Sunday, 26 February 2017

End of Feb.

The grey days weep
And the waters run where the paths are steep
And the waters seep when they cease to run
And the ways grow deep.
Great winds sweep
And we glimpse the sun
And sense life emerging from winter sleep
As the days grow longer
And seem to bring
A sense, quite false, that we grow stronger,
For we seize and limp
And fail to spring.






Wednesday, 15 February 2017

Hate Crime

I wrote this and the rondeau redouble about Hilary Clinton's women's march in the voice of a hysterical lefty, a sort of modern day Rick from 'TheYoung Ones' .




I hate crime, as a matter of course, I hate all crime,
I hate most of all a Hate Crime. One can't comprehend
the mindset of someone who hates all the time.
I can't stand people like them. They intend
to cause hurt, I am sure: they are vile, low life, pond slime.
They may not say aught to offend,
but one feels they are fascists; I'd like to drown them in quicklime.
I hate crime, as a matter of course, I hate all crime,
but Hate Crime is worst, there's no rhyme
or reason behind it, nobody can defend
thieves who hate their victims, ungrateful tapeworms living on chyme.
I hate most of all a Hate Crime, one can't comprehend
the attitude.  I'd be tempted to send
any found guilty of such to the gallows, I'd like to watch them climb
the steps, then see them drop, legs kicking. Bring back hanging, I'll gladly attend!
The mindset of someone, who dedicates his time
to hating others, because they are different, is alien, does not chime
with my way of thinking, at all. I would never spend
a minute meditating on how much I detested others, unlike these vermin, living in grime.
I can't stand people like them, they intend
to cause maximum suffering what with their insults and looks, but we'll get them in the end.
we beat Adolf, remember, and they're just like him. Imagine the joy, sublime
elation, ecstasy, we'll feel, knowing every hater's to be put on trial. And let's extend, 
redefine, include Tory thinking:  since Tories are scum we should digest them with an enzyme,
as a matter of course.

Saturday, 11 February 2017

After Reading A Spectator Review of "Death Of The Poets".

I must consider how I am to die,
If I am to be thought 'one of the greats,'
For though I write with humour, I must try
For fame.  Shall I: end up in dire straits
All riddled with disease that lingers, eats
Away at me from the inside; reach death
By accidental poison which depletes
My haemoglobin so that every breath
Is precious, wonderful; try suicide?
For how else shall my writing be imbued
With deeper meaning, something dark implied
Between the lines? And how shall what is crude
Be e'er transformed so that snort and chortle
Become tears and I become immortal?



Thursday, 9 February 2017

Soliloquy for boosting my self esteem

I am not now, nor have I ever been
A mad old cow.
Be gone dull care, for you little know me.
Indeed, it is my sanity, my real disposition,
Tells me silly things I say
Are not true, are flippant, not worthy of me.
This most average quantity, my share
Of sense, this brain all working normally
Is empirical proof.
Vanity might desire
That I am different, some other thing than most,
But that does not mean that I am a stupid old loony.
What a calm, quiet life I have led,
Have lived through each season
In sympathy. The quality
Of each and every task that I have undertaken
Has not been always the highest,
But that does not mean that I have failed.
As duty shapes my life
There isn't room for arrogance
And yet, I ask, what is this great hatred, disgust?
Self must never be
The central focus
Though by my writing I seem to say so.