Preta-Manger
The Buddhists believe in the hungry ghosts,
Who need to feed –
So paper models of modern life are burned,
To sate their greed.
Good to know that the heavenly hosts
Are capitalists,
Hording the hell-money they never earned
In their undead fists.
Headbanger
Whyever are woodpeckers
Logged by how they’re spotted ?
Why are we such checkers
Of how many lots we’ve totted ?
And is the greater-spotted greater
In the number of its spots ?,
Or is its name a commentator
On the quality of dots ?
Or is each polka such a size,
They’re practic’ly uniting ?
Or are the spots our searching eyes,
Recording ev’ry sighting ?
Since woodpeckers are more likely to be heard than seen, perhaps it’s a reference to Spotify…?
Inter-Rings
A chain is an intermittent cable,
Links half-full of air,
Excluding weight, whenever able,
Just enough to keep it stable –
But chains have noise enough to spare,
When dropped upon the table,
Or creaking swings, or armour-wear,
Or rattled in a dungeon liar.
Winter Jacks
Jack Frost and Jack Thaw,
Mortal enemies –
Fighting over water drops
In air and stone and trees.
Jack Frost gets in early,
But then Jack Thaw wins the day,
But once the Sun has set, we see
Jack Frost come out to play.
Angel & Demon
Ev’ry cherub has a good side,
Has a cute and blond-curled nonesuch,
Muted-trumpet, harp-soft-touch.
But deep within, they surely hide
A grinning, sharp-horned, prong-tailed whiplash,
Bass-drum-beating, cymbal crash.
The truth is, in ev’ry Gabriel,
A Lucifer is also present –
Ready, should things get unpleasant…
But likewise, in the darkest Hell,
In ev’ry Beelzebub in town,
A Michael waits to calm things down.
Castles
The Normans came to Wales,
And smashed their stones upon the ground,
And built them up to battlements,
Projecting might to all around.
Today, we go to Wales
To marvel at these ruined forts –
Each very Welsh and ancient keep
Forgotten Normans brought.
The Spacefolk came to Chile,
Raised their mirrors to the sky,
And perched them on the mountaintops
To see what they could spy.
Tomorrow, future Chile
Will still marvel at each ruined dome –
Each very old, Chilean fort
That looks so much at home.
Pepper-Leper
That subtle hint of rosemary,
That teasing tang of thyme,
Where parsley peps with a pleasing edge
And fennel venerates our veg.
The wisdom of the sage is free
To sing the zing of lime,
As basil dances on our tongues,
And spearmint sweetens-up our lungs.
But herbs in all their subtlety
Are pinched-off in their prime –
Just swamped beneath the mono-taste
With which are dished are debased
As cooks commit with careless glee
A culinary crime
Of blanding soups and stews and rice
With boring bucketfuls of spice.
Klepto by Stuart Dunkel
Wonderlust
When does a walk become a hike ?
When does a saunter start to stride ?
Upon how many trails must I strike
Before I get to the other side ?
When does a trek become a wander ?
When does a road not lead to Rome ?
Upon how many paths must I ponder
Before I get to go back home ?
Blood & Treasure
Fortune’s just another word for fate,
A golden road to tread –
A set of contacts in one’s purse,
As gifted by the Universe.
A set of circumstances on a plate,
A warm and feathered bed –
The world is brandy and cigars,
As laid out in the genes and stars.
Yet fortune’s just another word for luck,
A trove of bonus corn –
For what is an inheritance
But life’s epitome of chance ?
You didn’t earn this gold you’ve struck,
Except by being born –
And yet you think you’re somehow worth
This prize you’ve stolen from the earth.
Just Add Light
What colour is gold that does not shine ?
Is it brown, is it yellow, or beige ?
Would silver be thought as quite so fine
If its greys glittered less with age ?
Diamonds have no colour or soul
Without their glint of a spark,
And jet is nothing but a lump of coal
If it’s only worn in the dark.
Rhyming Couplets 