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.

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.

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.

A Politician Speaks To The Press About His Intention To Monitor 'Fake News'.

I am the arbiter of truth,

I shall not let the coarse, uncouth

Ideas of our age exist.

They won't get past me, so desist,

Toe the line or know my wrath.

No reader needs to be a sleuth,

To question, as he did in youth,

I'll filter all, you'll not resist

The arbiter.

I know it tempts you in your sloth

To write what I say's right.  My tooth

Is sharp, I bite, so do not twist

Your words, but keep a little mist,

Don't probe, write only what will soothe

The arbiter.

A Clinton Supporter Decides To Join the Women's March On The Day After Trump's Inauguration

I feel the need for confrontation,

there are fascists almost everywhere.

I mean to go on a demonstration,

I need to show the world I care

about the earth and refugees, I swear

I’ll not let Trump change this nation,

we choose love, not hate, so there!

I feel the need for confrontation

the fascists need an education,

I’ll wear no clothes, just my lacy underwear

and shout about the benefits of globalisation.

There are fascists almost everywhere

but caring women are really rare.

Those rust belt bitches deserve eternal damnation,

I mean to be seen in the public square

I mean to go on a demonstration

show the world can be a better place, if we use imagination.

Imagine how the world would now be equal and fair

if only Trump had been shot at his inauguration.

I need to show the world I care

I’ll wear a hijab and cover my hair,

I’ll scream  ‘we want lots more immigration’,

I’ll shout the Muslim call to prayer

and demand an end to our country’s isolation;

I feel the need.

Hull, New Year's Eve just before 2017

City of culture, my arse!

City of nothing new,

City of no one here's posh,

Nobody's feeble, southern, nesh!

City where I belong

With my black, net thong 

Featured in the Mail -

Daily, not Hull!

City of Full view

Of giant, fat, pale

Hemispheres of flesh,
City of buttocks of fish wives,

More eloquent in their mooning flash

Their national, tabloid, internet splash

Than any amount of explaining.

City of fuck you!

Observations While Sitting In The Farmyard, During a Late December Riding Lesson

Clip clopping,

Cobs walk across concrete,

Sounding like an imitation

Of cobs walking across concrete-

Clashing coconut shells,
A nags long face protrudes above a stable door,
Looking like every horse

Who looked out before,
Like Mr Ed,

Whinnying, tossing his head.

Also: brown cows in stalls,

Country smells,

Empty pens,

Piles of old straw,

A rusty bike,

Ground thick with mud and manure,

Puddles of pale sky on the ground,

Snow white hens

Scratching round -

Clean, pristine, finding grain on the stable floor,

A silver tabby trots dressage like,

Lifting high each precious paw.

Two people stand,
Chatting, as water from the hose falls,

Beside a fittingly filthy fork lift truck,

Their Yorkshire voices swear at each verse end

Without a care,

Turning the air

A different shade of blue,

For no particular reason,

Just because they do,

Just because they don't give a fuck,

The habitual use of the obscene

Adds spice to banter, otherwise bland,

Between an old farm hand

And a young friend

With an orange face, smeared in foundation,

As thick as the muck in the yard,

And eyebrows, after the style of Cara Delevigne,

As out of place

On the local face

As the bags on the bales,

Shiny, thick, black polythene.

There's a slight sense of the season,

But it's not cold,

The ground's not hard,

There are no mangers to be seen,

Though much hay,

Something in the last light of the day,

Describes endless ends of term

And walking home, happy,

After the nativity play.

And here's the file of horses coming back,

Grey, bay, dun, piebald, black,

Plodding now, 'the weary way',

After the hack.
Stopping.