How To Die Laughing by Pablo Byrne

HOW

DIE

LAUGHING

DT: “Do not go gentle into that good night” ME “Can’t we do ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star!”

Chrysippus, an ancient Anthenian philosopher, died from laughing at one of his own jokes

My Life on a stick Part IV

HOW TO DIE LAUGHING

U N R E Q U I R E D R E A D I N G A N D C O LO U R I N G B O O K

C O N T E N T S

1 Hello 9 A Verse is Never Averse 11 The Writer and His Nibs 13 How to Die Laughing 15 A Poem Gets Written 16 A Poem Gets Written-off 17 Remembering Royston 18 It’s Coming Back 19 Revisiting Royston 20 Going Back 23 Night Walk 25 Past Times 28 A Rugby Primer 30 The Highland Fling 36 Those Balloons 38 The Weekend Balloonist 39 Pie in the Sky 41 Setting Sun / Fading Star 45 Got this Covered 47 Sold Out 49 The Master Plan 53 Life (& Christmas) in times of COVID 56 No Tree, No Lghts just a Candle in the Night 57 2020 58 2020 Vision 59 Goodbye 61 Social Diseases 64 Pillock Tics 65 Johnson v. Hunt 70 When Imran Ran 74 On Trumpet 75 The Trump Rap 77 More Trum Crap 79 Enough is Enough is Enough 81 Trump as Toilet Brush 83 Fox News

85 An Ode to Truth 87 Erring 91 Natural Causes 93 We do Nothing 96 Degenesis 99 Really? 103 Freedom 107 Changes 113 Airport 116 Step by Step 117 Telling Times 121 The Moment 123 Onto this Moment, your Moment 125 The Schedule 127 ‘Tis Better to be an Angel 129 Apologies to Edward 141 The Blue Bottle Fly 147 I Sang a Song 153 Crazy Mexico 159 Acapulco Gone Loco 161 Una Carta al Señor Presidente de México 164 The Helicopter Pilot 165 For Mandy & Giles 167 Fangs for the Memory 169 The Lost Chord 172 Purpose 173 Quality Button 175 Playtime 177 Fairground 179 Another Old Man and the Sea 183 Befuddlement 185 Kerphew! 187 To the Cleaners 192 Oven Glove 193 DJI Berwocky 195 Chorus of Cars 197 Arctic Wind

200 Be There 201 Sparring Partners 203 Graduation 205 Food Forethought 207 Curry 209 Is there Love? 211 A look along the Lifeline 213 Birthdays in the Third Age 215 Tom & Jerry and the Holey Bread Mystery 217 Rest Sweet Soul 219 Angela 222 Miranda 223 Like the Sand 225 Rage of Rajuma in an Unfair World 229 Worthies 230 The Names 231 Let’s get out there 233 Fun and Games 236 No One 237 Poppy 239 Forge On 241 Sail On 243 Dance On 245 For Charlie 247 Grand Old Central Station 249 The Clown’s Farewell 251 The Road not taken by Robert Frost 252 Sea Fever - John Masefield 255 Do not go gentle into that good night Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953 256 Naming of Parts - Henry Reed 257 In Flanders Fields John Mccrae - 1872 1918 258 Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll 261 Mentions 264 One more afore ye go 268 End Paper

H E L LO

I am not sure at exactly what point I thought putting these stubborn little jottings together as a collection was such a good idea but here it is, I hope it pricks your conscience, gives you a measure of pleasure or at least provokes the occasional chuckle and if, in the unlikely event you do die laughing please give me a good reference in your epitaph! Every read through tempts more tampering. As Tom Waits once said about his painting: ‘You just keep doing things to it and eventually you have to stop!” No wonder too then that it took the great poetcantor Leonard Cohen five years to write the ‘do ya’ ‘to ya’ hoo-ha of the simple sounding “Hallelujah”!

Writing or perhaps ‘wordmongering’ has been a happy compulsion rather than a hobby and as such a necessity for me. Although some of these efforts date back a few years, production stepped up on the arrival of a certain Donald J. Mistake as he became Residual in the Blight House and Dent in the United Mistakes of Americans. The wildfire of social media and arrival of the Coronavirus Pandemic with its consequent filling of hospitals and emptying of hostelries further ignited my spontaneous writing combustivity as the weirdest year of most of our lives became more unrecognisable and misshapen. We all subscribed to the ridiculousness of being sent home and locked away, many then to drop unexpectedly like flies. A few countries also tussled with political turmoil and a smattering of certain lives mattering and we later became accustomed to the dependence on smiling eyes

replacing the far more expressive mouth so easily muffled behind some kind of respiratory barrier, taking away the opportunity to lip read for those a little deaf or struggling with a second language. How easily most succumbed to being stifled in this way.

Here you will find a series of gut reactions, emotional sputum, imperfect slips, quiet and loud rage, godless goading and empathetic hubris as well as a rant or two going not so gently into that good night, quite a bit of reflection and observation plus an awful lot of nonsense - or should that be a lot of awful nonsense!

I practice-read to family and close friends who made the point that adding occasional footnotes giving an idea of the origin or reason for some pieces would add to their understanding of what I was banging on about so I have done just that. Some said scrub the poems and just leave the side-notes, and others - well I would rather not say but have to agree that the photos and illustrations do stand on their own.

I am extremely grateful to my son Pablo for his photos and design which, along with Neil Cavagan’s perfect illustrations, make me even more pleased of what lies between these end papers. Some images for colouring from muralist Ariadna Galaz, and some old family photos plus a few other images which snuck in, make this something of a putrid pot but nevertheless an unavoidable part of ‘My life on a stick’ which I can now consider out of my system! A big thank you if you got this far.

“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn’t be. And what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?” The Mad Hatter

“We all come and go unknown Each so deep and superficial Between the forceps and the stone” Joni Mitchell ‘Hejira’

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. William Shakespeare: Macbeth

V E R S E I S

N E V E R

AV E R S E

Why do I churn out this stuff at all I ask myself? Maybe that will be your thought too! Where does it come from and why the need? Having been a musician for many years writing and singing songs, I was fascinated by the personality, sound and texture of words, as well as their rhythmic and rhyming possibilities. Being inherently lazy, lyrically driven writing also provides a format that can deliver more ’nub’ for less ‘nib’! My brain seems to be full of fine words but I often stumble into Malapropism confusing the meaning with some similar sounding word so I am sure some have slipped through! . Rather like having a tank full of exotic fish without knowing what any of them are called by us humans when they probably get through life calling each other names like , Bob, Fin, Dave, Fluff and so on rather than Carassius auratus, Cyprinus rubrofuscus and Pterophyllum scalare etc. - scientific names for Goldfish, Koi and Angel Fish respectively!

A word cannot lie, but it can define one. Smooth like pebbles and perfect like bubbles. Combined they are complicit and confluent congregating in the surging gush of language, growing from trickle to gurgle to be dashed against immoveable conventions, carried by currents, caught in eddies, tossed and aligned, rivulets of rhyme, blank or free. The divine mixology of verse.

Exotic cocktails of words defiant and glittering, a jostling, nuzzling flow, tussling, luminous, sparkling, viscous. Once stirred and shaken then to be still and ordered, punctuated, purified and finally served in a glass half-empty, half-full or brimming over.

This momentary congregation, retires to a sea of anonymity at journey’s end. Like the liquid cocktail that passes through the body. Words journey through beautiful moments of togetherness, a choral voice, before landing back as their supine self in a lexicon on a shelf Words, in the way of ants or bees or even us when working together, have a power that drives and inspires, informs or confuses, builds or belies. Facilitators of expression. If words are the Sapien’s jewels, language is the crown and poems a coronation. Streams of consciousness and embryonic thoughts take words at their word and begin the slippery spin into allegory. In the same way the tear-drop drips that fall from taps can become a flood and leave you awash, or drops of rain combine to carry you away or even drown you.

Words are playful, alarming even deadly depending on the company they keep. In the multi-dimensional, linguistic charm of a poem they can also be magic. Such odysseys invite you to travel in the mind of their helmsman who would like to engage with you in some way leaving you enraptured, comforted, enraged, in fits or reaching for the tissues! What follows are my little excursions

T H E

W R I T E R A N D

H I S

N I B S

The writer will tell you that writing flows sometimes like a waking dream raking thoughts into heaps of prose or verse or worse With effort involved the reward is not necessarily better, given structure and meter, letter by letter, the words pile up - sometimes, used but useless maybe spotless but leaving no mark.

What once a typewriter’s bars clattered and pinged into permanence to be saved or scrunched up and tossed as litter into a wagger now becomes inkless screed on screen, non-existent even, saved or sacrificed to backspace like it never swaggered, befell or became or caused or encapsulated any thought. No casting in stone

Fingers that could maybe bow a cello, brandish a brush, throw a pot, tickle a trout or pick a pocket, choose instead to hammer or tap in the service of creation, dumping mindstep after thoughtfall into pixels or print. Latterday self-serving scribes..

