Beginning

The day begins before the dawn,
In blackness, never velvet, soft,
But thin in contrast to the warm
Of fluffy cloud-like eiderdown.
With a stretch and stifled yawn
And John and Jim who pour forth scorn,
I dip a toe into the day
But lack the strength to face it down;
So snuggle back and moan and groan,
And watch the first wash, pale grey
That pushes navy blue away,
And crescent moon grows pale and wan.
My thinking seems to go astray
The 'bat black night' has not yet flown,
Dark shadows round the walls are strewn
But as they fade I tense and tune
The strings and fibres of my being, strain
Towards the need to form
Myself as me again.

Life Without Hope of Death

To live ‘as if each day might be the last’,

Fridge magnet cliché of the happy past,

Now I am 95 and living still,

In aimlessness and half arsed lack of will.

Complacent certainty of life is dull,

Nascent fear of immortality catalyst

To seeking what is best.  Now I am old

I’m speaking with what should be wisdom’s weight:

Gladly shouldered burden of experience. But

Sadly I repeat acquired ideas

I picked up cheaply, tawdry, second hand. 

For certainty of death’s not mine. I stand

As strongly now as I did in my youth,

And see no end in sight to guide.  The truth

Is self-indulgence leads to mediocrity,

The dreadful curse of guaranteed longevity

An Ofsted Inspector visits a Catholic School

I am an Ofsted,'Trojan Horse', Inspector here to question you,

To find out if you know that sometimes one and one might not make two.

Do you know the queens and queers of England, and their fights historical?

And know of the offence that’s caused by being categorical?

It’s no good saying that you’re good in subjects mathematical,

For sex is all we care about in theory and as practical.

About bisexual feelings you must be teeming with a lot o’ views,

For no one gives a toss about the square of the hypotenuse!

Are you any good at integrating?  Sod the bloody calculus!

And just make sure your pupils know conception’s not miraculous.

In short in matters gender centred, sexual political,

Your pupils must be most well versed or we’ll be highly critical.

These days RE is just considered silly, mythic history,

We need the kids to understand that girl love’s great, not sistery

And use such terms as genderqueer and see them as quite glamorous.

The Trinity should not be taught, except that it’s analogous,

To the confusion people feel about their heterosexual weirdness,

In this age where everybody’s made to celebrate their queerness.

I’m here to make you understand your pupils know when their cisgendered,

And that if they don’t, at least they know such terms must be defended.

Appearing as we know they did in Babylonic Cuneform,

But disappearing in this age of gender neutral uniform.

In short in matters gender centred, sexual, political,

Your pupils must be most well versed, or we’ll be highly critical.

Burning the Eucalyptus Logs

They do not smell as once they did, in life.

There is no hint of mint or aniseed,

And nothing of their beauty now remains.

How sad the transformation, and the deed

That turned the elegance of blue-grey trees,

To useful timber, smoky firewood.

And yet each flame reminds me of the heat

Of June, and how they stood,

Behind the peonies,

With pink brown snake-like bark which peeled;

And how they graced the garden as they bent

And waved their upward curving limbs

 In warm, remembered southern breeze.

And how the glorious summer flowers revealed

Their brightness rather better,

Because the strong light and cerulean blue, 

Was tempered by their glaucousness:

 A million leather leaves.

Winter Crystals

The terrace flags are strewn with frost, salt, sand,
Such crystals as make winter sparkle bright,
But coal is king when winter grips the land.

The frozen ground such caution can command
From those who must traverse it, when, at night,
The terrace flags are strewn with frost, salt, sand.

The patterned beauty of the winter fanned
On window glass makes dull-opaque the light;
But coal is king when winter grips the land

Providing heat to melt the ferns; each strand
Of seaweed turns quite clear where it was white.
The terrace flags are strewn with frost, salt, sand,

The ice has not yet melted, and unplanned
Excursions out of doors may still excite;
But coal is king when winter grips the land,

Desired in contrast, fire shows frost is bland,
For heat is love but cold is merely spite.
The terrace flags are strewn with frost, salt, sand,
But coal is king, when winter grips the land.

Moody

Though disinhibition never lasts,

It vanishes and I’m left stranded,

In this place where icy blasts

Direct from cold self- loathing, leave me small and reprimanded.

No harsher critic ever handed

Down such punishments.  These contrasts

Of extremes of mood, seen in cross section seem close banded:

Though disinhibition never lasts

Neither does depression.  It casts

Its shadow for a while, but not so long that I am branded

Permanently wretched.    I don’t take pills or herbal extracts,

It vanishes and I am stranded

In the doldrums, boring, calm, and I’m commanded

To perform some useful tasks; no fasts

Or feasts just dull old peace, here where I’ve landed

In this place where icy blasts are never far away.  Of forecasts

There are none of use, still, to be candid

I am glad, although these gusts and great lambastes,

Direct from cold self-loathing leave me small and reprimanded,

Never knowingly even-handed,

Still, all three of me are harsh iconoclasts.

Some moods last days, time seems expanded,

Though disinhibition never lasts. 

After Tea, New Years Day.

The marzipan is hissing on the coals,
And Taramasalata melts beside it;
The ochre yellow and the sickly pink,
Such clashing shades, some tired mind,
Uncultured in the art of juxtaposing colour, has combined,
In random disregard.  The Stilton rolls
And disappears into the flickering heat,
And cake crumbs follow blackening as they fall.
The tea pot crouches luke-warm on the tray
The chairs pushed back complete the disarray.

The conversation has become a squabble,
And doors are slammed and children storm away,
And peace that briefly reigned within the room,
When buttered bread, perfect and whole lay,
Has vanished.  And worst of all there's talk of Scrabble.
What greater misery could young people find,
To guarantee that Christmas ends with tears
Of rage?  And leave one longing for normality,
Quiet dullness, hallmark of each plain unseasonal day.