Coming of Age, Twice Over

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twins
Self Portrait by Auguste Vinchon, also showing his imaginary twin brother (the original is on the one on the left).

Coming of Age, Twice Over

When I was just your age, you twins,
I dreamed of heading West,
Of hitching rides between the inns
That stretch from hill to crest.
I planned to leave at earlybird –
And yet…I never did.
For on that very morn, I heard
Your ma was got with kid.

When I was just your age, you twins,
I almost saw the world.
I almost got to grin such grins…
Till word came from my girl.
I longed to sail the ocean blue,
To joust with sharks and squids –
And oh!, I would have made it, too,
But for you pesky kids !

Double Double Rondo

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folk dance

Double Double Rondo

Back up to the top, keep it going on round,
Keep it going on round and never let it stop,
And never let it stop, run it outwards bound,
Run it outwards bound, send it back to the top.

And better move it on, don’t ever let it drop,
Let’s keep it in the air and take it underground.
So never break the chain, pass it on, chop-chop,
And back up to the top, keep it going on round.

And in and out of knots, getting tightly wound
Dodge left, weave right, all over the shop –
But the race ain’t won till the victor’s crowned,
Keep it going on round and never let it stop.

And gallop for the line, catch the hare on the hop,
Let’s fly with the fox and chase with the hound –
So dig in the spurs and whip with the crop,
And never let it stop, run it outwards bound.

And never leave living while our hearts still pound,
While the music’s sweet and the colours pop.
Never quit the quest till the answer’s found,
Run it outwards bound, send it back to the top.
Keep it going on round…

The Testament of Vacuum

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pale blue dot
Pale Blue Dot by NASA

The Testament of Vacuum

But there is no loving god, my friends,
There is no final judge to make amends.
My friends, there is no loving god.
There never is, there never will be, never was –
For all there ever is, is us –
But who then cares ?  Well, no-one does,
We are all the love that there can ever be.
We are both the saviour and the deity –
Formed in our own image and desire,
Because, before he ever was, we are.

My Leaping Friend

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29th

My Leaping Friend

The Twenty-Ninth came round today
It’s years since last she passed my way,
But on my birthday, there she was –
Alas, she couldn’t stay.
But that’s because that’s what she does –
She rarely comes to play.

I shrug, and try to not get sad –
For oh, when she does appear,
It always makes a special year,
Like an Olympiad.
It’s not a proper birthday, I might add,
When she’s not here.

A Few Hours Spare

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29

A Few Hours Spare

You come so soft, sweet Twenty-Ninth,
The sum of quarter-days –
You take unmissed those surplus whiles,
And solar-annual strays –
And whether you are bursting Spring
Or Winter’s final greys –
You come for free, or so it seems,
Through mathematic ways.
We owe it all to Julius,
Who’s clock the Earth obeys –
He holds in trust your orphan times,
And four years on, repays.

The Voice Speaks

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wanderer
Wanderer above the Sea of Fog by Casper Friedrich

The Voice Speaks

(in reply to Rupert Brooke)

Late in the dusk, in the ancient woods
I saw a poet on my stroll
In desp’rate search for solitude,
At one with all and deep of soul.

I bid him “Ho !” and “What a view !”
But he just sighed at ‘one-of-those’.
From lofty heights, his dagger-eyes
Shot down along his haughty nose.

So strange, we took so diff’rently
To seeing beauty silver-pearled –
When I see set a sun so soft,
I want to share it with the world.

I guess for really clever chaps,
We little people must appal –
There’s some so full of inner peace,
They need no other folks at all.

Diesel

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train

Diesel

Before the sleek electric dream
Of whisper-quiet fame,
But after huffing, belching steam –
The throaty diesels came.

They didn’t need the hours’ prep
To warm their liquid fires –
Just turn a key, unleash their pep,
As quick as any wires.

Of course, they never looked as good,
A-head a wistful train,
(With pistons, gears and drivers stood
Exposed to soot and rain).

Instead, they rumbled under feet,
As felt as much as heard,
On branches sparks would never greet –
As second-class, not third.

Richard Feynman

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galactic wine

Richard Feynman

I heard him say the universe
Is held within a glass of wine –
And yes, it’s true there’s science,
Even at the table when we dine –
The way the light reflects, refracts –
The way the liquid lets it shine –
The glass that’s made from sand-made-clear,
By how its molecules align –
And evolution never sleeps,
To accident’ly sculpt the vine.
So let me raise a toast to Richard
With this universe of mine.

Sluff

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slough

Sluff

The friendly weeds are rambling over
The concrete desert flats.
Dandelions, rich as clover,
Are cracking through the slats.
And people too, with dogs and cats,
And lawns and privet hedges,
Have made a world for noisy brats
To soften brutal edges.

But certain sniffy poets would
Look down on all this life,
And cannot see the neighbourhood
Within the urban strife.
And yes, the ugliness is rife
Compared to York or Kent,
But here a working man and wife
Can still afford the rent.

Immortal Remains

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brain in jar

Immortal Remains

My mind I leave to science, to probe and to dissect,
To extract and to magnify each secret and regret.
To show up my ideas that I never got to note,
Or poems I was writing but I somehow never wrote,
Or stories for the telling that I never passed along,
Or maybe sweetest music for my never sung-out song.
Work swift with my ditherings, these children may yet make
An epitaph of dreams to be awoken at my wake.