Too Many Mugs

assorted color mugs on brown wooden floating rack
Photo by Emre Can on


Too Many Mugs

Some of them are king-size,
Some of them are slim,
Some of lost their handles,
Some have chipped their rim.
Some, it seems, live in the sink,
While some have never touched a drink.

Some have faded transfers,
And some have tannin stains,
Some have slops and lipstick,
And some have glazing veins
In the cupboards, out of sight,
Are they breeding overnight ?

Some of them are funny,
And some of them are cute,
Some promote a company,
And some an institute.
They colonise the hooks and trees,
I’m sure I never bought all these…

Some of them are tobies,
But do they ever blink ?
Better put the kettle on,
I need to sit and think.
Coffee, sugar, spoon and jug –
Now where on earth has gone my mug…?




beige wooden nightstand with white desk lamp brown wooden bed with grey comforter set
Photo by Buenosia Carol on



Ev’ry night I close my eyes
And enter in your world of lies –
It’s not your scary ones I fear,
But all your fantasies and memes –
It’s not the nightmares, but the dreams !

I swear, this time, as sleep comes near,
I’ll keep my wits and vision clear –
But how can I, when ev’ry time I doze,
My eyes must close ?

And suddenly I’m unconcerned,
With logic overturned and shot –
Instead, I find myself a slave
To ev’ry passing alpha wave.

So all those lovers, all those highs,
Those treasure troves and dragonflies –
And all for what ?
It’s not to make me sadly wise,
For lessons learned are soon forgot.

You took my hope, you took my trust,
And strung me on throughout the night,
Before you vanished into sleepy dust –
My innocence once more was sold
For mem’ry holes and fairy gold !

And willing dope was I, alright –
The fool you fooled the night before,
And who you’ll surely fool again,
To lead astray down lackwit lane.

Was this your prize ?
Was this the reason for your lies,
To bring this naive mortal down to size ?
But then, when stranded in the dark,
I must have made an easy mark.

But worse than that, deep down, must be
That knowing all along
The one who plays the piper’s song,
Who does me wrong with such a glee –
It’s all myself and only me !



Nous Sommes Charlie

I Must Not Draw Mohammed by Plantu


Nous Sommes Charlie

Mohammad !  Yo, Hammad !
Say, what you so scared of ?
You won’t let us see you in pinkie and brow ?
What makes you so special
You get to be spared of
Our constant surveillance from cam’ras and eyes ?
The truth is, Mohammad,
We’re all of us spied on –
We’re all of us public and databased now.
So Jesus and Shiva,
And Thor and Poseidon,
Must get used to gawkers, or dress in disguise.

And as for your theory
We’ll worship your likeness –
I doubt that we’d give it much more than a glance.
For these days, we shrug at
The holy or righteous,
We’re far too anarchic, and sneerful and clever.
We see you, Mohammad,
But don’t see your proof.
But who cares ?  Stop sulking and join in the dance !
Don’t tell us you’d rather
Be veiled and aloof,
For these days all neighbours must rub by together.

Can gods and can mortals
Not laugh at each other ?
We’re all of us stupid – the flesh and divine.
So let fly the insults –
Don’t censor and smother !-
Say lard-bellied Buddha and pigeon-faced Ra.
From temple to steeple,
From Mecca to Delphi,
Your noses need tweaking, and so too does mine !
So smooth down the beards
And smile for the selfie,
And show us your best sides, your je ne sais quoi !

I know, Mo, I know !
When they’re thrusting their lenses,
It’s hard to keep posing, it’s hard to stay still.
But best grin and bear it
And drop our defences –
I feel a right charlie – but hey, c’est la vie !
When we lose our senses,
Our common and humour,
We end up with killjoys who actu’ly kill.
(Hey, I once heard you smiled,
Though that’s only a rumour…
But anyway, Mo, can you take one of me ?)



The Gifts of the Magi

detail from The Adoration of the Magi tapestry by Edwin Burne-Jones, Wllliam Morris & John Dearle


The Gifts of the Magi

The Magi came to Bethlehem
As guided by a rising star,
And there a newborn greeted them
Beyond the busy brisk bazaar.
So three wise men each bore a gift –
The other nine just looked-on, miffed.

The first brought gold – a solid lump –
An ingot, so the paintings show.
That must have made young Mary jump
As Caspar flashed his gift aglow.
But prizes prising gasps aghast
Should surely be withheld till last.

Then Melchior with frankincense
To sweetly burn at times of prayer –
The sort of thing we all dispense,
To hosts and strangers ev’rywhere.
Safe and useful, just the thing
To give to clients, in-laws, kings.

And finally there came the myrrh –
Embalming oil for the dead.
A tactless gift to give, for sure,
That only brings a parent dread.
Poor Balthazar had left them cold –
And wished he’d also thought of gold !




Leftover Sprouts



Leftover Sprouts

The first discarded tree on the pavement,
The first house not to turn on its lights,
The first fallen card not to be re-hung
And we still haven’t reached Twelfth Night.
But the Tudors partied all twelve-long,
But we’re back to work by the Second of Jan –
Once New Year’s hit, we’re done with it,
We’ve season’s-cheered as much as we can.
Why did the Magi have to take the scenic route ?
If only they’d got there in a week !
I don’t think our waistlines will make it to Epiphany,
And Winter is coming to the meek.