Middle-Class Voodoo

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Photo by Joy Marino on Pexels.com

Middle-Class Voodoo

The Wiccans are newer than Mormons,
Are older than Jedis,
As ancient as Hubbard and Xenu.
For all that they claim to be Pagans,
They’re Beatniks and Hippies,
And Goths in a green hue.

And that’s all fine,
They’re free to be free –
With crystals and Maypoles and love-spells galore.
But there’s a good reason
They call it all New Age –
There never were witches at Salem, for sure !

So write your magick with a K,
And write your faerie with an E,
And dance around Stonehenge all day –
But you ain’t fooling me.

These magpies of Masons and folklore
Make far more sense
As their Twentieth-Century selves.
The Wiccans belong with the Martians,
From skiffle to hemp-heads –
Suburbanite dreamers and nuclear elves.

Uh-Oh

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Nastia by Igor Vitkovskiy

Uh-Oh

The clock is ticking,
Fuse is lit –
So no more bricking,
This is it !
Oh no,
There’s still a long and rocky road to go.
Let’s chomp down on the bit,
For we’ll never get to reap unless we sow.

The walls are shaking,
Floor’s on fire,
The news we’re breaking’s
Looking dire –
Whoa-whoa,
Looks like we’ll have to take this blow-by-blow.
For if we don’t aspire
Then we’ll never overcome the status quo.

Our spirit’s flagging,
Muscles cramp,
Our mojo’s sagging,
Powder’s damp –
How so ?
We’ve faced the ebb, now let’s surge with the flow !
So up-and-at-em champ,
Cos when danger’s high, it’s too late to lie low.

We’re all we’ve got,
Let’s try somehow,
The iron’s hot,
The time is now !
Hey-ho,
Let’s buckle-up and get on with the show.
It’s time to give this world some wow
And leave behind a golden afterglow !

Orogeny

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Orogeny

You told me how you loved me,
As deep as the magma beneath our very feet –
Erupting, flowing, building, forever,
Melting the stoniest heart with its heat.
You told me how you loved me
As tall as the Andes, and ev’ry bit as tough –
I thought we were raising mountains together,
But in the end, it was nothing but a bluff.

Fowl

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The Flying Chicken by ARTCELO

Fowl

Chickens can fly, if they want to,
Turkeys too,
Though they rarely do.
Peacocks can manage the haul,
Tails and all,
When they need to shoo.
So don’t let anyone tell you
That they’re grounded – he hasn’t a clue.
They may be lazy, yes,
And yet these flightless always flew.

Carapace Steeplechase

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Carapace Steeplechase

The pangolin and the armadillo
Are worthy mounts for a knight,
Though they only ever battle ants,
And their snouts are lacking a bite.

With a pingo-pongo-pangolino,
Clanking, swanking, tank–bambino –
Overcoat from head to toe –
Hi-ho for a skin of nails !

They’re faster than the tortoises,
And faster than the snails –
With scutes from shoulder-blades to boots,
In a bodysuit of scales.

But the armadillo and the pangolin
Are secret devils for a thrill –
They curl-up in their tightest balls
And roll full-tilt downhill.

With an armadilla-dilla-dilly-day-oh,
With a three-band-six-band-nine-band-go,
In a concertina rodeo –
Hi-ho for the bonded mail !

They’re tougher than the rhino,
And they’re tougher than the whale –
With clout – from a stainless-steel snout
To a tinplate-tempered tail.

Pangolin by Adam Tusk

Forget-Full

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Forget-Full

There’s some things I’ve forgotten
That I know that I’ve forgotten –
That I notice where the hole is,
Where the synapses are rotten.
Yet there’s other things, I swear,
I never knew, were never there –
But they clearly weren’t important
As they fall into the air.

Nest

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Photo by Evelyn Chong on Pexels.com

Nest

Home is where the twigs are,
Where the scraps are woven into walls –
From muddy flops to treetop digs,
The nesting instinct calls.

Home is where the eggs are
Where the young are building into birds –
Until it’s time to stretch the legs
And join the roaming herds.

When Saturday Came

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When Saturday Came

It’s always one-nil, for or against,
In my memory,
Always four-four-two.
Grandad would take me, shine or rain,
In my memory,
Were we the red or the blue ?
Half-time pies and always singing,
Stripey scarves across the board,
And Grandad smiling, regardless of winning
In my memory,
Espec’ly when anyone scored !

Scallies

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Scallies

The scallop is the seafood of the gods,
The oyster of the Hells,
When plucked from out their wavy pods
And slurped within their shells.

As succulent as seaborne lambs –
Just witness Venus and St James,
United in their love of clams
To winkle from their frames.

James prefers his upside down,
As if to hide a pea beneath,
While Venus separates the crown
And scoops out with her teeth.

James gives pilgrims empty shells,
To aid in their devotion.
Venus mounts hers in hotels
To pose on with no clothes on.