An unnecessary squandering of time and spirit working to placate a schism, dichotomize a whim or sponge dry the messy outpourings of a ruminating mind, soak and squeeze, soak again squeeze again! Lapdog to inspiration, mind`s tendrils seeking out the bones of a plot, following the scent, reasoning to conclusion by collusion with his-self, guiding it home

All shucked off and spilled from the gooey egghead cerebrum wrangling plot onto page as the tale wags the dog. Text as texture for future rendition

His Nibs, meanwhile, curled up afoot, sleeping, dreaming, shucking off some imaginary rain, grasping a bone, following a scent, letting his imagination run wildly, as his last feast churns rudely in capricious, nutritious, gutty complicity. Letting go the occasional fart,

His Nibs celebrates it all with a sigh.

The search for creative satisfaction by those scribblers who famously talk of the blank page and character development is here compared to the ease with which our pets curl up at our feet or alongside and tune into their probably monotonous and limited dreams, falling into slumber with little effort - having no need it would seem to capture anything other than a bit more food, fornication and fortywinks every now and then.

H O W T O

D I E

L A U G H I N G

The advice you can give to your kith and your kin Is to foster goodwill and be happy within Not to harbour resentment be always demanding But look for agreement and true understanding To give and to share, spread joy, be forgiving In a world full of plenty for all things that are living

But some day may come when these simple ideas Aren’t enough to respond to the doubts and the fears Raised and risen like sap through the soul of your being From too much information on tap intervening Like sowing fine seeds to the mercy of *Tlaloc, Then raising and reaping a harvest of havoc Get locked up for laughing, is that now a sin? When to cry out for justice comes out like chagrin Our leaders untouchable, hollow and spineless They represent nothing, seem shallow and meaningless Whilst stripped to the bone, alone amongst many We are looking for fairness but not seeing any There are those who might sit upon Satan’s left knee Get to tinker with freedoms affect our esprit Such despots inside their own rank fetid fiefdoms Possess us, control us the rule in such kingdoms The ways of the greedy to prey on the needy As they look to erase all our reasons to be free

*Tlaloc - Aztec Raingod ‘ He who makes things sprout 13

The advice we must share with our kith and our kin Is be wary who you trust and who you believe in There is an art to deception and convenient lies We are conditioned by fiction to over-fantasize Our reality a structure part true and part fake Not our fault but to yield is compound our mistake Is there magic in mirrors, that turns back the clock? As time overtakes us should we stop and take stock Getting closer than ever to having it all While discarding those people with nothing at all The worship of money and all it can buy Disconnects us from Gaia, and for this we shall die Bring on the resistance, Is it time to gird up? Go search for the grail, the spear or the cup But why waste our time on so foolish a quest Lighten up, listen up, light one up with the best Let’s focus and finish where we did begin On how to die laughing with a stupefied grin

P O E M

G E T S

W R I T T E N

So this poem gets written When it doesn't need to be But as line one rhymes with bitten I might as well get on to The next one which is easy As it doesn't have to rhyme with anything Which is making me feel queasy So I shall write nothing

P O E M

G E T S

W R I T T E N

That poem got written When it didn't need to be As line one rhymed with bitten I decided to get on to The next one which was easy Not having to rhyme with anything But that made me feel uneasy So I wrote nothing

Perhaps, I should have put 'many things' But that 'S' as an ending Would have annoyed me when I read it And prompted me to go spending Too much time on an edit And as I already leave A wrap over rhyme with the 'The' It leads me to believe That poem's not to be.

O F F

R E M E M B E R I N G

R O Y S T O N

Remembering Day’s bakery and its pork pies, coffee cakes and tilted trays of fresh bread just off High Street and in front the haberdasher’s nook full of yarn and needles, then a mere mortal shuffle up Market Hill past Kennedy’s auction yard stands the school where I was infantile.

Across the market place, Norman Newlings unapostrophied undertaking. Norman’s apostrophied top hat and tails lead their handsome, if weary hearse down many a sad farewells’ memory lanes, both carriage and casket adorned with flowers from Pigg’s nursery and attended by Mr Green - part time fireman, pallbearer and owner of the High Street Toy shop. Mr Green had born many up the Parish church path for a final sorrowful parting to later be reported in the Crow - a life become part of a list, so many words aged and dated allowing Mrs Kirkham to raise her eyebrows as she read of such passings behind the counter of her family’s Sweet Shop to then retell it as gossip to the neighbouring Kenzies prior to them unlatching the door of their Chippie for the lucrative lunchtime trade.

I was born and raised on a farm near Royston, Hertfordshire, England, United Kingdom, Planet Earth. My father was a Swansea contemporary and admirer of Dylan Thomas. Thomas is thought of for the most part as a poet but he also wrote radio plays and books as well and somehow my reminiscing here is a distant echo of those times up on Flint Hall Farm overlooking Royston when Dad would take it upon himself to rope in family and friends to record readings of Thomas’s portraits of parochial life in Wales such as Quite Early One Morning, Return Journey and Under Milkwood.

I T ’ S

C O M I N G

B A C K

All just down from Royston Cross with the town’s only traffic lights, Logsdon’s garage, the General Post Office and telephone exchange. Close by, the town’s lone roundabout a hub for the town’s only park and the Green Plunge swimming pool, set behind the Priory Cinema, for bathing in the cool green chlorinated water and canoodling for the less shy on a hot summer’s day prior to fascinating at the shifting shadows of the black and light newsreels, matinees and cartoons. Across the way stands the Town Hall where my dad booked a jazz band and later I booked Paul Kossoff’s Black Cat Bones for a young conservatives’ ball. Up on surrounding hills: the fire station awaiting a fire and Mr Green; the Hospital delivering its newborn (including me); Therfield Heath with its golf and other clubs; the Darlings farming their sweeps of land; Willie Stephenson’s winners riding on the ridings preparing for the sweepstakes and Newmarket. Further still up another hill, Flint Hall Farm -the place I called home for more than a young while.

Such is life and death in and of a second generation changling post-war town called Royston. Astride county boundary, earthly meridian and a little cave.

‘Roasia Town’ - or ‘Royal Stone’ thinking itself named after a large stone at the cross and King James’s Hunting Lodge on Kneesworth Street dwindling energetically into the future as it fades indifferently into the past. You can still enjoy the novelty of a cappuccino in Dino’s caff as generations fall like seeds from a tree to take their place between the other crosses and memorial stones of the local cemetery..

R E V I S I T I N G

R O Y S T O N

G O I N G

B A C K

N I G H T

W A L K

Lights on chintz curtains behind glass Feel the windows’ warm glow as we pass Smoke drifts from the tall chimney stack Drawing us in, drawing us back Hands in mittens, hats on heads, warm scarves We follow some familiar paths To the woods, by the woods there’s a trail And the crispest air there to inhale Some pheasants scatter startled and scared A rabbit bounds by perhaps a hare A late tractor out ploughing stubble fields Night birds swoop on the pickings revealed As the resting day puts up its heels With owlish hoots, rustles and squeals The winter moon casts its soft shadows Badgers and foxes leave their burrows Picking up dead branches from the floor For kindling under logs we have sawn Fallen from trees, tired from the burden Of leaves, wind and nest-building birds

On we press with the mumbling of speech Misty clouds full of words, as we speak Or sometimes we’ll stroll without talking Enjoying the pleasure of just walking The night walk is a country tradition A brief foray then return, re-admission To the warmth of the living room hearth Ruddy cheeked now, time for a bath Feel the warmth of the paraffin heater An Aladdin giving moist fragrant heat A shuttle of kettles bring wet fire To toes, that cools as it seeps higher Rubbed down and robed, we might play Word games like scrabble some days Toast bread on toasting forks by the fire Listen to the radio for a while Later, close-by, but upstairs, all tucked in With a hot water bottle, below thin voices Some laughter - grown-ups holding forth While I drift off full of wonder, lost in thought

PA S T

T I M E S

Some footsteps along my own lifeline and coming of age and beyond

Raglan Castle Fish and chips Holidays in Wales Boating trips Styrofoam surfboards Mothers’ Pride The Hillman on Birdlip And queue behind

Saw and split logs Mackerel skies The Belt, the Lane Seven Rides Smelly old farm dogs Cats couldn’t care Fleas in the carpets Covered in hair

A finger beckons me, points to the lattice, the textures and spatial constraints, the nothingness and the everything without which there is what there was before my churning heart took to beating in these open fields and will be when the builder characterises my solitary little life. School days, steam trains Chuff on lines Kiss in tunnels Girls are mines Titillating territory To explore, to explode Sensational sensations But feeling like a toad

Bikes and puddles Satchels and guitars Homework, the wireless Life on Mars Piglets in bedrooms Cows in the barn Straw bales and tractors Flint Hall Farm

Rummaging suitcase, fading page, black and white, old worlds, new smells, quaint misunderstanding. Confused, surfing along, busy keeping a balance, never wanting to crash in the breaking wave of nostalgia. Yesterday’s best is yet to come Strumming, picking Evergreen days Sliding out of solitude Slipping into ways Half boy, half sausage Left, right and wrong Puffing up a dream That sounds like a song

Yellow platforms Head in clouds Place at Cambridge Music loud Red bag, woolly turban Freedom finds a cage Public Foot the Roman Post-pubescent rage

Rhythm & blues and Rock & Roll and symphony & harmony and love & pride and resonating & receiving and sleeping & dreaming and arriving & leaving, and giving & taking and tolerance & taste, berieving & believing and having & not Fumbling freely Spouting tosh Move to Bristol Life awash Faithful and faithless Fire scorched feet The Mexican menagerie Advances in retreat.

