Sleep of the Blessèd

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sleep deep
Sleep, Deep with Dreams by Jo Chester

Sleep of the Blessèd

I don’t know why I’m gifted so,
To sleep as tightly as a tree –
To close my eyes and just let go,
And slip into eternity –
Where aeroplane nor car alarm
Nor deep pneumatic drill
Can rouse me from my safe-from-harm
Before I’ve slept my fill.

I’ve heard it said a guilty soul
Will lie as skittish as a foal,
And never find repose.
Now I, I never was a saint,
And yet I dream without constraint
When sweetly comatose.

I don’t know why I’m fortunate
To sleep as soundly as a stone,
Until my eyelids raise the gate
To marvel how the night has flown.
Oblivion is long my friend
Who waits in Timbuktoo.
I swear, the World and all could end,
And I would sleep on through.

I’ve heard it said that peaceful minds
Have little need for warmth and blinds,
When tiredness prevails.
Now I, I am not pure and deep,
And yet I still could harvest sleep
Upon a bed of nails.

Harlequins

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harlequins

Harlequins

They started coming over here a decade back or so,
A few at first, and hardly noticed, where the good winds blow.
Of course, the many coats they wear have helped, despite their glitzy show.

At first, we thought how marvellous to find such guests as these –
A touch of the exotic in the roses and the peas,
And something to replace the sorry absence of the friendly bees.

But now we hear they’re taking jobs from seven-spotted lads,
Or that they breed too many kids compared to local dads,
And even claims of bullying, from roaming gangs of bolshy cads !

And sheltering through Winter in a corner, in the gloom,
We find them huddled with their kind, at twenty to a room –
A lack of integration with the natives, is what we assume.

They offer services for thrips, which two-spots can’t compete in –
The gardeners are overjoyed, the unions are beaten.
And does it really even matter, if the aphids all get eaten ?

The market does its work, with consequences untoward –
They gobble up their rivals to monopolise the board –
They’re less a friendly immigrant, and more a raging mongrel horde !

Yet maybe we’re reacting to a non-existent wrong –
Let’s leave the species to it, and they might just get along,
With more than plenty greenfly shared among this multi-cultured throng.

But let’s not read too much comparing ladybird and man,
For beetles run on instinct, with no higher thought or plan.
They cannot make a compromise – but we are humans, and we can.

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.