Final Calling

~ Toastingfork ~ Leave a comment

Final Calling

They used his full name, in the notice –
And then carved it on his stone –
I guess that he was born with this,
So that indeed made it his own.
But I never once have heard it uttered,
Not be anyone who cared –
Too many letters, far too cluttered,
When he wore it unimpaired –
With a friendliness in its brevity
And no pretentiousness or strife –
A name with great longevity,
A name that lasted all his life.
For some people, a single syllable
Is all we need to say –
And those others from their name in full
Just get forgotten, tucked away.
But now, formality’s a blessing –
We understand, accept the change –
And we know who we’re addressing,
Though he sounds a little strange.
But the man himself, of course, is the same,
With this not-quite-pseudonym.
Though odd, to see his Christian name
As only ever God would call him.

Grave Goods

~ Toastingfork ~ Leave a comment
Photo by Subhasish Baidya on Pexels.com

Grave Goods

The ancient Egyptians filled their tombs with stuff,
As a trust-fund for the afterlife –
Finest robes, spices and jewellery,
Not to mention a mummified wife !
But it wasn’t just the practice of royalty,
The need, it seems, is in the bone –
Even the oldest and simplest folks
Rarely buried their friends alone.

I rather think you would smile at the thought,
How you’re combed and dressed in your finest suit –
As if you would need to impress St Peter
Or grease some angelic palms with your loot.
But then, it’s only symbolic stuff we’ve included,
Stuff you would never be without –
Family photos to show to Jesus,
While you take a drag on your favourite snout.

Even the pins in your hip, I guess,
And the handles of your coffin, and the nails.
And the memories, of course, that are left within your mind,
For beguiling the cherubs with your tales.
Not that you believed in that, of course,
Nor we who lower you into the ground,
But it just feels right, that you have them with you –
The same urge those archaeologists found.

Suffering Souls

~ Toastingfork ~ Leave a comment
Photo by MART PRODUCTION on Pexels.com

Suffering Souls

Surgeons, pilots, firefighters,
Barristers, and presidents –
These pseudo-psychopaths,
From the boardrooms to the regiments,
Who find calmness in the chaos
And detachment in the fear,
Who are able to exert control
And keep their focus clear.
They switch off their empathy
When steady at the lever,
To stop them dithering with love,
Or panicking with fever.
We need them in the frontlines,
With their special kind of brain –
But most of all, we need to help them
Switch back on again.

I always find psychopaths in movies incredibly boring, but this poem was greatly inspired by the fascinating Vsauce2 video on the subject.

Stubborn & Rebellious

~ Toastingfork ~ Leave a comment
The Stoning of Achan by Gustave Doré

Stubborn & Rebellious

(In reply to Deuteronomy 21:18-21)

I’ve always hated that verse –
To take a disobedient, wayward son,
A glutton and drunkard, and maybe something worse –
And to drag him to the elders, and call on ev’ryone
To muster at the gate of the town
To take up stones, and put him down.

But I recently heard a theory
That asks what parents would willing follow ?
After all, it costs them so dearly,
And any sense of piety must leave them hollow.
How extreme must their son appal
For such a code to be needed at all ?

Surely this was only spoken
To deal with the psychopaths among them ?,
The ones who threatened until they were broken,
The monsters and parasites dressed as young men.
How else could they protect their town
When a rabid dog was skulking around ?

But even setting the problem of evil aside,
Is this the best defence ?
Why must the Lord make the parents decide
When enough is enough ?  It beggars all sense –
It’s just too cruel for anyone
To have to denounce their troubled son.

But honestly, I have my doubts,
That this is what is meant by it at all –
And if it is, it needs to spell it out,
Just why they’re thrust against the wall,
To stop the zealots stoning ev’ry child
By judging surliness as ‘running wild’.

Thank goodness we ignore such spite,
And wonder why we keep such books around.
For there’s a psychopath, alright,
But he’s not the frightened kid upon the ground –
Rather, he’s the one with crazy eyes
Who gladly casts the first stone from the skies.

Pierglass

~ Toastingfork ~ Leave a comment
All Is Vanity by Allan Gilbert

Pierglass

People are funny with mirrors,
We see in them things that were never reflected.
We peer into glasses in gloomy old houses,
And swear that the ghosts of the vain are detected –
Sort of like negative-vampires,
Who can only be seen in their opposite form,
As a shadow that moves on the edge of our sight
When the candlelight blinks in the empty old dorm.
We whisper into the speculum,
And fancy we glimpse at the face of another
From out of the silvery clouds in the tarnish –
A movement, a flicker, our killer, our lover.
We treat them as if they were watching,
To open a portal to trap the unwary.
But deep down we know that they only reflect us –
Perhaps that’s precisely what makes them so scary…

Tyto & Stryx

~ Toastingfork ~ Leave a comment
Photo by DSD on Pexels.com

Tyto & Stryx

I grew up on farms, I knew my barns,
And knew the owls inside.
As paragons of myths and yarns,
They sure did love to hide.
But even with their silent wings, I’d sight
Their calling card,
And know they still clocked-in each night
From pellets round the yard.

