Monday, 29 February 2016

By My Beard

By my beard and sandals shall you know me,
By the bushy nature of my facial hair
So natural, God given and gingery.
You see my whiskers and can never doubt me,
You know that I'm a man and not some tranny,
(Though you sense that if I met one I'd show pity.)
You see me and think God or Karl Marx?
And then we speak and you're left none the wiser.

In all things it's my Bishop who's adviser,
And he wants me to reach out, but not cause sparks,
To the followers of Islam in my parish
So I grew this bush of bright and burning copper,
Not to hide my light or His but to establish
A rapport with other men who preach
The word of God or Allah,
And I find that those who love death metal,
Can relate, and we discuss Valhalla.
And young hipsters, though they concentrate on looking cool,
Thinking mostly of themselves, still yet respect,
This most masculine example of our quirky English sect.

Sunday, 28 February 2016

All That Is Left Of Me

All that is left in my head,
Is this stream of song,
This endless melody.

There are shadowy words which cannot be said
Unless they are part of the liturgy,
The meaningless chant I repeat all day long,
And the songs are from somebody's childhood,
Though I'm not really sure it was mine.
They sometimes seem rude, sometimes silly,
And sometimes they're wobbly  and wrong.
But most have an inherent structure
And exist in a world of their own,
And once I begin them, I sing them
And feel that I'm not quite alone,
As if there's a woman inside me,
That wishes to maintain some order
Who bustles about and trots these things out
Always wanting someone to applaud her.

There are only daft songs in my head
And sometimes I sing them in bed
And wake up the others, who scream.
And the tunes are so pretty
The words are so witty, 
I sometimes believe it's a dream.
But the night nurse bursts in and makes nightmares,
And the songs become sorrowful sobbing,
And the tunes become minor, descending
Into treacle black fear, never ending,
That I am quite mad and I'm dying;
And my mind won't come right,
Till my crying, 
Turns once again into singing.

Tuesday, 23 February 2016

The Tory Boy ( To the tune Vicar of Bray)

In Mrs Thatcher's golden days
When loyalty no harm meant
A zealous, right wing boy was I
And so I gained preferment.
I spoke such patriotic words
I never disappointed
Yet now myself I contradict:
I'm to the Lords appointed.

And this is the rule by which I'll abide
And stick to it with joy, Sir,
Whichever fashion shall preside,
I'll still be Tory Boy, Sir.

When Party Leader I became
And youth was in the fashion
I wished to look quite kind and tame
So I took up compassion
A baseball cap I found would fit
My head and I could ration
My principles, and look a tit,
Yet could not rule the nation.

When David our deliverer came,
To heal the nations grievance,
A soggy liberal I became,
To him I swore allegiance.
Of principles I often spoke
My conscience would not be at a distance,
We'd not resile nor yet revoke
Humanitarian assistance.

And when the referendum came,
All thoughts that I'd held dear,
I swept away for that's my game 
Yet truly I'm sincere,
For who needs principles at last,
When sitting on the Lords benches,
And comfy in my feathered nest
While governed by the Germans and Frenchies.

And this is the rule by which I'll abide
And stick to it with joy, Sir,
Whichever fashion shall preside,
I'll still be Tory Boy, Sir.

Saturday, 20 February 2016

"He Who Sacrifices Freedom For An Illusion Of Security Deserves Neither." B. Franklin

(David Cameron declares his EU renegotiation a success)

He who sacrifices freedom 
For the approval of men who have sacrificed theirs
(And whose skill is in bungling then hiding mistakes)
And takes his seat on the rearranged chairs,
Which cover the holes and the rust,
On the deck of the sinking ship;
He who hails his own triumph
And demands loyalty on pain of excommunication;
He who claims victory in negotiation
Having failed to equip
His counterparts with the necessary sense 
That he was sincere;
He who thinks a few old crusts are recompense
Sufficient to endear
Himself to the people who gave him the power
To ensure
That freedom would not be sacrificed,
That Sovereignty was secure;
He who plays high stakes,
Believing stakes are low
And loses every card,
Yet thinks he wins
Is not a man in whom to put one's trust,
But rather one to disregard.

Monday, 15 February 2016

Tinder Valentine

My love is like a pubic louse
That flits from host to host
He picks up girls on dating apps
And notches the bed post.
He's pale and ghastly as a crab,
And really makes me scratch,
He likes my hair and likes my baps,
He really is a catch.

I only slept with him one time
But he's the one for me
He's as stylish as a bag of slime
A walking STD.

Saturday, 13 February 2016

What Is Left?

I wrote this after coming across a shaky, hand made video of a small, rather overgrown garden, with a bench in the sun.  It had been posted on Youtube to accompany Kathleen Ferrier singing 'What Is Life?' by Gluck ( in English).  It was the anniversary of my mother's death, so such things were obviously on my mind, but I thought of several other old ladies besides, I had known, all keen gardeners and keen music lovers, all born in the 1920's and the gardens they left behind.

A scruffy garden bench, which faces south,
Whose flaking, bright blue paint
And greening wooden slats
Will not, again, receive your greatful weight;
As shuffling from the door,
A tiny figure, small and bent,
In excess clothing, "just a hunch"
You find it with your hands and sink.
And words of gratitude and curses, both,
Escape your mouth
As you turn your face,
Steroid soft as risen dough, collapsed,
Towards the sun.

Jasminum Nudiflrum, over-grown
I can't cut back,
Knowing how you loved it.
Those blasted concrete urns
Once filled with gaudy geraniums,
Now tinged with the faint, taint
Of silly, blazing rows, about good taste.
Two rubber, khaki kneeling mats,
Cast among a patch of purple bugle,
Almost concealed: so long since you kneeled.
The borders over grown and gone to waste,
Thickets of shrubs and other places, bare.
And those sinks,
Filled with endless alpines, small and rare
That took up so much time and so much care,
Then withered, shrivelled, burned,
The minute that your back was turned.

Tuesday, 9 February 2016

Youtube Playlist.

How fair this spot, 
This tatty arm chair by the fire,
Where music warms and calms, 
And where desire, expressed in melody 
And graceful, peaceful, arching phrase,
Becomes a thing of abstract beauty,
And the days of endless rain and biting wind 
Have no effect at all upon the mind.
How exquisite is the hour, 
Spent where the lake lies blue
And songs of love and happiness 
Seem dreams which might come true.

Monday, 1 February 2016

So Open Minded

So open minded that their brains fell out
And that was years ago.

Now they make do with a little rind
A small amount of pith, 
That clings to the inside
Of the skull, 
And still their heads are open wide,
And still they sense that they know best
(As they cannot think)
Because they believe in the myth
That they are 'liberal'.

And still they find
Others who agree 
And reinforce their view
Informed by nought but emptiness,
A space of air
Beneath the hair, 
A vacuum where

There should be mind.