Tuesday, 27 October 2020

Bluey-Greyey-Green

 Bluey Greyey Green


Have you seen 

That bluey-greyey-green?

When was it made?

Is it starting to fade? 

It’s of greyish-bluish mintage

Of course it is, it’s vintage,

It’s Morris Minor, sea foam,

Soft mist above the deep loam,

It’s shapely Denby pottery,

Whose glaze is matt,

Yet snottery

Tending more to greyish green, than blue,

Do tell me the name of this satisfying hue.

It’s Eau de Nil- dull duck egg-sage,

It’s the timelessness of age,

It encapsulates good taste,

Looks rather nice with salmon paste,

It will not date, it’s all the rage.


Is it greeny- bluey grey,

Or does it only look that way

In the English light of early dawn?

Is it distant frost across the lawn,

Is it mentioned in a list

Of most ‘quintessential shades’?

Is it mix of moulds all milky,

Genteelly tattered, silky,

Country house curtains,

Shadow dappled glades?

Is it the kindly eyes

Of a friend most dear and wise,

With a cataract lately grown?

Do tell me the name of this satisfying tone. 






Sunday, 25 October 2020

Insomniac's Prayer

 I am the one who lies awake,

I wish I weren't, I hate the woke.

God, let me sleep, for pity"s sake,

My hand, don't reach and with one stroke

Turn on the screen before dawn’s break

And make me read and scroll and poke

And click and sigh and tutt and make

My mind more active.  Slam the brake,

Stall the engine, don"t provoke

With Mail Online and Breitbart News,

Confirming all my bleakest views,

Attempt not humour, don't amuse,

Respond to aspirin downed with booze,

Leave me to drift, dream, doze, snore, snooze.



Thursday, 15 October 2020

Liverpool Pathway



You gave your name to cruelty,

To slow and painful end of life,

No, not starvation, dehydration,

Call it anything instead.

And now you’re going to die yourself,

And death for you shall also be

A euphemistic type affair,

You’ll think of it as number three,

And being red, not being dead.


How fitting such an end might seem

To those who’d teach you not to dream

Of Socialism’s saving grace

But have you look square in the face

At honest trade or dodgy scheme,

Which lies and twists, and which pretends

It needs no magic money tree,

Yet milks its sap, for special friends. 


You loved authoritarian ways,

You sang the Red Flag, gave high praise

To those who wished to end the days

Of freedom lovers grown irate

At freedom squashing, crushing state.

So here’s a chance to bow before

Officialdom, which you adore.



 

Sunday, 11 October 2020

I’m a Liberal (Not)

 


I’m a ‘liberal’ l.o.l. (not)

But I haven’t been found out yet

Well, actually I’m a bit of a Trot,

I’m liderally , a Communist, always upset.

I make lovely statements, but I forget

Policy which I espouse often hits the opposite spot

To that which was intended. But don’t fret,

I’m a ‘liberal l.o.l. (not)

My ideas are warm and damp, ideal for causing rot,

But I mean well, that’s what counts. You can bet

On some harm resulting from my politics, mostly quite a lot,

But I haven’t been found out yet.

Consequences don’t count, if your statements are wet,

Well intentioned, framed so they will slot

Easily in place within unthinking minds, and on the internet.

Well, actually I’m a bit of a Trot,

I’m young, rich, well connected, hot.

I don’t care for prudence, bring on the debt!

Those who’ll pay the price just haven’t got what I’ve got.

I’m liderally a Communist, always upset,

Wanting equality, never having met

A working class person, I just like to plot

And scheme and dream with a cigarette 

Paper close at hand. You’re probably a bigot

I’m (not)

Thursday, 1 October 2020

Two Herons

 


A heron flew up northwards with the tide,

We watched his pterodactyl, slow beat strength,

Until, upon a whim, he turned, retraced the length.

Another, larger, came up on the left hand side,

And both birds passed each other in an arc,

And dropped their long legs downwards like two cranes,

Depicted on a screen, against a dark

And glossy ebonised sheen. Now what trace remains

Of this strange dance, a captured image in my mind

Described in words, which fail to tell of how it seemed

A token of some truth vouchsafed, but unredeemed

And irredeemable. For birds do not leave keys or codes behind.

And all the stories of the souls of human dead

Or end of plague, are fictions from some human head.