Friday, 21 January 2022

Where?


I dream of some grey Georgian town,

Not blackened by industrial years,

But grey within its very bone.

One can perhaps dream new ideas,

But not invent false places

Built of granite stone.


The sea lies to the right of it,

But leaves few traces

Upon the old homes’ faces,

Symmetrical and open

Honest, neutral, not unkind.

And at the sight of it

I’m full of hope and know I’m back,

To somewhere real in my mind,

And wander up dead grassy track,

Bleached stalks turned pink in early dawn,

Are bending slightly in the breeze,

Where the Georgian houses stop

And Gothic villas peter out,

The residential edge, no shop,

Or pub to let it down,

No children here to shout,

No one at all about,

Except the corvids,

Assessing the suitability

Of a coppice of wind gnarled trees,

For nesting?

Calling each other, ‘Jack!’

Beside the old, dead farm

Adjoining its burned out barn,

Its roof long gone

Exposing a fragility

Of rotting beams and holed floors

Empty windows, sagging doors,

And ivy covered to the top,

Square and solid, empty charm,

Steeped in deep tranquillity.





Thursday, 20 January 2022

I went To A Marvellous Work Do

I went to a marvellous works do

With Boris and Carrie as well 

It was in the fresh air 

And we went as we were 

But we were n’t really there, 

I’ve heard tell


People’s behaviour

Away from Belgravia 

Is nothing like as blasé

As that in SW1A

It would make you aghast,

So much variety

Watching society

Scampering past

If you have any mind at all

Gibbon's divine Decline and Fall

Seems pretty flimsy

No more than a whimsy

By way of contrast

On Saturday last

I went to a marvellous works do

I must say the fun was intense

We did what we knew

Unashamed, in full view

Such things as people like us always do,

Will be doing a hundred years hence.


I went to a marvellous work do,

It might have been a ball,

And somebody swung from the chandelier

Though who it was

I have no idea,

Though I’m sure their apology’s most sincere

And nothing will change at all. 





 

Wednesday, 19 January 2022

On Bullshit

 On Bullsh*t


Someone wrote the essay,

So I shall write the verse,

Lying's really awful,

But bullshit's so much worse,

To lie one must at first concede

That truth must fit its place.

To lie is always to mislead,

To hide the truth so no faint trace

In evidence is left behind

To aid the honest, open mind,

Which questions falsehoods when they jar,

Against the facts as known so far.

Yet 'tangled webs' that liars 'weave'

'When first they practise to decieve'

Are evidence that their intent

Is some small part acknowledgement

That truth somewhere exists.

Bullshit brazenly persists,

No sense of how it might compare

To truth, its smirking face is bare,

It neither hides, nor turns, nor twists

Just flings itself upon the air

Audaciously and doesn't care,

And yet is proud and self aware.


Blue Flowers

 The flowers of my dreams are blue

And seem to be the ones that grew

In childhood’s garden, long ago,

Which when abandoned, left to grow,

Produced an even deeper hue

And stained with sadness all I knew

And changed the light that filtered through,

So strange notes are the ones I know,

The flowers of my dreams.

And harmony is odd, though true,

Contrived, made up in lieu

Of what is lost, yet still must show

That beauty’s blooms are tinged with woe,

Such linseed acres, not a few,

The flowers of my dreams.