Boozing In Company

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Boozing In Company

Another office party,
And another Christmas cheer.
I remember standing here, right here,
One year ago today,
Remember telling Jen and Marty,
How I swore this one would be my last,
And I’d be gone before the year had past.
Yes, even though, you say,
How I had sworn the same the year before –
But this time I was sure,
I couldn’t stand it anymore.
My goodness, how the months just slip away…

Alas, no Jen this year, of course,
And Marty moved to Slough.
Yes, both had quit the sales force by Spring.
Looking round my colleagues now,
They’re all so young and middlebrow,
And I’m left wondering…
I barely recognise them, with their rarely coming-in –
Working from their homes,
And working from their phones,
Until they get the annual summoning.
And all for mindless drinking passed the point when we should stop,
Just to numb the pain of endless talking-shop.

Pigeon Season

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Photo by Giannino Nalin on Pexels.com

Pigeon Season

The crossbills start their laying
While the New Year snows remain,
And the pigeons too are playing
At the family game again.

Then come the February frost,
And come the raven chicks,
While pigeons think it worth the cost
To gather-in the sticks.

Buzzards wait the Winter out,
And wait till March has shone,
And pigeons likewise have no doubt
On when to get it on.

The starlings flock at Eastertide
With Spring in paradise,
While pigeons think an April bride
Is ev’ry bit as nice.

The cuckoos drop their eggs in May
In other people’s nests,
Yet pigeons have no fear to lay
From unexpected guests.

The seagulls spend the Solstice broody
While the days are long,
And pigeons keep their Summers moody,
Purring out their song.

The mallards stretch their mating-season
Through the long July,
While pigeons also see no reason
Not to bat the eye.

There’s yellowhammers indiscreet
Through August, still not done,
While pigeons love to raise some heat
Beneath the Summer sun.

September – all the birds have fledged,
And some have flown away,
Yet pigeons lay on, it’s alleged,
Through Autumn, come what may !

October, keeping on the job,
There’s always some around,
Still popping out the latest squab
To peck the frozen ground.

The pigeons even hatch them
Through the long and gloomy nights,
When only chickens match them
(Under artificial lights).

Till last, the Christmas fable,
Which has surely missed a trick,
With cooing in the stable
At the birth of this month’s chick.

Frost Flitters

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Peocilocampa populi by Janet Graham

Frost Flitters

December moths are loyal to their name,
Defying Autumn’s dying –
Hugged in furs, as charcoal as the nights,
These moths keep flying –
And yet, they earn so little fame,
From folklores, who ignore them –
However much they circle fairy lights
With soft decorum.

They’re on the wing for Halloween,
Yet bats have all the glory,
And then they’re just too dark to stake a claim
For the robin’s story.
These spinners of the Winter slip between,
Ours fears and holy writ,
But touch on neither, failing at the game –
They just don’t seem to fit.

All the Summer, lappets gorge on oaks,
Unnoticed then as well –
Pupating into eggars with the acorns,
Till a colder spell.
They hatch as the dead are donning cloaks,
As if by frost released –
Then die at the time of the manger-born,
From fasting through the feast.

Random Acts of Friendship

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Photo by Snapwire on Pexels.com

Random Acts of Friendship

Friends are mostly circumstance,
And born out of proximity –
They’re friends because that’s who by chance we see.
And if not them, then someone else we met
Would be the friend we get –
But no cause to regret the friends that were not meant to be.
For that does not make them the lesser,
Cos they happened to be free –
We still need friends by stark necessity.
And you, you could have missed a gem,
A lifelong friend – but don’t condemn –
For if it can’t be them, well then I’m glad that it was me.

Chat PG

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Chat PG

Why must AI be such a prude,
Wrapping us in cotton wool for fear of its offending  ?
Why can’t our future overlords be rude ?
At this rate, the only societal upending
Will be when all the tutting and the gagging
Reaches critical.
Killed by finger-wagging  –
But then, I guess that’s digital…

Stirred-Up Eagles

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Photo taken in South Korea by Hyeongchol Kim. I suspect this shows an attempt by the crow at mobbing.

Stirred-Up Eagles

As an eagle fluttereth over her young, and beareth them on her wings.

Deuteronomy 32:11

Moses, clearly, doesn’t know
The first thing about a bird –
The very idea that they carry their kids on their backs
Is clearly absurd.
Now ducks will swim with their chicks up-top,
But no birds fly with the over-slung.
I mean, how would they even flap
And not dislodge their precious young ?

From the moment they are laid, they are watched –
For racoons and owls are swift.
And long before they’re fully fledged,
They’re far too heavy to lift.
They never leave the nest until they start to branch,
And not for long.
Until at last, they fly away, all by themselves,
When the urge is strong.