Balloons, Hyde Park Ads in the Times Travelling the world Hear the bell-chimes Permanently restless Love and lust aplenty Music in the background Start to feel empty

Well as you can see I gave up half way along this project, rather as I did with the real thing - never getting to the delightful examination of mauls and rucks - when I was the aptly named ‘hooker’ or ‘prop’ on the Hitchin Grammar School first XV team (me top left) I almost always did end up at the bottom of such scrummages. I enjoyed school games but finally gave up on Rugby too when at Cambridge University Emmanuel college team trials it seemed it was a game to be taken seriously despite being undertaken in thick fog that day where high or long-kicked balls disappeared from view! Eventually sent-off by my own captain for laughing I realised college rugby was not for me.

R U G BY

P R I M E R

A hearty game, where men and sometimes women tackle each others tackle often in the special mud, booked for the occasion it would seem although frost sometimes gets delivered by mistake. When a team member gets the ball (which is not a ball at all being the shape and usually the colour of a cigar or small but painful turd) they then run forwards and throw it backwards away from the goal. Whoever then gets their hands on the ballturd either throws it further back still hopefully to the crook of a cradling arm of a teammate who, if unable to repeat the process, may opt to lob it in a punt or simply lean forward and fall over as he (or she) pushes through the surging mob of the opposing team. If things go well after much falling over and throwing backwards a moment may come when a player sprints forward and falls over on the ball after passing the opposition’s goal line. This is called a ‘try’ although from the looks on all the faces of his or her teammates faces I think it would better be called a ‘success’. Then follows the ‘conversion’ whereby some jolly punter attempts to lob the ballturd over the H shaped goal. At first sight this must confuse conventional football players who would call this a ‘miss’, something they are particularly good at. Flags are raised and it’s back to the Centre spot where it all starts again. The game is frequently interrupted by lineouts, scrums, rucks and mauls but that will be for another day.

T H E H I G H L A N D F L I N G

A wee ditty on coming of age and my curiosity as to the real function of a sporran which I am sure has its origins not just as a manbag for pipe, baccie, lip balm, coins, pipe cleaners and cellphone! It’s constant rhythmic bouncing on the top of the wee boaby surely has some effect as a reminder of manliness!

Toss the caber, ink stained sheet, fat love, tough love, two left feet, tides are turning, musty groves, find direction, slithy toves,

Toppling world, cracking crust, quakes and quandaries, in what to trust? all fingers and thumbs, ask mates, ask mums Conolly, Rabbie, pipes and drums

Inside each Scot a braveheart beats With pride in the kilt it’s pin and pleats Haggis, neeps, tatties, pinhead oats The heather and the highlands even John O’Groats A Bagpipe’s lamenting, the lochs and isles Amazing and graceful as the accent beguiles And beleaguers those who try to understand the tartans, the customs, the pull of the clan

For now it’s a shandy, catching the match, on yer bike for a night with your mates, or the girls or the game or the stars or alone whatever it is, time’s moving on. Lead in your pencil, whiskery chin, balls dropped, senses pricked. So it begins Dance on a knife edge, feather in cap A dram or a drag for the rise of the sap

Take your partners for a Highland Fling Wild oats ready and the ding a ling a ling Cod piece or sporran that could be a truss It is a lacky lad who coddles him thus

And now wee lassies ‘tis time for the play The sun is shining so let us make hay Willy McNilly creates a fine impression It’s up to you now if it’s union or secession!

Filming Green Ice in Mexico City in the rain at night 17 stories up atop the Citibank headquarters Music was my passion at an early age but I was seduced into hotair ballooning around the time that my musical endeavours took a pause. This lead me off to many great places travelling with balloons. It was like Rock & Roll turned upside down lots of effort for a one hour flight or gig but, with ballooning, more early morning and fewer late nights. I have never adjusted to early rising but thanks to being at the cutting edge of ballooning activities, my involvement has brought me joy and a sense of wonderment at the world as well as the chance to meet great people and segue into the film business which is another fantastic story and reason music took a back seat

T H O S E

B A L LO O N S

Those balloons that gave us our minutes of fame and good fortune, without us they were nothing but a sky full of dreams, ideas floated. With fabric bloated and heated by dancing flames burning the very air we breathe, we shared life and breathed bigger and better. Those balloons arising somehow becoming weightless, uplifting into the mighty firmament. Elements uniting us carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen – combining in fire and water, or cloth and wicker or red blood and hard bone. Those balloons that took us out and about and around the world in a whirlwind of unforgotten moments. Foolish and frippish, clumsily delicate, soft yet somehow dangerous, soaring, majestic. Those balloons that greeted us at days’ dawning and dusks’ coming. Bringing joy, tempting disaster as we faded come night’s descent

Those balloons casting their long shadows over our short lives, lifting us from the past and floating us into the future, uplifted our spirits and bodies to show us another place. A place that I shall call crazy imperfection

Photo credit: Per-Olow Anderson, balloonists Dick Wirth and Peter Anderson - actually a photo from Sweden but captures the spirit!

Many of the balloon pilots I have known do it as a paying hobby. It requires the enthusiasts passion to career into the skies in a laundry basket loaded with gallons of explosive liquid under a frail nylon bag with a hole at the top but there always seemed to be enough of them to go chasing after as they flew their heavily branded aircraft out of county shows or over towns and cities. As a chaser I would end up haring down country roads in pursuit during the early morning and late afternoon - weather permitting of course! Originally written for an occasional balloonist David Eager, this effort easily adapted to capture the flavour and objectives of weekend balloonists. Fly:eat:siesta, fly.eat;drink;sleep seemed to be the order and rhythm of the day, but the pub was, and still is, the perfect conclusion to activities in the British balloonists mind.

T H E

W E E K E N D

B A L LO O N I S T

Those wonderful weekend balloonists So whimsical, warm and sincere Always forgetting their check-lists But never side-stepping a beer They rise at the fart of a sparrow All eager to get in the sky Even when chilled to the marrow There’s menace afoot in their eye

They float over fields and fairways Occasionally shooting in flame And it’s never just one of those days Because no flight is ever the same

If the landing field is stubbly The farmer will likely play ball There’s a toast with a bottle of bubbly And a prayer that makes no sense at all Then it’s off to a close greasy spoon For a full English, strong tea and toast Fill the tanks for the late afternoon When ballooning can bring on a thirst

And thus when the pub lights are glowing Down at the Old Hare and Hounds There’s the crew with no clue where it’s going And a pilot whose down. Out of bounds

P I E

I N

T H E

S K Y

Since 2011 we have run a balloon operation in Mexico at the Teotihuacan pyramids and receive people from all over the world who visit this magical place where we are able to fly all year-round. For many it is a dream or illusion that people probably think they will never realise - hence the title

Chocolate-coated raisins, And fresh marshmallow pie Cookies, tea and coffee Some tacos for the eye For those who’re feeling nervous Tequila’s standing-by As day breaks on the mountain To warm and bring its light On getting to the launch field Check with the weather site We hope there won’t be rain, The ground stays nice and dry The winds receive us softly, The balloons ascend and fly Rise up into the heavens To drift up there on high A gentle breeze on landing Settling in a field nearby ‘A toast! a toast! To celebrate’ We hear the pilot cry Making everybody happy And glad to be alive After standing in a basket Under flames up in the sky!

S E T T I N G

S U N

FA D I N G

S TA R

I had never entered a poetry competition before - why would you? - but this was well received and got bronze. We were shown this photograph of a beautiful sunset over the seas horizon with the suggestion to give our muses a chance to react. So this popped out in a few minutes comparing what looked like a golden carpet across the waves with a celebrity on the red carpet who, while still famous, was nevertheless on their way out. It took me more time to make the shape than write the words!!

I myself shall roll out this red carpet In the exaltation of all that I am I will captivate you, change you, Enchant you with gold, Cheer you with yellow, Warm you with orange En-flame you with red

All together bring you closer to heaven To Light Up your Eyes, affect Your horizons Incessant blues Incandescent hues I am superintendent Attendant to my world, My following. Unblinking I segue along that carpet You see me, I see not you You feel me, I feel not you You need me but I not you I know what route to follow Keep it moving, gravitating A gliding sensual firebrand Tireless, fearless, so restless Circle, interact with waves Bringing to many a smile I always bring the light For I am the spotlight Till no longer bright I fade into night Out of sight And quite Alright Jak 42

G O T

T H I S

C O V E R E D -

Pretty much self-explanatory as here we are in 2020 sitting out a very strange mind- and world- numbing experience that seems to have changed things for ever in the space of just a few months. Lot’s of conspiracy theories knocking about around the Corona-virus as well as mind-numbingly stupid name-calling and arrogance all because of a wee microbe! Meanwhile the promise to read loads of books and make good use of the time hasn’t quite been realised. Hopefully I can finish this book!

