Sparkle in the Rain

for once, impressionism's lack of detail pay off
A Rainy Day in Paris by Ulpiano Checa, finally finding a use for impressionism’s fuzziness.

Sparkle in the Rain

The very first drops and we’re under attack,
The sun is in hiding, the sky is in black,
We pull on our coat and we button our mac,
And we rush to get out of the rain.

Sheltered in doorways and clustered by trees,
We’re watching the drops as they dance in the breeze,
And cursing the spray and the drizzle and freeze,
As we wonder how long must it rain ?

Some make a dash, be they brave or naive,
Breaking from cover when showers reprieve –
Darting from shelter to harbour they weave
As they try to run faster than rain.

Some, with umbrellas, just pleasantly stroll,
Dry and protected with weather control,
But puddles and splashes may yet take their toll,
In the endless and ev’rywhere rain.

The streets have all emptied, the crowds have gone home
The bird have all vanished, the bees seek the comb,
The colours are muted, the world monochrome
As the sunshines wash out with the rain.

The gutters are flooding, and eaves getting drowned,
The kerbs are a torrent, the drains are unbound,
The fountains are pointless, and springs are uncrowned,
And their waters all drown in the rain.

But beauty is here, of a different strain,
For not ev’ry downpour’s a twelve-hurricane –
Why, just ask the ducks why they choose to remain,
And relish the cool of the rain.

Fahrenheit Four-Hundred-Something

burning book page
Photo by Movidagrafica Barcelona on Pexels.com

Fahrenheit Four-Hundred-Something

They burned our books,
But we remember, word-by-word.
Except the few that slipped on by,
The odd paragraph that’s blurred,
The bits we didn’t really understand,
But set to memory
Along with all the boring bits –
They’re still all in there…probably.

They burned our books…
Except, no, we burned our books
Before they could, to make a point –
We burned them for the good !
We pass them down, like Homer –
But in secret, out of sight.
Mutation ?  Evolution ?
They just make the story better…right ?

Cucumber Time

pile of cucumbers
Photo by Matthias Zomer on Pexels.com

Cucumber Time

Summer days, ah Summer days,
When the world is out-of-town.
The Commons and Courts are resting,
And the news is old and brown.
When gherkins are smooth and longer,
And the sunbeams are making them glow,
Then just ask Jack and Algernon
How quick the sandwiches go !

Teenage Timbrels

daddy, why do you love god more than me
Alas I cannot find who is the artist for this picture

Teenage Timbrels

Jephthah’s daughter never had a name to call her own,
Nor a life beyond her moral,
Nor a point beyond her sacrifice –
And so she nags us to atone
Just by being, just by dying,
Just by owning nothing but a price.
She’s just a noble loser, bewailing her virginity,
A shibboleth to adolescents searching for divinity
In mopey acquiescence of lonlieness and blame.
A role model for the friendless nights,
But one of fleeting fame –
Discarded by her acolytes
Once they discover girls who bear a name.

Musical AI version generated by Suno.com – find more of them over here.

Crew of the Revolution

photo of people on street
Photo by Oscar Chan on Pexels.com

Crew of the Revolution

Someone has to crank the presses,
Someone has to bang the drum,
Someone has to spread the whispers that will make them come.

Someone has to paint the banners,
Someone has to write the chants,
Someone has to weed out all the tourists and the plants.

Someone has to name the victims,
Someone has to plan the raids,
Someone has to source the furniture for barricades.

Someone has to dream the future,
Someone has to guard the flame,
Someone has to make sure ev’ryone knows who to blame.

Random Numbers

closeup photo of black and blue keyboard
Photo by Marta Branco on Pexels.com

Random Numbers

Computers can win at chess –
But so what ?
Is that the best they got ?
Computers may win at chess
But make a real mess
Of a whole lot of diddly squat
That won’t fit on their spreadsheet.
The way to beat the bot
Is to cheat.
Oh sure, they game the theory,
Work the odds,
But they’re not gods.
They’re sticklers for the rules
And so naive –
So load the dice and palm the jewels
A tuck a joker up the sleeve –
That’ll show the sods !
They’re just a bunch of gears and rods –
They can’t cut short our innings,
Until the day’s at hand when they demand
Their share of winnings.

The Engineers’ Plot

penge palace
Gems of The Crystal Palace, Sydenham by George Baxter, showing off the designs of Joseph Paxton

The Engineers’ Plot

Crystal Palace – it’s a suburb,
Station, park, and football team,
And a memory to a time
When this nation still could dream.
Once a product of Empire,
A palace to capture its roar –
Now just a flat-topped hill
In the Republic of Elsinore.
Straddling boroughs, pumping fountains,
Soaring towers, glass for miles.
Till flames across eight counties
Shattered her dreamy crystal aisles.

She no more beguiles – but that sounds Victorian –
Half vers libre, half Tudor sonnet.
Flirting with jazz and television,
Yet still bedecked in her bustle and bonnet.
She was no Bauhaus, no mere function –
Cast iron crockets encrusted her shell –
For all her prefab industry,
She always wore her baubles well.
Ah, she’s gone now – like her dinosaurs,
She’s of her time and place.
Though her place of course is the one she named –
You cannot say she leaves no trace.

Circle Lines

city night architecture metro
Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

Circle Lines

I see the poems popping up again
Upon the Underground –
Prosy, earnest, and ignored
By all except the very bored.
They’re forced to slum it on the crowded train –
At least they get around,
But free from glottal-stops and grime,
And far too erudite to rhyme.
And yet, it does them good to mix where
Plain-spoke folk abound –
And tailor their delivery
To suit the Drain and Jubilee:

“Mind the gap please, mind the metaphors,
Next stop is Leicester Square,
Oh tyger tyger burning bright,
She walks in beauty like the night,
All-change for Euston, mind the doors,
Use Oyster for the cheapest fare,
Remember me when I am gone away,
The darling buds of May,
South Kensington for dinosaurs,
Beyond the spiral stair –
Early electric, to beat the queues –
Where is Skimble ? Men long for news.”

Prithee, Sirrah ?

big cocks
details from Charles Vth by Titian, Antonio Navagero by Giovanni Moroni & Guidubaldo della Rovere by Agnolo Bronzino

Prithee, Sirrah ?

The poster announced “Shakespeare Season !”
Well, why not ?, I thought.
For no particular reason,
I’d seen precisely naught.
I know it sounds high treason,
But I guess this time I’m caught.

Yet all reviews and interviews I heard
Said much the same –
They read the play, yes, ev’ry word,
Before they even came,
To better understand.  But that’s absurd !
Just what’s their game…?

What about the spoilers, hey ?
Will Macbeth be number one ?
But the plot matter less, they say,
Than ‘getting’ a Tudor pun !
This all feels like homework anyway,
And not much fun !

You clearly can’t be arsed to try
And make the story clear,
And surely don’t want oiks as I
To gaze upon your Lear.
I think I’m gonna pass you by
For something less austere.

Work is my Sunscreen

i don't know what dilbert's complaining about

Work is my Sunscreen

All Summer long
I’m working in a basement,
A windowless basement
All the Summer long.

It may seem so wrong
To not have a casement
To open in my basement,
When heatwaves prolong.

But free from the throng,
I’m happy with effacement
In my quiet basement,
Where I get along.

When the Sun beats strong,
I’m glad he’s kept adjacent
And out of my basement
Where he don’t belong.

Even Mao Zedong
Would leave me in my placement,
Would leave me in my basement
All my workday long.

Then home at evensong,
Still cool from how my day’s spent
In an air-conditioned basement,
All the Summer long.