Paleo-Arctic

Pterosaur Snow Day by Nix Draws Stuff

Paleo-Arctic

Land first drifted this far North
In the Late Devoniun
And life had caught a ride as well,
Beneath the midnight sun.
In hothouse times, the land was free
Of frigid glacial scars,
And life was thriving in the dark
Beneath the midday stars.
And the jungles circled round the top
Right through the Pliocene –
When the brownest bear was polar,
And the Northern land was green.
In a million years from now, they’ll marvel how
Our current life clings on –
But there we are, continuous,
Since the Late Devonion.

The Deal

Artist at Work by Norman Rockwell

The Deal

A life of drudgery down at the office,
For a middle-class semi with a fence and a lawn,
With kids in school and a well-waxed Morris
And two weeks of sun – to payback for the yawn.
That was the deal – the promise of Capital –
One wage to raise a family of four,
And careers of tedium, long and unflappable –
Safe from starvation, detention, and war.
All over now.  The deal is defaulted –
All of the grafting, none of the perks.
The overdose of greed saw progress halted,
As the wageslave’s lot is lost in the works.

Fripperies

Altar Drake by Anne Stokes

Fripperies

Capitals, corbels,
Etchings and baubles,
Littered by the sculptors,
Foisted by the smiths.
Serifs and analogues,
Grace notes and shaggy dogs,
Wasting their energies
With tales and jokes and myths.
We tell them ev’ry time
That ornament’s a crime –
But they keep on disobeying
As before.
They’ll never realise
Till we poke them in the eyes,
To teach the little ingrates
Less is more.

Clumsfulness

Slave to Myself by Jason Brady

Clumsfulness

Delicate, nimble,
Steady as a gimbal,
A veritable symbol
Of dexterity –
But no such accolade
To perfect poise displayed,
Could ever be made
To maladroit me.
I’m subtle as a cymbal,
As sharp as a thimble –
I blunder and I bimble
With artless artistry.
My tiptoe is plantigrade,
My whisper a hand grenade –
A dancer, I’m afraid
Is a thing I’ll never be.

Ragged

Pietro Miliani’s Paper Mill in Fabriano by anon

Ragged

This sketching-pad was once a shirt,
This watermark a tablecloth –
The threadbare rags of moth
Shall live again.
As paper of the better sort,
Quite fit for constitutions,
And for banknote distributions –
It’s in the grain.

Yet when the papers bear the news,
The ‘rags’ are from the gutter press –
This label calls them worthless
In one gulp.
Strange, how the insult goes,
Yet fittingly, it also lied –
We’ll find no cotton pride
Within their pulp.

Brass-Cornered Boxes

Brass-Cornered Boxes

Wooden and leather bound, fit for a steamer,
A portable treasure chest, waiting for gold…
The trunk of a journeyman, noble, or dreamer
A personal world in a box in the hold.
What wonders are lurking, restrained by its lock ?,
To be served-up on life’s hungry trencher.
Not wanted on voyage – but oh, when we dock,
Then its contents shall spill-forth and venture.

Undrunk

French Press by George Ayres

Undrunk

Alcohol is a stranger,
I’ve never imbibed in my life.
I’ve always found its taste so vile,
And thus, tea-total is my style.
Its power becomes a danger,
It can only lead me into strife –
I cling to a dry piety
To shield in safe sobriety.
Ev’ry drunken friend is proof –
It makes them far more sad than arty.
Their wasted health and gifts are crimes –
As I slyly wish for Temp’rance times.
But I cannot help but be aloof
As the only sober at the party –
I wasn’t meant for a hedonist –
Though part of me wonders, what have I missed ?

I am fully aware of the etymology of the idiom ‘tee-total’, and I have decided that I don’t give a toss.

Sunk

Geist by Edward Dillon

Sunk

It’s the silence that hurts the most –
When our efforts are all ignored.
We’re never told what we’re doing wrong,
When our souls are mutely scored.
Did I offend you ?  Or bore you rigid ?
Is my writing just too bleak ?
So why can I not find people like me ?
Am I really so unique ?
I send my children into the void
To no reaction at all,
Even a groan at least shows you looked –
But I just bounce off your wall.
And yet, I know that I ignored others
When their work neither sang nor stung –
I’m just as guilty, crushing their dreams
By politely holding my tongue.

Sting

Four of Diamonds by Tony Meeuwissen

Sting

The hornet laid her sting in my leg,
Injected her toxic egg –
Her ovipositor dripping with yolk,
As if to joke how childbirth hurts.
The pain began in rapid pangs and spurts,
But at least, I said in spite,
At least it’s just a sting, this thing,
And not a hatching parasite…

Sweep

Chimney Swift by Thomas Gentry

Sweep

A bird fell down the flue last month,
And panicked round the sitting room –
Raising a squawk and spraying the soot,
Till shooed-away with a gentle broom.
Why did we have a chimney, anyway ?
We never light it !  A useless shaft !
Indeed, where was the bundle of rags
We’d stuffed-up the hole to stop the draught ?
Time to give it a final sweep,
And check it for cracks, and bring in a brickie.
An open fire may be romantic,
But getting the logs is increasingly tricky.
And let’s get a platform placed in the pot, up top,
To hold their twigs,
And let their charcoal wings replace the smoke
Of their rooftop digs.