Comfortable confinement We’re all shut away Locked down and obedient Or so you could say Business going bust Waist and bust expanding This Covid pandemic Forbids understanding Whether it should wither The bust or the biz We have to bounce back And fizzle or fizz The trick’s to stay happy Make good of each day Cos one things for sure This pest ‘s here to stay

So back to the bookshelf Select me a tome Dust off the cover Sit down on my own It’s no good just wasting This time we’ve been given Relax and enjoy it May we be forgiven!

We hold out for a vaccine In our homes, all snug Like Gnomes on a toadstool Or bugs in a rug In the hope of a treatment Like Remdesivir Or Hydroxychloroquine But when will it appear?

For maybe we are guilty Of one simple crime Letting leaders create this To use at some time To conform and control us I feel that - don’t you? Here stuck in my basement Stuck in this stew

Experts texperts Conspiracies, plot? That’s not how I see it But perhaps I am not Quite as bright as I think Does 5G make us rot? So what book shall I choose? Stephen King - Watcha got?! 46

S O L D

O U T

The expression ‘nothing to see here’ takes on new meaning and was brought to life as the supermarkets emptied of toilet rolls, gel, pasta, beans, canned foods, soap at the beginning of the COVID 19 crisis in 2020. We rather pathetic can-fed animals continuing to trawl for our shop, no longer able to fend for ourselves with few of us actually producing anything at all that can help us to survive as we are increasingly dependent on others. Having been brought up on a farm it is hard to believe that some city-dwellers are unfamiliar with the source of what they stuff in their mouths or pour on the cereals.

Sold Out Nothing Left Still they come Push the trolleys Around the empty shelves Habit I suppose Sometimes they pause By the bread counter Or deep freeze Tut, tut they go And nod their heads Each has a question But nobody has an answer

T H E

M A S T E R

P L A N

Bottled water, tinned fish, Fossil-powered vehicles Entertainment through a dish, Your food full of chemicals Plastic in your plain white rice Arsenic in your milk Cigarettes aren’t even nice But still they call them Silk.

Remember Big Yellow Taxi? The paving of paradise, Taking it up the jacksie Cos everything has a price No thought for nature’s riches Songful birds and honeyed bees Those soulless, moneyed snitchers Would cut down all the trees

Let the fattest cats get fatter While the poorest have more cubs, A worldwide shortage of water, And yet we drown in floods, Money can’t buy you happiness, Wars won’t bring us peace. It’s survival for the penniless, All power unto the beast.

As you watch your leaders lips, Hear all the lies they’re bringing Come trumpets of the Apocalypse Or the Herald Angels singing? Hope keeps puffing into sails unfurled As we lose our spirituality Imagining a Brave New World But lacking in tenacity 50

I suppose this is tipping the hat to all the conspiracy theorists out there who are convinced that someone, somewhere has a handle on all this. Maybe they do!!

Rocket launching Elon Musk Global Impositioning Getting surveyed dawn to dusk They see who you are visiting All the data on you known Every time and place Fished from chips inside our phones They call it track and trace

Colour, gender, human rights Each one of us is sacred Same sex marriage, Men in tights The naked ape more naked Taxes always on the rise The carrot and the stick Freedom costs, who puts the price? The body politic

Search engines, all the gadgetry T.V. around the clock An algorithmic tapestry That knows what makes us rock We tune into our comfort zone Relax all our defences The more we’re known the less we’re shown A.I. in all it’s senses

Can there really be a Master With hands firmly at the helm As humanity heads for disaster Seas rise and overwhelm Tornados twist and typhoons blow An ice age could be forming It’s hard to understand, if so Ignoring global warming

If there is a Master Plan For our precious human race Then who and where is Sensai San And how do we then keep pace The air so full of microwaves That penetrate and scatter Turning us into cyber slaves Affecting our grey matter

Now we can all broadcast daily Reach out to far and wide Re-posting guff so easily From webs of truths and lies We live in a connected age Yet we seem so disconnected Everyone’s on their landing page Waiting to be detected

Extremist groups are rising On the left and to the right Insurgents energizing And arming for a fight The ones supposed to guide us Show little concern at all As long as they can divide us And keep the groupings small

Leave the shadows, show your face Allay all the conspiracies Help us unite to live life in peace End poverty hunger, diseases Join hands and work in unison If not that , then why do we wait? Believing in some God-like Unicorn And hoping it’s not too late!

L I F E I N

( &

C H R I S T M A S )

T I M E S

O F

C O V I D

I miss the slapstick comedy and camaraderie of daily life, the tickles and the tugs, the usual fluster and bluster of humans trafficking without the need to mask up and distance, the hustle, the bustle. Now we must light the wicks of slow-burning votive candles, making shadows dance in the waxy glow leaving childish dribbles that harden as we pray for better The rough edges of frustration and patience rubbing into blisters with the wait as we slowly buckle under the ominous weight of it all while the year folds into Christmas. We may have shovelled fluffy snow into hopeless melting men, shoved in two coal-dark eyes, a carrot nose, pebble-dashed an upturned mouth and poked in twiggy arms to greet Santa in case he might miraculously appear. There was before and there is now. A now unlike any other in recent times as timidity and terror take-on the tremendous tenacity and calm advance of an ignoble foe that literally takes away the breath of some as it relentlessly chips away at the spirit, nest-eggs, lifestyle and dreams of the rest. We are seeing dreams dashed into smithereens, such that no sovereign’s stallions or batallions could reassemble them even for a King. Is this perhaps then the Winter of our Disinfectant or just the ways ‘Of Bats and Men’ faced with ‘The Lychees of Wrath! For sure Steinbeck would have known how to tell this story of Chicanery and Woe!.

Then there comes the third act with the fascination for vaccination and the coming post-jab euphoria which will have us emerge onto a devastated, boarded up, wracked and ruined stage where the fortunes of the fortunate have weathered and grown whereas the fortunes of the less fortunate lie withered or blown. As sure as eggs is eggs, we shall gather our skirts, gird up our loins, dig in our spurs and ride on. We shall strut and fret, re-group and rumble until we are heard from no more but simply pass on the baton for others to bat on, battle on, batter down the barricades against which we should otherwise stumble. After all, the world is a stage and “life is but a walking shadow, a poor player, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” At times like these I ask myself who took over responsibility for the scriptwriting and tried to kid us it was anything more than just that!

Done dining Now unwinding In front of the telly Rather full belly Glasses of wine Feeling fine! Just us three No decorations No lights, no tree Just the candle Dianna and me And her mum of course Rather odd days In so many ways Hard to express More or less A sense of undoing Unscrewing everything That once held together Coming apart at the seams

Or so it seems Like the Tower of Babel Collapsing, disabled Too high too fabled It will never be the same Put up, win the game At least for me What I see Is a new beginning Maybe less is more Not like before When excess was for sure Now we must lick our bones Rub stones Clear the road Light a fire Warm our hands Understand This needed to be. No tree No lights Just a candle In the night

N O N O J U S T I N

T R E E L I G H T S A

C A N D L E

T H E

N I G H T

Christmas 2020

A strange year gone by Ask yourself why So many easy years Free of pain and desperation A lot of love and elation Well maybe for some But four years ago A blow a guffaw And before you know it Along came the fools to blow it BREXIT, MAGAIN , Ships with no rudder Looking back I shudder At the extreme wrongs of the right And rights of those left behind Realising, Uprising, Real ideas raising fears Drowning in moronic jeers And if that makes chaos Then why not a virus To help things along An innocent hack Like our genes Airborne to restack More of the same That maybe the whole game As our worthless souls Shelter in bunkers Hunker down Succumb to fear In a mad world Looking to blame Give it a name Is it a bad world? Is it OK? Is joy to be found? Look around you More colour more light And fresher air 57

2 0 2 0

V I S I O N

United in grief COVID the thief Exposing religion as faithless Economies as worthless Health as priceless Politics as useless Love as endless Truth as disposable Lies acceptable The spinning moral compass No guiding arrow But we can still be happy Finding ourselves Remaking ourselves This is still a voyage Of discovery And awakening Finding out Above, below Behind and beyond Fine dining maybe out For the time being Life is a sandwich And we the filling! Squashed between our daily bread Seen through our eyes Whatever the hue Green, amber, blue Brown and black too The same 2020 vision Heard through our ears Sensed through our skin Whatever the tone Ivory, ebony, Olive or brown We bring it all in And the question is Do we really know which side Our bread is buttered on? 58

G O O D BY E

Goodbye neighbour You did no wrong, sang life’s song, got along Most people would say you were a good person You were a brother and a son but now you’re gone Goodbye friend Never expecting the end, and to send you to mend In the hospital seemed the right thing You were a colleague a father but now you’re gone Goodbye mother The children weep, their love so deep they cannot keep At bay the pain of loss and so many tears The sorrow that tomorrow and forever you are gone Goodbye stranger And thousands too, who like you will never renew Their vows to be the best they can be For they too have been taken and are gone Goodbye heroes There to save us, have us brave this wave This plague that invites us to meet our maker They gave their love and then their lives and now are gone Goodbye normal For that is what we have not got a lot of Restrained, perhaps re-trained So many things we took for granted, for now, are gone Goodbye Covid Ours not to reason why or who will die, to lie Beneath the feet of those who stumble on You brought us hell, but one day you too will be gone

S O C I A L

D I S E A S E S

Social Diseases The grit in the greases Courting disaster No plaster appeases Awareness, infection Dispairedness, correction

Social Diseases Trousers at kneeses Plasticly probed Dis-robed, displeases A bareness inspection (Oh careless connection)

(Trouser descending The Y’s follow suit A cadence an ending, Instrument: flute!)

