Monday, 12 June 2017

How It Really Is.

To love one's neighbour as oneself requires
One first to love oneself, so one might know
What sort of thing love is, yet it transpires
One is not lovable. One cannot show
One's neighbour love therefore, and so instead
One settles for a paltry substitute -
One stops just short of wishing he were dead.
Since if he were one could not institute
One's little squabbles over trivia
And breathe them into fiery campaigns 
And elevate them to quadrivia -
Important subjects, which he then disdains,
Refuses to address, but out of spite,
Pretends that at some future time he might.

Sunday, 4 June 2017

June







June is the woodworm month
When the b*st*rds hatch and fly,
Having taken their fill of the sapwood
They crawl out as adults to mate and die.

They eat nothing at all in this season,
Having taken their fill in their youth,
Though they seem to need wetness to thrive,
In such liberal doses we wonder why
We provided such conditions,
Nurtured, kept them alive,
Turned a blind eye to the truth,
And when challenged, disavowed.

Were we devoid of all reason
That we kindly hosted them
Allowed them to live among us,
Turn inherited beauty to dust?

Why did we not protect ourselves,
From the damp and the mould and the must?
Too late to call the Rentokill man
Too late to keep safe and dry,
Yet too late, simply to trust.
We just watch in tears, 
Crumble, perish.
And fear of killing our silly dreams
Keeps the poison in the can.

Why did we love what was modern, 
The untried and worthless cr*p,
Why did we scorn, and not prize what we had?
Why did we embrace and cherish 
Weak, back of the f*g pack ideas?
And why did we keep our best things hidden,
Questioning the existence 
Of innate good or bad?
Why did we really not care,
As the maggots grew strong on our sap?





Tuesday, 30 May 2017

The Time Before And The Time Afterwards



In the time before, there was May, in bloom,
Parts of April, parts of June, 
As if a wand had been waved over a canvas, 
Seventeenth century, Flemish, 
Turning burnt umber background to lapis lazuli sky,
Tulips, lilacs, roses in suburban gardens,
Lawns with daisies strewn.
In the time before there was love and irritation,
There was 'do your homework, tidy your room'.
There were your clothes folded neatly,
Which you would wear again,
Little worries about your education.
There were photographs that did not make me cry,
Of you, in blue checked romper suit,
Golden curls, apple cheeks, laughing eyes, not camera shy.
In the time afterwards there is May,
Whose beauty I will never love again.
There will be June and the thought of your not seeing it,
Other people's children pouring out of school,
And your not being amongst them,
And the great tight pain in my chest as I try
And fail to stop this sob becoming this great primeval wail.



Wednesday, 10 May 2017

2 am

The cat has no conception
Of the crime 'cultural appropriation',
He's howling and shouting as if he's Siamese.
Stalking the long corridor,
In my direction,
Testing acoustics he has tested before,
Caring nothing for my disapprobation,
His worms need feeding and he can't cope with his fleas.

Tuesday, 2 May 2017

The Loved One

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2017/05/01/rise-live-stream-funeral-half-venues-can-now-broadcast-services/

Nearly 50% of Funeral Venues have the capacity to live stream ceremonies via the internet:

"Mr Joyboy has fixed up the camera in the corner,
Your loved one looks, so beautiful,
We've given him the beatific smile,
I'm sure every mourner,
Here, and those who can't attend, but dutiful
To the idea of "paying their last respects",
Watching online, will agree.

Some of Mr Joyboy's special effects:
Eg. the "scream" as the coffin enters the furnace, you'll see
Go down particularly well,
With our more youthful clientele.
While older mourners, the ones who still insist
On being an "in person attendee"  
Find it a bit upsetting,  who can resist
The temptation to turn a funeral into a scene
From a horror movie,
Especially when it's going to be seen, on screen?

For an extra fee
Mr Joyboy can arrange knocking
To come from the coffin, 
And one of the undertakers to rush up with a key
To try unlocking it
And letting your loved one free,
Only to be defeated,
As the coffin rushes towards the fire.
The inevitable end, can be filmed in slow motion
Then repeated,
To drive home the memory.


Of course we all aspire
To show our devotion 
To our loved one in ways that are dignified,
We don't want our relatives and friends to be mortified,
But movies are best with some kind of action.
Take advice from Mr Joyboy,
An expert in both film and funeral direction."


Thursday, 6 April 2017

Some Form Of Umbrage



Some form of umbrage can always be taken,
And the small, perceived slight will always awaken
The mind to another small grudge, stored away,
Wrapped up with care, 
For a special occasion.
And the slighted are right, they are never mistaken,
And poke at their wounds all day
And dig in their heels and will not be shaken,
Enjoying the sense of grieved frustration,
Believing themselves alone and forsaken
By friends who might dare
To suggest that they are 
Victims of their own, 
Petty, imagination.




Saturday, 25 March 2017

The Cloud


This one's not filled with dreary rain,
This one is not like cotton wool,
This one is clear, invisible
And yet can easily be seen.
It is the great collective pool
Of thinking heads, which is our tool
Of choice, the indivisible
Whole, the merged, the well combined.
It has no centre, and no means
By which to shape its whole structure,
Yet each drop of human knowledge,
Each piece of wisdom from each mind
Furthers, changes, freshens, cleans.
Whole, made from sums of parts,
No rules in this richest college,
Just ideas meeting, blending,
Seamlessly and never ending.
Specialising and refining
Legitimising and defining.
The means by which we grow and aid
The growing of our fellow men,
And yet regarded with disdain,
Contempt:  it lends itself to trade,
The great resourceful, human brain.