April – Month of Aphrodite, Flirting with fertility. The earth responds to her almighty, Springing with virility. Tributes thrust from out the ground With kinaesthetic keenness, As bulbs are bursting, bound by bound, To hail the month of Venus.
Easter was a goddess too, And once she wooed the blooms aloft – She called them up, and up they grew, Her sun was warm, her rain was soft. Forget the death her name evokes, Forget the manly, fabled sin. Let’s open blinds and loosen cloaks To let her April in.
Now that Winter’s easing, And the Sun is breaking cover, Then what could be more pleasing Than to wake from hibernating with my lover ? And as the sap is rushing And the Spring is turning bold, Then what could be more crushing Than to hear she wants to clean-out with the old ? We’d clung to one-another, While the Winter held us in its thrall, I thought she was my lover, But I guess that April makes fools of us all.
Now with the lambs in clover And the daylight on the rise, So she wants to be a rover And she wants to try the Springtime on for size. She slips out after equinox With all the world at play, By the changing of the clocks, Then I know the cruellest month’s not far away. With the first song of the skylark And the golden tulips growing tall, She’s off to find another mark – I guess that April makes fools of us all.
April only makes a fool of fools, But that is all of us. We’re all believers, come our turn, Who rarely twig and rarely learn. We’re far too busy-bees to question rules, We’re far too nice to suss. Not all the time, it’s true, but then We’ll soon enough be fooled agen.
April only sets the trap, and waits – It’s us who makes it spring. It’s up to us if we succumb, If we’re the sharp or we’re the dumb. And if we spy the ruse, and shun the bait, We still admire the sting – For gullibility, it seems, Will spark our love and build our dreams.
April only gives us all a chance To fool our foolish selves – And boy, we’re ruthless in our art, We know our weaknesses by heart ! We never see the cunning serpent’s glance When we are rolling twelves – Reality is harsh and glum, So keep on fooling us till kingdom come.
Daffodil, poor daffodil, Stood all alone upon the hill. Where’s the dancing crowd beside you ? Where’s your golden host ? Denied you ! Fluttering beneath the trees, There surely should be more of these…? As warmly blows the westering, Are you the scout to test the Spring ? Or last to rise, too long abed, Who’s missed his chance for getting wed ? Some blooms can stand alone and proud – But you look lonely as a cloud.
OO is for Curloo, U is for Duv, O is for Swollo and Swon, my love. M is for Emerald – Pretty enough. F is for Fessant and also for Chuff. N is for Natcatcher, K is for Kwail, J is for Pijjon who’s bringing the mail. I is for Ider, R is for Ren, T is for Tarmigan – ta-ta, my hen.
I cannot dance to seven-four, It always sound so incomplete – The lines are rushing, overkeen, They jump the gun, they crash the scene. It’s never seven-to-the-floor That jolts me up out of my seat – We talk in trochees, think in rhyme, We walk and breathe in common time.
Heartbeats are waltzes, though – Three-four and quick-quick-slow, Atrium, ventricle, In-out-rest metrical, Pulse and diastole, ONE two (three) ONE two (three)…
I cannot dance to seven-four, I nod along, but off the beat – It may be close enough for jazz, But lacking somehow in pizzazz – For music isn’t just the score, We have to feel it in our feet – And I have two, not one or three, So what use surplus notes to me ?
My hips ain’t sound technicians, My feet ain’t math’maticians, So they’re losing their positions, When the bar keeps on clipping, When the beat keeps on slipping, Till my sole fills the hole With the wrong sort of tripping.
I cannot dance to seven-four, I don’t possess such odd-timed feet, I’m not a pro, I’m just a guy Who wants to groove, not reason why – And dancing shouldn’t be a chore, I shouldn’t have to count the beat, So call me boring, call me white, But four-four lets me dance all night.
She never signed her painting – It always seemed a little vain To have her name just floating there Unnoticed by her sitter. She’s didn’t want such tainting To blemish with a boasting stain, To clutter up her canvas square With copperplated litter.
She always hoped her styling Would clearly show who held the brush – And if that didn’t tip the wink Then hey ho, mum’s the word. But she could not help smiling, And sneaking-in (but keep it hush) In ev’ry artwork, paint or ink, A trademark ladybird.
It could be on a daffodil, It could be woven on a dress, Or scratched into a windowsill – It’s anybody’s guess. It could be jewelled into a brooch, Or iced upon a currant bun – Or yet emblazoned on a coach, But definitely fun.
So whether pest or saintling, Her beetles were her secret claim – Some were bigger, others smaller, Some were rather blurred. She never signed her painting, And history forgot her name – So galleries must call her The Lady Ladybird.
I’ve seen too many doors, And they’re nothing much, just doors – Just as expected. I open them, I close them, Or I pass them by unnoticed, Disconnected. I’ve turned too many knobs And I’ve knocked too many knockers In the gloom, Yet never thought about them Till I find I need a way To leave the room.
I’ve seen too many doors, Be they oaken, deal, or plywood, Or cold steel. I push them and I pull them, Or I sometimes have to slide them With a squeal. I’ve crossed so many thresholds And I’ve stepped on many stoops, Both front and aft, Yet never thought about them Till I find I need a way To stop the draught.