(Cock a dude A dude’ll do My fiddlestick Just joined the queue!)

A clinic approaching A cynic reproaching “Sexual relations? “Frequently, yes “Burning sensations? “Uncomfortableness

Him seated, me up Looking down, Fingers cup Prize possession (No sweat) “Something wrong here” (You bet!) Tests normal thing Is this where I sing

Social Diseases Aerosol freezes A needle intruding Extracting my juices Example of redness A sample of bledness

Social Diseases Corner-tight squeezes Waiting in hallways A wall poster teases “A thought before you court, before you couple” in short

(A culture, a slide show To indicate what Depending on outcome You have or have not!)

(A bottle of pills That sound like maracas To cure all the ills That lurk in my knackers!)

In corridor sitting So horrid, unfitting Then privates paraded Pinching a bit Not so much degraded Just feeling a tit

Ah! Now I am beckoned To see what they’ve reckoned “ It’s really nothing serious “Just underpants fluff “And just a little puss “So take this stuff

Social Diseases Snuffles and sneezes Like stiffness in hinges The winges the wheezes Attached is no stigma Detached an enigma

The clap is looked down on A handicap frowned on So easy to catch it I should know best But sleazy so watch it What would you suggest? (Ignorance is bliss Love is divine If it burns when you piss Go to door number 9!)

P I L LO C K

T I C S

J O H N S O N

V. H U N T

I was a member of the Young Conservatives in Royston which shared a place with the Freemasons but also had a billiard table. I played guitar in the Evergreens a kind of jazz dance band that would play smokey working mens’ clubs in places like bearby Stotfold and Baldock. Labour had no place in my life but then again the rather arrogant, disconnected braying of the over-privileged didn’t either. For a while the Liberals seemed attractive but were somehow nowhere to be found. Now though looking at the total cock-up of British politics as well as similar shambles unfolding all over the world it is hard to believe these two bozos really are the best options to lead our country. Then the biggest testiculating bozo of all comes out on top. This was a reflection on this photo taken just before or during their final debate. Hardly inspiring.

The Elizabeth Tower Topples, Big Ben clanks in despair, Two hopeless, hapless bozos Poised to take the chair And lead a once-great nation From God knows what to where? The toe rag and the toady Not quite the rank and file But rank enough and lody To coax and thus beguile Those who’ll soon be voting For harebrained or hairstyle

What is it with the many So abandoned by the few Democracy seems wanting An unpalatable stew Of haves who keep on having While the have-nots pay their dues Is this the New World Order? The fabled ‘conspiracy’ Smash and grab or hit and run A true plutocrazy Mad ducks and broody hens No place for you or me

Arms once meant to welcome Now just arms for bearing down Red buttons primed and ready For the fingers of the clowns No memory nor mercy Their cover still not blown Jazza then or Boris What does the future hold? In or out of Europe? Elections in the Fall? And does it really matter? Does it matter much at all?

With so many bigger problems The climate, rising seas The warming of the oceans The dirty air we breath The statelessness, the poverty The sickly stench of death.

From where I stand in Mexico I guess I shouldn’t care What happens on the Sceptred Isle Because I don’t live there But still the ground beneath me shakes With all the crap I hear.

In France, churches are burning In China mosques come down Another active shooter In some American town An African village erased again The colour, the creed, hate sown Take your seat then ‘B.J.’ Or assume it ‘Carey’ Hunt In this Social Mediocracy Go on then take a punt Pull the wool across our eyes With a few more lies and stunts

When will we demand better? It can’t just be profit and loss The Telly and obfuscation Leave us drowning in profligate dross Take your place then Prime Minister We expect little from this coin toss Surprise us!

And then you have this rather inspiring choice for prime minister in Pakistan although I have many doubts as to who should be in politics - but certainly anyone rather than corrupt, career politicians.

W H E N I M R A N R A N

In this fast bowling world of tit for tat Where one takes this and the other takes that Of bombs and guns and fearsome machines That mince and poison and shatter all dreams

Some live out their lives until peacefully parting Others just struggle with no way of starting The rack and the ruin and too heavy rains A world that’s exploding and writhing in pain

Too many feel hate, there’s a dearth of true love With all looking up to their saviours above To help them out now in these times of great need Before the whole world is consumed by its greed

The haves keep on having, the have nots just heave What is false seems so real, in what not to believe? A time for full muster, footholds in the mud Escape from the cave just ahead of the flood

And yet there is hope and some people who will Be fixing the hole that the Fools on the Hill Have dug for themselves to try and keep ruling Even infering that there’s now global cooling

Meanwhile, in the east, a new star is rising Here comes the new captain for a country uprising He swung a sure bat now again he’s victorious To lead Pakistan and once more make it glorious

The votes are now in for the man who kept running No longer a game, though the balls still need spinning Let’s hope he will not get stumped at the wickets Or trumped and ensnared in political thickets. A hero in his day with plenty of winnings Now is the time for the best of his innings Occupying the crease for a New Pakistan Imran ran, Imran won, Imran can, Imran Khan

Donald J. Trump was the cock that ruled the roost and totally shat on his perch as 45th US president from January 2017 until January 2021. Undoubtedly the worst president in US history his histrionics,and crass stupidity took the fast elevator down below ground level and left the US a shambles on the international stage and totally malfunctioning internally - divided, broke and set back many years in terms of what is these days, the rather inaccessible concept of the American Dream which seems to have disappeared into the realm of eulogy, no longer encouraged by those who actually achieved it. These tirades pretty much wrote themselves in response to his shocking and usually incoherent, belligerent diatribes so full of exaggeration and untruths. Supported by a large group of heartless individuals and fawned over by his so called base, he became a man impossible to like and yet ‘loved’ it would seem by a grand part of the country and worshipped by those in the Republican Party. We have all been conned somehow during his rise to power. For me it was the books which I enjoyed a lot especially the Art of the Deal but it turns out they were in large part ghost-written and designed to show a far nicer aspect of his business methods than reality now exposes. Then his reality TV show also a con as he was just an actor to start with and his boardroom had to be created as he didn’t have one. Nothing real and still no substance even as president and leader of the free world. Narrowly losing the US Presidential Election he still continues to stir-fry the American psyche. What more does he want?! Having said that on a certain level I was extremely entertained, fascinated and even creatively inspired by the omnipresent phenomenon he became, even as it drove me to new depths of despair daily! I really like these almost spontaneous rants and will miss many aspects of the great horror movie character he fleshed out as well as, if less so, the cast of supporting ghouls that shared his stage and enabled his performance. 73

O N

T R U M P E T

The brass section featuring strident tones and shrillness

T H E T R U M P R A P

T R U M P

A S

P I Ñ ATA !

He likes the ratings but rants against the ratting, Rattled and raving he doesn’t forget. He doesn’t rate Niger or ‘niggers’. His heroes mustn’t be captured so getting killed must be better. He likes teeing off and probably jerking off for that matter, he is a narcissist but not the nicest, he presides without dignity deserving ignominy, He has no class and likes to grab ass, his pussy mucoid fingers reaching out for pussy, slobbering monkey lips dowsing for a kiss, wet, wet, wet the tawny bully disparaging of vets, and investing his cabinet bullies with powers outside their dull scheming skulls, He’s used the mike to drown the clowns, the frowns the browns, the sanctuary towns, the sounds that aren’t with him. He despises the wisest and panders to the pandillas of hateful Breitbart SS silage and fluffy FOX connivers. This man, this monster, this penny dreadful, cheap sensational fictional president, a Batman foil, there by means of Russian trolling, fixing the polling, keep the wagon rolling. Doling out his potion of poison to the unknowing, crowing crowd. Cutting so deep, slicing into the heart of America, biting bone, Cry out America! Agonize, for while you are being consumed by fire, flood, wind, and hail, Hail Mary’s won’t curtail the division, hatred, the crazyman’s bullets and the sociopathic storm that the dullard in command has brewing in his maelstrom mind of venom, deceit and unquenchable need for laudation. Where great men might sleep, he tweets. A Kraken awakened, he makes only mistakes, reawakening controversy, a knee in the gut of the kneeling man who knows his reasons and defends his rights. His errors in grammar in tenor, in provoking, always seeking revenge, revealing the twisted workings of his inner little brat, soulless self. The immature mind, an overgrown fathead, the Caesar Syndrome laying it’s crazily paved path towards the inevitable Ides of March, as the loathing accrues and looks for a way to sooth the brow of a troubled nation and a worried world.

