Thy Name is Edom
Judas in paintings is often the one
Who’s sporting the bright carrot hair.
What does this signify, why was this done ?
For redheaded Jews were exception’ly rare.
Maybe he dyed it with henna, of course,
For most nat’ral gingers were Celtic or Norse,
So who were the genealogical source
Of Judas Iscariotson ?
Edom has nothing to do with Judas, being the brother of Isaac in Genesis, but his name means ‘red’ in Hebrew.
Royal Wedding
There, on every table,
As the best man gave his speech,
There was a box, about a hand’s-width each.
With a couple of pretty bows,
And little holes in rows.
The day was cooling off
As the sun was slipping down the sky.
A blackbird sang duets
With the buzzing of a fly,
And the garden’s sweet perfume was in full bloom.
And then the moment came
At the bidding of the bride –
The bows were soon untied
As we gingerly undid the lid,
To find a single butterfly inside.
Large, by British standards,
Their leaded-lights stained orange-red,
And quick enough they roused from bed.
Their wings all beating seagull-slow
As up away they go.
A cloud of monarch butterflies –
A plague, almost, a scarlet host
To start the dance and lead the toast –
A starling-swarm, a bridal crown,
Confetti that went up instead of down.
They soon dispersed into the beds,
A doddle for a bug collector –
Crowding any flowers still in nectar.
A little sugar on the hand,
And maybe we could bring one in to land.
But if, like any wedding guest,
They hoped to meet their future mate,
Or else at least to score a date,
Well, better come on strong –
They’d all be dead before too long.
And as for starting families,
They’d find no milkweed here.
Their kids will starve to death, I fear.
Some metaphor for wedded life –
A pushy groom and barren wife !
News Snooze Cues Muse Schmooz
I met her in the silly season:
Ace reporter Lisa Leeson –
Met her in the Summer, as it moved from high to late.
She said she newly had the time
For chilling with a gin and lime,
And meeting with a stranger for a secret steamy date.
Until the proper news arrived,
She churned-out waffle, faffed and skived,
To dodge the z-list luvvie-spotting at the village fete.
And so we spent the Summertime
Away from wars and wonks and crime,
And nothing went on happening in law and trade and state.
Not a love-nest, romp, or threesome,
Just myself and Lisa Leeson,
While the ever-greedy presses must procrastinate –
And so we joined our choice of queues,
With not a thought to check reviews,
For visits to the restaurants, the movies, and the Tate.
But Summer changed to Autumn brown,
And cooler breezes teased the town,
And she could hear the calling of the headlines and the hate.
So Lisa Leeson bid farewell,
And broke our silly Summer’s spell
By quitting idle drifting for a world that would not wait.
My First Imperial Adventure
As a child, I loved to pore
Upon an atlas like a book.
The early chapters laid out Europe,
Where I knew it’s ev’ry nook.
Later on came Africa or Asia,
I forget which first.
The other next, then North, then South America
Would be traversed.
Oceania bringing up the rear,
And scattered islands next,
With local names italicised beside
The faithful English text.
That was the story’s climax, now the coda –
Now the final pair of plates –
The Arctic, then the Ant, in round tableaux,
The Baring and Magellan Straits.
Antarctica, to my surprise,
Had place-name labels scattered round –
The Ross Ice Shelf and Ellsworth Mountains,
Kemp Land, and McMurdo Sound.
Such British names ! The Arctic, though, was foreign –
Though I’d love to think
How Queen Victoria might send
The Royal Navy out to turn it pink.
Take Greenland, with its Anglo-Saxon name –
From Cape Farewell down in the South,
On through Discov’ry Bay to Upper Tooley,
And out East there’s Scoresby Mouth.
The Viceroy has his Residence in Goodhope,
With the inevitable railway lines –
Heading South to Hope St Julian,
Through Greenvale and the Squarehill mines.
And the Great Green Mainline steaming North,
With a branch and boat-train out to Sugar Top,
And via Lower Streamouth aerodrome,
To Foxborough – which once was the final stop,
Until the junction to Jacob’s Harbour,
(Ferries to God’s Haven from the pleasure pier),
Then the final push to Springfield Isle,
On viaducts of steel that we’d engineer.
Of course, in time the Esquimaux would learn
The ways of cricket and the bowler hat,
And in later years, there’s some would settle down
In Blighty, in a council flat
In Ashford, Accrington and Aberdeen,
To drive the buses and newspaper stands,
Opening churches, opening restaurants,
Marrying the local girls and forming bands.
I know, I know, so many problems
Unthought-out in the fantasy of a kid.
Just as well it never happened –
And yet…on a parallel Earth, it probably did.
Trans-Galactic Relations
How will love fare on a far, strange planet ?
Something tells me, just fine.
Astronauts are after all as human as the rest,
On those long and lonely voyages to Sigma Ceti Nine.
