Sound Systems
Back in the Seventies, big cones were rare,
And so was the reggae they played.
But these days, both are ev’rywhere,
When blasting through suburban air
From weekend cars who love to share –
Just like in the cavalcade.
Yet come the Carnival, out come the gents,
As if it were yesterday –
It’s not a live show that this presents,
They aren’t musicians with instruments –
Their only action, in all events,
Is simply pressing ‘play’.
Sleep in Solo
We may lie down together,
But we always sleep alone.
Whatever dreams we’re slave to,
We must face them on our own.
When sleep makes heavy weather,
I can hold you till the sun,
But I cannot come and save you,
And there’s nowhere you can run.
Pastoral Symphony
The countryside is sometimes all a chorus of its own,
With the songbird sky-sopranos saying grace –
And the yapping dogs’ falsetto, and the tomcats’ mezzo tone,
And the hens and pigeons make an alto brace.
The sheep are then the tenor, the pigs are baritone,
While the cows are mooing low down in the bass,
And underlying ev’rything, the bees provide the drone,
While the clip-clop hooves of horses beat the pace.
And finally, the donkey starts, a soloist alone –
She’s the braying primadonna of the place !
The Prayer in the Purr
What do cats dream,
Those tabbies, napping in the Sun all day ?
Are they getting cream,
Or perhaps they fighting with a scar-clawed stray ?
Does it scratch their itch,
Or raise a threat that’s coming out to creep ?
Ev’ry time they twitch,
Are they trembling from a nightmare stalking sleep ?
A cat has no other cats to call for mental health,
It’s up to them alone to learn to wake themself.
Is that why they sleep when the Sun is shining stark ?
As if they’re too afraid to have to lie there in the dark ?
What do we dream,
We humans, snoring to the Moon all night ?
Cheering on our team,
Or racing through our minds from guilt and fright ?
So is it so odd,
If felines fear, and maybe find some faith ?
If cats have a god,
I hope she’s keeping well her clowder safe.
So when they come to humans, just to join us on our bed,
And even though we partly know they’re looking to be fed –
Yet just for a moment, we feel it feel so deep,
As if they’re seeking comfort here to calm their troubled sleep.
Worth the Weight ?
The trouble of rowing
Is never quite knowing,
With back to the bow,
Of just where you are going.
But a cox can allow
For the strokes to keep flowing,
By pointing the prow
Where the bank isn’t showing.
Cats in Progress
A cat may be a hairless sphinx,
Or taleless Manx, or beefy Coon –
But most are more a mini-lynx,
That have no need to tweak or jinx
That classic shape of ancient minx,
That slinks beneath the Moon.
The Siamese design is striking,
But it is a custom frame.
The common tabby has been hiking
Through our lands, and through our liking –
Kept by Pharaoh, Greek, or Viking,
Looking much the same.
But maybe, underneath that fur,
A change is slowly going on.
As certain traits succeed, and spur
A rise in smarts behind the purr –
They’re not the loners once they were
In ancient Babylon.
We humans chuckle, and pretend
That cats will do just as they suit –
But truth is, they still sculpt and bend,
Through generations without end,
To suit our need to be our friend –
And learn how to be cute.
Faffage in Five Acts
Poetry is the enemy of plays,
And has no place upon the stage –
Its narratives are not well told,
Pentameters do not engage.
They think their verse is true and bold,
Yet tends towards the bloated beige.
Dialogue is the standard of gold,
Not monologues spouted for page-on-page –
We need nuts-and-bolts for the tale to unfold,
While wisecrack-a-tat is the wit of our age.
Poetry is the enemy of plays,
It sound so trite, verbose, and old.
Plot Armour
I recall when dead meant dead,
When heroes died and I’d believe it –
Weeping as they nobly bled,
So sad, so happy to receive it –
What a way to go, I said,
And what a grown-up tale I’ve read…
Before the retcon raised its head,
To gaslight ev’ry tear, and thieve it.
Dead Man’s Hand
The old ladies gathered twice a week
To play at bridge.
My mother hated that, though wouldn’t speak
To change the game.
She’d simply sigh, and push her weary glasses
Up a smidge
With her bidding always full of passes,
Sitting out the frame.
She would have gladly played at hearts or whist,
If they could try it ?
Yet feared the only choice was suffer this,
Or staying home.
They concentrated far too much to chat,
So she kept quiet –
And so, for want of company, she sat
There all alone.
“Those other games”, the ladies often said,
“Are so unfriendly,
Competing with each other – where instead,
We play as teams.”
And so they dealt-out bridge, and never rummy,
Quite contently,
While mother only uttered, as the dummy,
Silent screams.
Afterpour
The mud is underfoot again,
The garden paths awash with grime –
But now the sky has stopped the rain,
It must be snail time.
The birds are nowhere to be seen,
The leaves are dripping from the lime –
And yet, the air is fresh and clean –
It must be snail time.
They come out of their hiding,
Sliding over puddles millimetres deep,
While wearing their umbrellas –
Soggy dwellers on their slow and silent sweep.
Where do they shade when the Sun is out ?
Where do they hunker in the drought ?,
While waiting for the showers
That empowers them to wake up from their sleep.
The worms are up upon the lawn,
The garden ants are on the climb,
The clouds are brightening, like dawn –
It must be snail time.
Rhyming Couplets 