M O R E T R U M P C R A P

T R U M P

A S

S H AV I N G

B R U S H

Once more, the bell of truth rings out clear and loud This man who builds gilded towers and plays to his crowd Cares not for no one nor loses any sleep Eyes veiled by the poison that in his blood seeps With envy and greed, he looks out on a world That has given him everything yet his fury’s unfurled This Man for no Season, no heart on no sleeve Emboldened by fortune and not one to grieve A pot cracked so deeply just rot at the core The liquid of love drained away, empty, sore His lamb-bleat-like tweeting a sickening scroll Half-truths and half-witted, there is no control These thoughts hardly formed like some foeti aborted These lies and distractions are how he’ll be thwarted This miserable, friendless and mad, restless soul Plopping ball after ball into hole after hole Magnificent, maleficent, malevolent, vile The office of president his to defile While the national fabric gets ripped at the seams This purveyor of potions, dasher of dreams Stands firm on his board and defeats all the waves That should wash him asunder but still he stands, saved. Can what’s been done be undone, A tsunami of hope Just crash him ashore this annoying, rancid dope? I long for the day when he gets his comeuppance He says he’s worth billions, but I say not twopence.

E N O U G H I S

E N O U G H

T R U M P

A S

B O G I E

R O L L E R

I cannot just stand blithely by And watch as all morality dies In a country once held in high esteem Where now all we hear is the people scream Some in mute protest and disbelief Others dashed up on poverty’s reef The cries of the innocent (it’s children again) In school or in cages, the guns or Ice-men The hoods and the teens with their AR-15s With more guns than people nowhere is safer Death from the sky, the drone is the strafer The bully is loose, the cannon is firing No empathy shown and the citizenry tiring As débâcle after débâcle one man with all power Speeds a nation towards its darkest hour Where so many pull triggers for military might And so go into battle, perhaps die in the fight Or come home ever-altered tainted with blood Having learned about killing not about sharing food Are these then the heroes, the sacrificed lambs Gone to slaughter for something, kick out the jambs In a country where lawyers and conmen and thieves Buy the media, the House, the judges the shrieves And now we have this, an explicable horror Deserving the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah But where are the protests? Does nobody care? Or is it just fear and that they do not dare To raise a finger against this retrograde tyrant Ploughing his way unmatched, defiant. America’s greatness built only on hate Does not seem to me like the main founding trait

T R U M P

A S

T O I L E T

B R U S H

Perhaps not love, but freedom and acceptance Living with racism, but coming to tolerance The dumbing down and the building of fat On the land, on the waist and the financing rats Has fogged the fine message, now money is all The prelude to collapse to decline and to fall. A putrid democracy, pussy and stale Was doomed to produce this, to stumble to fail Racing now towards fascism, totalitarian state The narrowest vision based on greed and on hate If history now has any lessons to give us It’s that humanity is fragile and really can leave us Till we gouge out the very heart of our neighbours And forget that we should be providing safe harbours. So this monster awakened, always dressed in black His true colours, no shame, no wheeling back In him is vested a power so mighty His bark was too big but much bigger his bite He endangers the world and lives in a bubble Plays to his base but to him they’re just rubble Like the foundations, the hardcore underneath all the towers He needs them below him to imply or show prowess For all those who pray and for all of the pundits Whatever you believe in, whatever your orbits It is time to rise up and release all the anger Before all of this just gets stranger and stranger Not Facebook, nor Twitter, or words on a page Physical action is required, release all the rage! Forget about Congress and ringing and letters These are not your saviours, your helpers, your betters I leave it to you then, make a difference, make a move If you really love your country you have so much to prove!!

Introducing Rupert Murdoch A 21st-century warlock Who uses the pull of the goggle-box To reach out to those in the boon-docks And serve as a right-wing soapbox That’s FOX News

To blame for so much of the media’s Hyping fake news and the tedious Repetition and defence of the hideous Barrage of lies from Trump’s White House Always divisive and devious That’s FOX News They bring on a mug like Steve Hilton He thinks he’s the next John Milton His opinions stink like ripe Stilton Couldn’t put one past Peter Shilton Just another clown on stilts on FOX News Or the King of them all Sean Hannity Always verging on profanity Quite an insult to humanity With his conceited, vulgar vanity He rarely brings any sanity To FOX News They also bring you Tucker The smuggest little fucker His mouth seems set in a pucker As he takes us all for suckers You can see how he got stuck there On FOX News Or bring on the lovely Laura Self-basting in her aura However you try and ignore her She’ll twist the headlines for yer No wonder they adore her On FOX News

F O X

And the miserable Mark Reed Levin Life and Liberty is his get in Though he clearly is not quite a cretin Be careful what you tread in He’s just another hypocrite in FOX News

N E W S

Hard to believe these people sleep at night. Why do they do it? Money I guess I had been tempted to call it Fucks News because that is what they do but thought better of it

Please all stand for Judge Jeanine For a while she was unseen Donald Trump then intervened Now she acts like a Wonderland queen Cos there is rarely in-between On FOX News

But then there is Chris Wallace Now he can bring some solace Though his crits must seem like malice In this conspiratorial palace I guess he strikes a balance On FOX News

Sharon Bream (who reads the headlines) She still sticks to all the guidelines But will touch on political land-mines And amazingly hasn’t been sidelined So perhaps they’re not all unkind At FOX News This crass dystopian channel Keeps dishing up its flannel With their ‘experts’ and their ‘panels’ Dogs of war let out of the kennels Such a bunch of cocky Spaniels On FOX News

Their audience quite loves it And can’t seem to rise above it Fed faux facts, they just approve it With ratings through the roof, it Would seem silly to improve it FOX News

A N

O D E

T O

T R U T H

Are you then the king of kings of which they spoke in hallowed halls of yore. Didst thee stumble thrice in the darkest forest to bring us light once more Through the pages and ways of sacred knowledge did your quest bring you here . This forlorn place of ignorance full of talismen and fear When first you fell onto that musty mossy rug Did such a fetid carpet make a sound? Undergrowth, kindling, cracking brittle leaves God’s creatures gnawing at the fruits they found? Suckling on the berries licking the treesap, As you bleed from the thorns all around you. Did the roar of your spirit scare the demons that would stifle, trample or devour you. And then did you fall into a fragrant stream Forever tumbling downward, onward soaking, cleansing, and pushing you to stand back up and struggle forward and upward Then to trip the light fantastic emerge from shadows into the incredible lightness of being sure. To embrace and give majesty to the moment From the sanctity of your cure Will the portcullis be raised? Will dark passages become open freeways, millstones, milestones? Can such a firebrand monarch disgorge his truth Defeat the dragons’ fire and history’s bones? Each footfall, each glance back. There the pitter patter of tiny minds as we strain to hear or raise our voices to sing praise. The regal stance is the better way when the righteous mind is king. 86

E R R I N G

I rather like this rhyming style which is part of the double meaning of the title. Inspired by the gas bombings on Syrian people and the continuing inhumanity that is shown to the poor and weak. Seems to me that the concept of a ‘country’ is ridiculous if the differences are so strong between ethnic or political groups that it is necessary to carry out this kind of self-destruction.

Some days are quiet Others are quieter Some nights are dark Others are darker Some growing corn In their little corner When out of the light Comes a bomber or fighter The sound of a thud An impact like thunder Then gas hugs the ground Drifting silently under Closed doors, through arches Without the skill of the archer Catching its prey Perhaps while in prayer Absorbing the Sarin The bodies serener After a death that is slow The suffering slower For families who grieve As things get much graver As missiles hail down The air smoky and browner: The game that is war The innocent and the warrior So what if you win? Are you really a winner

And if you should lose Does it make you a loser Those that do die Leave a situation so dire Whichever side they are on They die without honour Trapped in a conflict No trappings of victors In a world at arms Coated in armour Not even the armour But always the armourer Secure in his seat With the might of salt-peter The powder of hate Sooner or later Resorts to the sword To create a world order Ruling through force All the bloody enforcers Chariots of fear All wars have their theatre We are the cast But never the masters Some days are dark Others are darker

N AT U R A L

C A U S E S

This and the next two poems, moments of reflection as we drive ourselves into extinction by ignoring all the warnings on climate change and global warming. Even if it is a natural cycle of things there is consensus that we are accelerating the process and along the way poisoning ourselves. I fear for our children and their children when projections give us only a few more generations to enjoy life on earth. Written on the same i-phone I took this picture with immediately after launching one of our balloons to fly over Teotihuacan’s Sun Pyramid on a beautiful morning when it is hard to imagine that such a crisis is looming. 91

A photograph for the morning As about us day is dawning The sun comes up before us To warm us and restore us Remind us of the reasons The joy of life its seasons On this planet simply wonderful Plentiful and bountiful

We should be ever grateful Not mean or slack or hateful Our mother earth’s observing One species undeserving Attacking her destroying With the tactics we’re employing She is mighty, she is glorious And expecting so much more of us

Curators of her gifts and beauty Just part of it but with a duty To use the power that’s in our hands To protect the seas, the air, the lands Respect all living things that share her Not violate her, strip and bare her Until she has no more resources Than to end it all by Natural Causes

W E

D O

N O T H I N G

It tears at your heart And tears fall from your eyes Tears for the fears Crumbling world Crumpling in our hands We see, we hear, We do nothing.