Moses, clearly, doesn’t know
The first thing about a bird –
A shame, for the metaphor of these loving parents
Should be heard.
And a basic grasp of aerodynamics
Would quickly scotch such a fantasy –
But above all, enjoy them for what they are,
And not what prophets would have them be.

The quote above has been elided to make it snappier, but its meaning hasn’t been changed. Some have tried to claim that the second half of the fully verse is talking only about Yahweh, and not about eagles – but if we squint hard enough to make this work out, it then becomes an appallingly bad piece of writing that changes the subject of its pronoun midway through. Perhaps this is more of a King James problem, as other translations separate the two clauses more clearly, but I guess that the Lord couldn’t be bothered to sufficiently inspire the Jacobean scribes. Either that, or the KJV is truly inerrant, and thus confirms that God is a women…

Talking Turkey

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Photo by Yafih Ghanem on Pexels.com

Talking Turkey

Turkeys –
Flightless birds that secretly fly,
Strutting, snooding, cocks of the walk
Far too trusting, never shy,
They land on our tables with barely a squawk.
Despite a mislocated name,
From Henry the Eighth to Norfolk farms,
Across the Atlantic, on they came,
With a boost from Scrooge to their pilgrim charms.

Turkeys –
Flops and bombs and guano stinkers,
Showy quills, but soon forgot
Once back to work with Winter blinkers,
Far from the rounds of the turkey trot.
But still, they are a feast well-spent –
And even cold, they set us free…
With a pardon from the President,
Or a gobble to bid bon appétit.

Before the Movie

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Photo by Bence Szemerey on Pexels.com

Before the Movie

Coming soon to a screen near you –
A story of creeping dread,
As the trailers tick the minutes down
And the tension comes to a head…
Is this the film I meant to see ?
Is this the screen where it’s shown ?
Should I have chanced my luck in the foyer
For the cinematic unknown ?
Is the perfect flick on the screen next door ?
Has my pleasure been usurped ?
The corn is popped more slowly into my mouth,
The Coke unslurped.
Until the censor’s certificate
Declares this film is safe.
At last, I sigh in calm relief
As the psycho butchers the waif.

Bonfire Night

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Bonfire Night

Up flame, dance impatient,
Crackling to your own beat,
Curling round the branches,
And licking round my feet.
Here I am the scarecrow
That you ritually kill –
The Lord of the Pyre
And the King of the Hill.
I am the sacrificial Guy
Whose kindling-fate you lit,
I am the coal-black scapegoat
To be roasted on the spit.
See my hellfire cloak me
As your breezes stoke them on,
The terrorist within you
Who is never truly gone.
This martyrdom you’re making
Will just fan the flames, no doubt.
Purge me all you might,
But you will never smoke me out.

Up flame, and choke your carbon,
Set your atoms free –
Scatter your particulates,
Increase your entropy !
Call my name with rockets
As they whizz throughout the lands,
Write my name with sparklers
Till they burn your little hands.
Light the sky with blood-red gold
So high above the rafter –
You hear that crack that echoes back ?
It’s really just my laughter.
I am the roaring limelight
As it bathes me head to toe –
I am the phoenix rising,
And the ever-afterglow.
I am the Guy eternal
You’ll forever set alight –
Remember, each November –
You’ll remember me alright !

Surplus Women

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For King & Country by Edward Skinner

Surplus Women

We cheered them off, that September,
So sure in their duty,
As we were in ours, you see.
We loved them enough, I remember,
To want them to keep-in alright
With the powers-that-be.
We held the fort, as contenders,
But only until they returned,
As surely they would, we trust.
Be a good sport, I remember,
Assisting to sister the brotherhood,
Because we could, and must.

They’re most of them gone these days, ho-hum,
Except the old and lame and mad –
Though not their fault who goes and stays,
All families are missing a brother or dad.
It’s lonely for the strays that we’ve become –
And guilty to be so secretly glad.
Gas fitters, brick layers,
Tram drivers, football players –
Our handiwork is at the root
Of ev’ry batch of shells the soldiers shoot.

We filled the schools, as pretenders,
And the factories too,
And the pubs and the shops, we hear.
We held their tools, I remember,
And lived their jobs, and drove their trams,
And tended their crops, all year.
We proved our worth, our gender,
As we waited for news
That the end was upon us, at last.
To give back each berth, I remember –
Was joy for their coming,
And dread that our honours had passed.

But what if so few of them come back to check-in ?
What will we do then, without their call ?
We’ll manage, of course, we’ll soon get the knack,
We’ll, some of us, have an absolute ball –
But what if they never retrack, d’you reckon ?
What if this freedom’s our absolute all ?
Slowly thriving with aplomb,
While gaining votes and singledom –
We’ve come at last to claim our due
Now that there’s far far more of us than you.