A la Cartload
All-you-can-eat is the cruellest of buffets,
While desp’tately trying to try one-of-each,
Until we are bloated with penny-pinched stuffing
For money’s-worth dining that’s still out-of-reach.
They all end in failure, and then in self-loathing,
A plate beyond appetite, starting to cloy –
Tight in our budget and tight in our clothing,
We go back for thirds that we never enjoy.
Writing by Heart
I can remember learning at school
The poems I had to learn by heart –
And yet I cannot recall them now,
We’ve slowly drifted apart.
It’s a shame,
Because some songs demand our remembering,
Work all the better when read heads-high,
With eyes in contact, and tongues in confidence,
Proudly aloud and never to be shy.
Sometimes, when I’m writing a line,
I think of someone decades hence –
Someone having to learn it at school,
Trying to make it make sense.
I’m to blame,
Because good luck committing me to memory,
With all of my showing-off to distract.
I’ll try to keep it short to make things easier,
Hope you can make it to the end intact.
But pray, allow me one more verse,
To make my case, one hit-or-miss.
And if you stumble, I shall not mind,
I’ve mangled far better than this.
All the same,
In those moments when it all comes together,
When the words are at the ready to be read –
I wish I could remember like I hope you can remember,
For no poet wishes to remain unsaid.
Brook Street Jam
A statue of two men – one plays a harpsichord,
The other one leans as he noodles a guitar.
His lead, I notice, is plugged-into the keyboard,
His fingers on the neck in a c-sharp bar.
Two blokes lost in the moment, forever –
George with his collar loosened at the throat,
With multiple strings of borrowed beads,
And his arms pulled-out from the sleeves of his coat.
Jimi, meanwhile, has hitched-up his kaftan on one side,
To access the pocket of his jeans –
With a periwig perched atop his wild hair,
And purple boots (though the colour can’t be seen).
A little-bit larger than life-size, of course,
But with no cordon or pedestal here –
So easy, so pleasing, to reach out and touch them –
The impossible past has never felt so near !
The people like to pose and the pigeons like to perch,
And the verdigris and lichen are a psychedelic stain.
No plaque or explanation – we know who they are,
As they’re basked in the sun and they’re washed in the rain.
Their eyes are open, but surely unseeing,
Pointing at the keys or looking at the sky –
Communing with their muse, as if she is their singer,
To an audience of shoppers who hurry on by.
One wonders what they might ever have talked about,
Between the numbers, on languid nights –
With George very much the establishment man,
And Jimi outspoken on civil rights.
From diff’rent eras and diff’rent generations,
Baroque versus blues – yet they’re finding a way –
The statue, of course, is eternally silent,
And leaves it to the viewer to hear what they play.
In truth, Jimi only lived in the flat three months, but it’s still tempting to wonder what they might have said if a mixture of time travel and hallucinogens had brought them together. Both immigrants, both musicians, but there the comparisons pretty much end. Yet sometimes, it’s worth finding some common ground for the sake of a good tune...
Loonies
The moment I hear the word ‘privilege’,
I re-tune my mental dial –
And ‘problematic’ sends me to sleep,
And ‘gaslight’ sets me up for bile.
But the word which most puts me on edge
Is ‘woke’, by a country mile –
It isn’t that devastating or deep,
And more a case of a trendy style.
It sorrows me when my own damn side
Pontificate like they’re seventeen.
For once, can we all take a few long breaths
Before we vent our righteous spleen ?
Myself included – I take no pride
In admitting to what an arsehole I’ve been.
We’re meant to be nice guys, we on the left –
A republicker shouldn’t be a stroppy queen !
Kithdred
We look out for our own,
But our own can be more than our genes.
Our neighbours are fam’ly of a diff’rent bone,
While strangers and enemies and inbetweens
Are no less important a-cornerstone
As noisy, teeming teens.
To make it a good home takes all of you,
For blood is thinner than glue.
Gate-Keepers & Fate-Reapers
Time was, when a budding poet
Only needed to send a sample in
To a magazine or publisher,
For them to recognise their kin –
A fellow wordsmith, to be lauded,
Calliope’s very twin !
I guess their sheer class shone through –
By which I mean their bourgeoisie.
For had a working-lad likewise,
There’s be no welcome-mat for he.
These days, of course, they snub us all the same –
Well, that’s equality…
Let Our Freak Flags Fly
These days, ev’ryone has their flag,
Their brand, their team –
I see them as their colours stream upon the breeze.
I don’t know what they mean,
Not any of these –
But they sure look grand !
These layer-cakes in purple, pink, and green
To folks in far-off lands
That will never be reached by me first-hand,
But it’s good to know they’re there,
That they still get seen.
And those who fall-out inbetween,
The citizens of elsewhere,
Who are ev’ry bit as keen to share –
Not part of this, nor part of that,
Yet part of where our culture’s at –
They’re hesitant to wear the stripes we’ve flown,
Or sport our crest –
Well, there’s always room within the nest
For strangers with another face –
They get to make a banner of their own,
To fly with all the rest.
Eventu’ly, I’ll see it grace
A new lapel or wedding dress –
Another flag I cannot place,
But somebody salutes, I guess.
Well, good for them – what’s one more more-or-less ?
Note that St George’s Cross should not be left out of the fun.
Finally, allow me to introduce the strangely Irish-looking Edgar, as voiced by my decidedly London-born friend John Dobson.
Finally, we have an avatar with a real human voice, provided by my good friend Jo Matthews. Thanks Jo !
Young and Byronic, Hereward is the moodiest virtual poet since Speak & Spell
Rhyming Couplets 