The barn owls are the perfect owls,
In look and lore and size.
With heart-shaped masks and earless cowls,
And wisdom in their eyes.
Until, that is, they won’t stay mute,
But let loose with their speech –
And utter not a single hoot,
But a disappointing screech.

I heard the twits and twooing too,
From tawnies in the trees,
But only from a distance, flute and mew,
In two-part harmonies.
Yet round the barns, I only hear the shriek,
Not the trill of charm –
The wrong voice for the owl I seek,
Of the poet of the farm.

Owls, of course, have their own concern,
And do not care for me.
And I should take their lead to learn
To let their natures be.
So when the golden hour is full of cries
I now can grin
As the night-shift owls in the barn arise
And start reporting-in.

Masquerageous

~ Toastingfork ~ Leave a comment

Masquerageous

I’ve heard, before October’s through,
That Jesus dons a pair of horns.
Yet can it be, on Halloween,
He parties like he’s seventeen ?

Do you suppose, the Devil too,
Wears white beneath a crown of thorns ?
With eyes of innocence and calm,
And fake stigmata in his palm ?

And in a nightclub, might they meet
Their mirror-image of yesterday.
Perhaps they’re secretly impressed
With how their counterpart is dressed.

I guess a glance is how they greet,
A silent shock and smirk that say:
“Enjoy my life, and burn it bright –
I shan’t be needing it tonight.”

The Biology of Night

~ Toastingfork ~ Leave a comment
Photo by Vlad Bagacian on Pexels.com

The Biology of Night

Do you feel the cold nip ?,
Do you feel the dark creep ?,
Do you feel your chest grip,
And lungs rasp, and heart leap ?
Whatever else is in this dark,
You think,
It’s not alone out here –
For it must share this lonely park
With both you and your fear.
You hear that ?  Hark…
Don’t blink,
Don’t make the blood rush through your ear.
Ba-dump, ba-dump,
Your throat a lump,
Your calm but an veneer.
Now all your senses are abuzz,
To ev’ry twitch and sigh –
You only feel alive because
You’re too afraid to die.

Do you bite your numb lips ?,
Do you count each heart thump ?,
Do your prickled fingertips
Clench fast each time your teeth jump ?
Whatever else is in your mind,
You think,
It’s not alone in there –
For it must stalk your misaligned
And overactive lair.
Don’t look behind,
Just blink,
Before your nerves fly ev’rywhere.
Ba-dump, ba-dump,
Your tremors pump,
Your heart recites a prayer.
And yet, be thankful when it does,
For this, at least, is real –
You only feel afraid because
You’re still alive to feel.

Dedication to her Art

~ Toastingfork ~ Leave a comment
Old School Goth by IrenHorrors

Dedication to her Art

She is a Goth in black and pale,
In a daily cosplay, a loudmouth mime –
I muse if the process ever gets stale ?
But she’s on the dole, so I guess she has time.
On the days when I see her looking very boring
Is a day when I think she prob’ly has an interview –
But otherwise, I see her chequered like the flooring,
Posing for commuters as we hurry on through.
In time, I guess, she’ll simply grow out of it,
And land that job where she has to behave,
And sign-up for tennis, as if she never doubted it,
And marry into motherhood, and paint the architrave.
Until, one day, an unexpected photograph,
An over-awed grandchild, and it all comes back –
With a flicker of pride and an unassuming laugh,
And a tale of the daily pale and black.
Am I projecting ?  I think I’m projecting.
But every day, as her statement goes by,
I find myself once more reflecting
On how she’s the only one round here to even try.
Yet surely the Goths are braver when in company,
As freaks together, a performance shared ?
But her mates just slouch in their t-shirts,  grumpily –
And I am no different, I never would have dared…!

Wigging Out

~ Toastingfork ~ Leave a comment
Theatrical wigs, beards, &c. M by Library of Congress is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

Wigging Out

Prom queens, drag queens, jugglers, and spies,
Criminals, judges, actors in disguise –
Baldness, boldness, hide or tantalise,
It’s all just a cosplay in the end.

Human or synthetical,
Sacred or heretical –
It’s hair, but theoretical,
Where frank and fancy blend.

In bobs and updo’s, blond and brunette,
In fringe and ringlets, silver and jet,
A lace-front quick-change, no regret –
It’s all just a snatch and a shake.

Compact and collectable,
Increasingly respectable,
From downright undetectable
To fabulously fake !