We do nothing but watch As the watch ticks and tocks Toxic planet, too sick Beneath our feet Before our eyes The tears, crying But do nothing

We do nothing but bark As the bark peels away The bare necessities Our necessities in these hands Life’s intensities, life in tent cities We see, we’re here, We do nothing

Do we do nothing but cry? No outcry, no reply. This crime against humanity Instability bringing calamity Indeed the nitty-gritty? We see, we hear, We do nothing

We do nothing but wait The weight of the matter Way too big for our grey matter Cluttered world Clattering at our feet Our fate - we fear But do nothing

For we ourselves are nothing. Nothing but trope Our hopes lie within the limits of life We see not beyond the grave. The grave situation that surrounds us Confounds us So we do nothing.

D E G E N E S I S

The sea so beautiful. The sun so pure The valley so confident. The bay so secure All the buildings like the flowers that face to the sun If there is a God, Here his work is done And we with our wisdom adornments sublime Blots on the landscape, living our time Believe we possess all this world and its beauty The deeds and the statutes over-riding our duty

To respect every morsel and moment we savour Not sully it all with the kind of behaviour That abuses our advantage as the dominant species Laying down the law like cats’ litter feces And so the degenesis, Rapid decline Time to accept it and time to resign Ourselves to a simpler earth’s song Where sharing’s alright, Greed is all wrong

United we stand, Or divided we fall. Do we all pull together. Or cower in the stall When it is all too late saying: ‘I told you so’ As we recount our inaction blow by blow

How words are cheap, And life’s even cheaper The world overheated, And we heard the beeper! Listened and wondered just what we could do Facing pulpits spinning lies and shunning the truth I’ve never believed in ‘God bless us all’ Never believed in God much at all Let evil prevail and all sins wash away? I’m sorry my friends but that God’s had his day

And so much the better, No more speak His name No more hanging judges, Or heads hung in shame For WE are the saviour, Nothing more nothing less And our World is demanding, A change of address

R E A L LY ?

This ‘humanity’ More like insanity Fists full of pain The good, the bad, the insane No safe haven, Violence unshaven Pointless bureaucracy Useless democracy The shackles of normality Heckle-rising, brutality Westward Ho! Eastward bound By hook or by crook White noise, dark sounds Of hunger, desperation Broken lives, separation The scythe of interference The tragedy of ignorance There is no tomorrow That doesn’t bleed sorrow We are trapped in dissension

By lofty pretensions The powers that be The millions who flee Malnutrition, starvation No uniting of nations Unfixing uncaring And few of us daring To raise our thin voices As we run out of choices Sick world full of minions With our ‘public opinions’ Cannot change the climate Will not save us primates Blind faith and obedience Worship, subservience Do nothing to abate The rising of hate As we turn in on ourselves Once more piling shelves For the next Armageddon Not a care who we tread on

100

All pulling and pushing Culling and crushing Rewarding the greedy Ignoring the needy The government surplus The people the populous No place for us now As under the plough We are truly irrelevant The masses the excedent Just fodder for feeding And bodies for breeding. Yes sure its depressing But forget second guessing It is what it is No bucks no fizz Just bucking and fizzing Fucking and quizzing Wee drops in the ocean No magic, no potion So what can we do? Catch a train? Catch the flu? Brandish signs that malign The status we define Outmoded, outdated Road ahead Unrelated The future desolatory Trapped in our solitary Confined to idolatory Reaction involuntary Really! REALLY?!! Is this our reality?

101

102

Freedom means different things to different people. It can be found in little steps or release from something, emergence, creation or many other things but you will know it when you feel it. I by the way am still looking!

103

Phantoms like ancient wisdom Can turn heads into husks Colour into black Dawn in haste becomes dusk make rising seem like falling Bring tiredness without sleep The fruitless rush of being Of living life like sheep

Look beyond the fleeting shadows There rooted in firm clay Trees are ripe and ready No sign of dust or grey The choicest hanging apple Is succulent for sure So close your eyes and taste it The life that can be yours Stop rushing without moving Or frozen, stunned by fear Guard this special moment You’ve never been so near Move slowly down the pathway A practice run for sure But once you’ve tasted freedom You’ll never close that door

104

Shake off all the shackles Imposed since we were young The demons of devotion That meant we were hamstrung Once free from preconceptions Lemons too may seem sweet If lemonade’s the answer Go sell it on the street

You can see them all around you Some smiling some enthralled Always different reactions As if they have been told That no, we’re not born equal For joy to be obtained Free spirit, thought and action Must all be self-ordained Colour, race and birthplace Status, creed and health Background and obligations, Family friends and wealth All affect our well-being But they are not the key For once you’ve tasted freedom All you’ll want to be is free,

105

106

C H A N G E S

It is said that the highest levels of stress are felt during house moves, relationship splits, changing or losing your job or of course taking important exams. Any one of those is enough to spark insecurity and depression. Imagine then having to deal with all or most of these things at the same time. This poem tries to address that and was written for a friend - as were a number of the poems in this little tome 107

When it feels as though your wings have been clipped Your load has been tipped or your bud has been nipped. Just flap those wings harder, have a whisky and soda It’s only a fuse that has tripped! If it seems your world is about to collapse Go into relapse like someone lowered the flaps. Trust the love of invention, the error’s intention. Look lively and turn on all taps It is time to take a look at priorities, At identities, see the wood not the trees. It may seem sensational, even selfish, irrational And for sure it lacks niceties

But you know today we don’t need Aristotle, Put a foot on the throttle and don’t lose your bottle Good fortune’s awaiting, just keep recreating As would a maimed axolotl

108

Go to sleep perchance to dream like St Francis? Better take chances, embrace circumstances. Speak the truth be resourceful, resolute, forceful Explore new alliances

Pushing on, push back at the force of our nature Too much of old scripture, Change channel and picture New book to be written, new cat from the kitten For poorer or for richer

Nothing left, nor right, little light in the dark Nor the hunt for the Snark, where the snake met the shark So look over the wall, and with an eye on it all Shoot some hoops in the Park For there will come a time, when it all starts to figure The bull’s-eye gets bigger, more strength and more vigour The target seems nearer, objectives much clearer For a pull on the trigger

109

Like an arrow, a bullet, even nuclear fission Once on mission, with no collateral ambition We can crash through boundaries, establish new foundries Have a purpose and vision Stop the watch, wind-up, release inhibition Trust self-expression and without apprehension Stand tall cast long shadows, add colour, make rainbows There is no court in session Behind you the beat of perpetual noise Drinks with the boys, new-fangled old toys The road of lost wisdom, no route to Elysium Or of a Paradise poised

Before you the path of peace and awareness Of justice and fairness, of sense and some madness To be followed, but flying, success without shying Wonder at the wilderness

110

111

Or do we turn round, get back to that pipe-dream A Munchen-like Scream, back to work on the team Head in hands in that teeming germ-filled stream A sour crème de la crème

It is time to reach outside of this threshold? Time to unravel on a road less travelled Find the magic and mystery, of our own unique chemistry Live the story untold We can cut free from the ties that have bound us Emotions that hound us, ideas that confound us With no such adherence, or outside interference Jump aboard the outbound bus!

When it feels as though your wings have been clipped The balance has tipped or your bud has been nipped. Don’t run for cover, Life is not over It’s just the anchor that slipped

112

A I R P O RT

I went back Back to yesterday To the lofty airport halls Where still a kind of pall Is left hanging over it all Not of smoke but of gloom With each left to his own Preparing to be flown By some aircrew unknown On composite wings

Eyes are glazed Gazes fixed ahead Or staring up at the screens Some scanning the magazines Or tickets at Check-in machines In the departure lounge Even the kids look bored Some rush around ignored All impatient to board No thrills, a few spills On the move Moving on or off To holidays in the sun A marathon to run Some business to get done No matter what it is Time to slow down the pace Hang on to your suitcase Assume your passport face And fill in the forms

113

Arrivals Rivals this little The weary, dishevelled stream Emerging through the screens To kisses and hugs even screams Relieved to have arrived No longer strapped in seats At tens of thousands of feet! With odd hours taken to eat Now journey’s end reached

This airport Portal to the world Beginnings, farewells, withdrawal Endless comings and goings, renewal Outside the planes take on fuel Prepare for take off Arrived from so far away Disgorged its castaways Ready for more stowaways And customer care Still a while To be whiled away Today she comes to stay Time for coffee, grab a tray Like you and I did yesterday Sat at the same table Wondering at all the flights And many different plights Throughout the days and nights That get pondered here

114

115

S T E P

A babe becomes a toddler Step by step A dancer learns to dance Step by step

If you want to test your limits Or climb up to the summits There’s just one way to do it Step by step

In the haste to see advances, You’ll take chances Break some branches. No need to start by running Just to stumble in your tracks Keep in sight the road behind you, Steps now taken to remind you, The only way to get there’s step by step

Some steps must be retaken And some will be quite mistaken But don’t be shaken, it still happens step by step.

