Bank Holiday Monday – It’s just two Sundays in a row. Why must we clone the one day Where the time ticks-by so slow ? The world is closed by three, As people lose their appetite – And though we know tomorrow’s free, We stay home Sunday night. Then comes the dreaded day When we have to do stuff, rain or gust, We must not let it waste away Without the National Trust. But here’s a thought, I say, When we need a break to stay ahead – Let’s all take off a Friday, And get two Saturdays instead !
Rachel Weeping for her Children by Stephen Gjertson
Here Today
We’ll never know when our end shall be, The screen goes black, the credits roll, And wide awake or in our sleep, We’ll never know we lack a soul. Perhaps that’s why for some it’s tempting Taking matters in control.
I’ll never know how they make the choice, And they, alas, aren’t here to tell – Chronic pain or chronic guilt, Or pits of lonely, muffled hell ? I hope it’s not intense romantic folly That has cast its spell.
I’ll never know how they feel that way, So desperate to shed the weight – Yet if I’m honest, right now in my life Most things are not so great But never for a moment do I Seriously contemplate.
I’ll never know, and I hope I never will What makes them run aground. There’s always a chance of beauty, And belief it can be found – I’m certain that I’ll kick this slump And you’ll be seeing me around.
Playing Marbles and Rag & Bone Man by Steven Scholes
Mongers
We used to be just simple merchants – Iron, fish, and cheese, And jack-of-produce costermen – The traders in the bare necessities. But now we’re only spoken off As rumour, scare, and war – We’re jack-the-lads of shadowmen, Now hawking abstract concepts door-to-door.
My brother is a part of me, I carry him within He will forever be my twin. We joined our forces in the womb, Became a greater whole, The soul with whom I share my soul. Behind these eyes, within this skin, Above our common tongue – Our mutual breath is in each lung, But in our synapses we part, Although I hear his thoughts – They burn in me like sparks in quartz. But those are his, that other voice, That telepathic call – I have no choice but hear them all. For he’s the evil, I’m the nice, Yet brothers of the blood – Our heart beats twice, our sinews flood, And we will fight to shine or sin As only brothers could… I mostly win – that’s why I’m good. But don’t be shocked and don’t blame me When he must have his fun – For we are we, and we are one.
I lived the life I lived because I found myself alive with life to spare. I sang the songs I sang because The songs were short, and cheap, and ev’rywhere. I did the things I did because The things I did were needing to be done. I trod the path I trod because I had to tread a path, and here was one.
Last Autumn, all your leaves came down – Just like they must each year. But seeing them when dead and brown, And unlike all the rest in town, Is just too late, I fear. I should have seen them all when green ! But now I wondered – what tree had we here ?
Big, they were, the largest, broadest leaves In all this urban wood And finger-lobed, for holding-up the eaves, And poking now from gutter-sleeves About the neighbourhood. My thought was fig, with leaves that big, Yet far too gropey to do Eve much good.
But I, alas, might never even know, For once your leaves were shed – The shears came out and brought you low, As all your branches had to go And left your trunk for dead. No tree could sleep with cuts so deep – You surely won’t be rising out of bed…
April was well underway before Your twigs began to sprout. And then, such tiny hands they bore, As ev’ry day a couple more To prove you yet were stout. At this rate Fall would claim them all Ere half the sun-grab hands were even out !
But then I looked a little lower, Where some suckers crowd the roots – While your wounds may heal the slower, Round your foot you’re still a grower Shooting out a dozen shoots. Succour feeders, weed succeeders, Sucking sunshine into fruits.
May saw plenty spindly upper twigs – A hedgehog on each bough, To carry leaves, so close, so big, As if they’d snap right off the rig, But seemed to cling on anyhow. As June grew late, they put on weight As fleshy forearms now.
By summer, something stirred in me, A memory about the bumps That swell no larger than a pea – They’re really next’s year’s fruits-to-be. But here, of course, there were no lumps – For what life stirred was secateured Down to your barest stumps.
So will I have to wait another year To see your fruits in Fall ? I wonder if I’ll still be here… You will, of course, that much is clear – You’re bursting branches big and small. Unless your twigs are lacking figs Because you never were a fig at all…
Right at the bottom of the Zodiac, he lies – At the bottom of the garden, at the bottom of the sky – Barely rising high enough above the privet hedges, As he’s hugging the horizon – just a hello and goodbye. Battling through the light-infested night (plus those long evenings), Peeking out from skies that are perpetually grey – From the top floor of a tower block, I bet he looks a treat, But for us, he’s always hidden by the roofs across the way.
The Christian Martyrs’ Last Prayer by Jean-Léon Gérôme
Damnatio ad Bestias
The lions weren’t alone in the Colosseum To kill the priests – Not that there were none, But the Romans also had their fun With boars, and bulls, and dogs, especially dogs, To be the beasts. Their moment was the lunchtime lull When public executions filled the interval – And some, I guess, were Christians, Making up the Lions’ feasts.
Of course, a Colosseum death Was for the criminals – And Christians weren’t that often used To feed the animals. Persecution was rarer than lions – It happened, but only in spurts. But how to vilify Roman indiff’rence And un-martyred lack-of-hurts ? We needed far more dramatic saints, So unleash the lions and uncork the paints !
Reapers sweep the scythe And sheafers bush the sheaf – Gathering the harvest, Gathering the grain – Threshers thresh the flail To tear the seed from leaf – Gathering the harvest, Holding off the rain – Winnow-women winnow, And siever-maidens sieve, Prizing out the pearls That the golden ears give – For to the corn we’re born, And by the wheat we live. Bringing home the harvest down the lane.
Once it took a village, And ev’ry boy to spare – Gathering the harvest, Stooked and ricked and mown – Now it takes machines, With no use for man or mare – Gathering the harvest, Gathered to the bone – Children of the corn And cottage-kitchen wives Are spared the broken backs And spared the broken lives, With Summers never shorn By the sweeping Reaper’s scythes – So bring us home the harvest on your own.
Rhyming Couplets 