It really doesn’t matter how Control attempts to plan it –
Some eventualities are harder to decline,
And improvised solutions are unlikely to be guessed
Until that fateful moment when our instincts come online.
Then to the fore comes ambiguity,
When foreign incongruity’s the only game in town.
But, when it comes to promiscuity,
Then human ingenuity will never let us down.
We are the pioneers
Across the galaxy we plumb
We are the copuleers
We boldly go and boldly come
So Human-Alien exchanges probe
To grasp a firmer bond –
Exploring green and grey and blond,
Until enquiring ends combine
In intimate communion.
We’ll scout each sucker, fin and lobe,
And softly test how they respond
To fingers from the great beyond –
And arms and tentacles entwine
In interstellar union.
I have heard it suggested that humans would be disgusted by anything even-slightly non-human. After all, for all we snigger at bestiality, it’s a very rare proclivity. And just look at our closest neighbours, the chimps – when the females are in heat, their genitals swell up to advertise the fact, though good luck getting any human gentlemen callers with that trick !
So if we’re six million years too distant for Pan-spermia, what hope have we of getting horny for alien horns ? Well, I think it’s a case of uncanny valley and not marrying cousins. After all, there’s way more octopus porn than monkey business.
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
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.
You Bet Your Life
Blaise Pascal once placed a Bet,
And for a Stake he risked his Soul:
“If of Gods there’s Nothing yet,
Then all our Faith can’t fill the Hole –
But then, since no God will Notice,
For no God then Is at all,
So our Prayers unto Abyss
Have done no Harm nor broke no Law.
But, should I now choose Desisting,
Claiming Heavens are Unmanned –
And, should now our Lord be lis’ning,
So shall He declare me Damned.
Therefore, weighing Odds and Chances,
Losses made and Gains received,
Wager wise where Luck enhances:
’Tis far Safer we Believed.”
Roll up ! Roll up ! The Tote is open,
Honest Blaise the Bookie always gives the Smartest Odds.
And ev’ry Sharp and Rookie can apply
His Patent Foolproof System to the Big Game in the Sky.
Poker-Face Pascal knows the Score,
He’s Croupier to the Heavenly Draw –
He’s got the Inside Track on Hoping,
He’s the Turf Accountant to the Gods.
Alas, Blaise, your God is not
The Only Game to play in Town,
A thousand other Evens Lots
Can yet be Laid when eyes are Down.
Such Longshots aren’t worth a Flutter,
Spin the Wheel and watch the Ball,
And pray it Lands within your Gutter –
Better not to bet at All.
So, whichever Gods are Winners,
Rank us Luckless all the same:
As Heretics and Bankrupt Sinners –
Even those not in the Game.
And if I Bust, I’m Damned if they
Shall claim the only Stake I’ve got.
But Stick or Twist, collect or Pay,
Let’s ante-up the Mortal Pot.
Roll up ! Roll up ! The Gods are waiting
Three Prayers for a Fiver, and the Fate Tombolas roll !
Now ev’ry Saint and Skiver gets to play
With Aces high and Jokers wild, and Tabs till Judgment Day.
Brokerman Blaisey knows the bid,
With Afterlife Shares just seven-a-quid:
He has the Dope and Gen and Rating,
He’s the Underwriter to the Soul.
Heavy Weather
I try really hard, really hard
Not to moralise weather.
It is what it is, what it was,
What it will be forever.
The sun isn’t good, isn’t bad,
It is nothing aware –
And the rain is the rain, just the rain,
And the rain doesn’t care.
The sun will soon shine soon enough,
To relieve soggy sorrow –
So don’t think me bad if I think that
It might rain tomorrow.
Sunnis & Cartoonies
Tell your children, tell your spouse,
Use a biro, use a mouse,
Ev’rybody in the house –
Doodle-up Mohammed !
Take a minute, take a day,
When at your lunch or at your play,
Ev’rybody, sketch away !
Scribble-down Mohammed !
Draw his eyes and draw his nose
Draw his fingers, draw his toes
What’s he look like ? No-one knows !
Draw, you all, Mohammed !
Draw him as an diplomat,
Draw him as a Knicks fan,
Draw him as an acrobat,
Draw him as a stick-man,
Draw him seemly, draw him sleazy,
Draw him dreamy, draw him cheesy,
Draw him any way you pleasy
Draw your pen but not your blade.
Draw to show our common sense
Or draw to show we take offence
Or draw to show they try to censor.
Draw to show we’re not afraid.
Tell the Arabs, tell the Brits,
Use your pencils, use your wits,
Ev’rybody, Bics not blitz !
Don’t let’s awe him, let’s all draw him !
Ev’ry colleague, guest and mate,
Join the party, bring debate.
Ev’rybody – love not hate !
Come, let’s draw Mohammed !
Rhyming Couplets 