyebrows, Wobbly Club
Pornography made proper by time,
With even the blue-rinse enthralled –
They snigger in Tolpuddle, Durdle, and Lyme,
Whatever the old man is called.
Surn is in Switzerland, Cairn is in Dorset –
The Abbas is hard in her C.
The Giant is likewise, and stands to endorse it,
With hard-ons for hadrons, says he.
Rhyming Couplets 