When you feel you’re sliding backwards Or the odds are stacked against you Don’t lose heart just keep your heading Understanding your objectives, With an eye for the directives, Keep the pace and run the race Step by step

116

T E L L I N G

T I M E S

They say time will tell But what will it say? At the turning of tides The end of the day When passions have cooled The mists have all lifted Practice made perfect Sands all now shifted

Will it speak of the weaver? The warp and the weft The time that we spent The time we have left The moving of shadows The hour on the dial Of hunger and feeding Of once in a while

This and the next two poems are ruminations on the idea of time and how it rules our lives!

117

Or stay in the moment Adrift like a boat Not passing nor pausing But simply afloat On a river to nowhere A current affair Trickling or rushing But not getting there

Time is so timeless No median to share It ticks all the boxes With boxes to spare. It counts our tomorrows And measures our stay Our precious heart’s beating Gone soon, here today Time’s only message That we understand Is measured in lifetimes The flame of life’s span Fanning sparks into ashes They’re all about us Yet not even a flicker In the greater Universe

118

The world spins in darkness While we live in light Dots on a dot Round a dot in the night Infinitesimal Specks making spawn Time has no meaning Without dusk and dawn The clocks are all ticking A syncopate drone Imposing a structure When really there’s none It helps understanding And gives us a rule To all click together Unless you’re The Fool

119

Then dimensions of time And the speedier mind Rush back to a moment If not to remind That what was, still is now And ever shall be The gene pool, the weakness Chaos, entropy Within and without you The having to be The unwelcome access To them, you and me The trite acceptation The wishing to flee What was once tomorrow Is done, history

If time tells us something It won’t make much sense No bridges or tunnels Walls, dams or fence Can hold it at bay Not even a suggestion So hang on for dear life And ask a different question

120

T H E

M O M E N T

121

Always flexible always flexed Primed like a tiger but never perplexed Perched upon a beam or hunched in a den Ready to pounce - who knows where who knows when. Such is the moment that lives for itself, To surprise or surmise or get left on the shelf. The lady in waiting, the Magus, the sot, All that there is and will be and will not. Time to bide, turn the tide, come ashore in a rush, Or sit on a nest, on an egg in a bush. I’m an instant, a sliver, a brief slice of time, That comes between moments like yours and like mine We all have these instances, some intertwine, While others get sipped like a really fine wine. “It is what it is” just a tick of the clock, A tickle, a touchstone a time to take stock We look for expression, the collective ingeny, The meeting of minds, the magic of so many Chats and chants the taunts, the journey, Better than silence, submission and ennui Be that as it may, as they do sometimes say, Where there’s a will and a wish there is always a way This moment, this instant, this sliver of time That waits in the wings Any place, any time! 122

O N T O

T H I S

Y O U R

M O M E N T

Added to the poem’The Moment’and recited at our daughter’s wedding 30/04/2022

123

Then there is this moment, your moment Momentous yet momentary spent Not as precept or pause But as a leap of faith in a faithless world Vows now sworn Fresh in the air, airborne Unwrapped promises of love Devotion, obedience but above all What a joy to share these moments Feel that such instances of joy are meant for all of us here, witnesses in some way To the fleeting power of now, of this moment Of today, of love

124

T H E S C H E D U L E

You only have the time you have To have the time you want

125

Once upon a time there was a tall man with a very tight schedule. He tried everything he could to ease it.

First he went to a seamstress and she said “Sir, you seem stressed I must say but in order to loosen your schedule you must leave it with me for some days so I can relax it.” “No”, said the tall man with the very tight schedule, “I need it easing right now.”

So he went to the blacksmith who on seeing the schedule felt he might overheat matters and suggested a chiropractor but it turned out he was in Egypt.

The tall man with the very tight schedule visited a mechanic who scanned the schedule, applied some lubricant, tightened the brakes and adjusted the timing. The tall man wasn’t very happy about this as his schedule started backfiring. A visit to a shrink made the tall man shorter-tempered and cut him down to size. However as a result of such probing the schedule got even more awkward.

What to do? He was short on change for anything else, so he went to the bank which was close by but also closed so instead he popped into the barbers who trimmed the schedule down, rubbed in some lotion and offered something for the weekend – but the agenda was already overfull so he couldn’t squeeze it in. The now not so tall, ill-tempered man, with a not so long beard and even tighter schedule that misfired was desperate.

Finally he resorted to the watchmaker who added thirty minutes to every hour and made the now not so tall but trim man very happy as he hurried home – which now took three hours instead of the usual two according to his timepiece 126

‘ T I S B E T T E R T O

B E

A N

A N G E L

Although written before all the Black Lives Matter protests this is in some ways related to it. The winners write the history and many statues are put up to supposed heroes even though they often lost albeit valiantly or were latterly accused of preposterous acts to claim victory. We talk of conquests and discovery by European nations when in reality it was all about treasure and land-grabbing in the name of inbred monarchs whose real claim was by any measure, non-existent. Should wars ever be celebrated or slave-traders be heralded however philanthropic they may later become? Probably in their time it was somehow appropriate but it is good to see these figures of oppression and institutional murder being torn down - even people like Churchill. War should never be celebrated and the cawing of the victors is always an ugly song.

127

‘Tis better to be an angel than a hero Better to savour sweet joy and redemption Than cross the dry winds of burning hell Crying ‘onward ever onward’ into battle Stung with rebuke as frail flesh fails No protection from the flailing sword. Wielded without mercy since its forging By small men in big shoes behind barricades ‘Tis better to be an angel than a hero Better to cast true light and salvation Than cut and thrust into the empty shell Of fatuous self and presumptive tittle tattle Pushing punching and burning fresh trails No match for the damask rose and mighty word Military twill and daggers lunging Bolstered by doggerel and dumb charades ‘Tis better to be an angel than a hero? To arrive at moments coming not clamour recognition The sun-risen songs of fiery Seraphim that foretell Or the hero oft limpen, leaden and defeated that’ll Be stood heroically cast in bronze surrounded by rails Plucked icon from disaster given this reward Meanwhile quiet and gentle non-enforcing The angel like a mist weaves through the palisades

128

A P O LO G I E S

T O

E D W A R D

There once was a toddler from Reading Who got in a tizz with his bedding He peed in his cot and slept in his pot And it’s doing his poor mother’s head in!

129

There was a young huckster from Cheam Who got a job peddling ice cream, He spouts his codswallop, and sells by the dollop That young whipper-snapper from Cheam

130

There was an old man of Peru Who craved Llama meat in his stew But he lived south of Putney, his stew was all muttony And not what he wanted to chew

131

There was an old plumber from Dorking Who smoked a briar pipe when out walking He packed it with shag from a little cloth bag That congested old plumber from Dorking

132

There was an old biker from Stroud Whose Harley was ever so loud He once had a Tesla which he sold to a wrestler Cos he’d rather go big, bold and proud

133

There was an old man with a Sow So big that he taught it to plough But one day mistaken, he sold it for bacon So now he resorts to a cow

134

There was a young farmer from Barmer Who was also the local snake-charmer With his snakes in a trance, he could have them all dance To the Mambo and chant Hare Rama.

135

There was a tall man in his tower Who yearned for more pomp and more power As POTUS 45, instead of let people thrive He milked them and turned it all sour

136

There was a space-traveler from Mars Who landed on Earth and caught SARS He was really pissed off, when he started to cough And now he’s infected all Mars

137

There was a young man from Toluca Who had an annoying verruca He sprayed it and prayed it would soon go away, Detachedly puffing on his Hookah

138

There was an old poacher from Rye Who dressed-up in plus fours and a tie Oft mistook for a Lord, he’d make off with his hoard And never got caught on the sly!

139

There was a young lad from Detroit Who was adroit at tossing the quoit Though his eyes failed the test. he ran rings round the rest But this talent was hard to exploit

140

T H E

B LU E

B O T T L E

F LY

Do I make myself clear Said the Boar to the Deer As they grazed in the night in the forest A surfeit of worms Even on the best terms Is not healthy unless you’re a florist To quite understand it You must roll in a sandpit To make all your fleas swiftly scarper And then you’ll see why The Blue Bottle Fly Has a mind that is palpably sharper

Well you know I’m not sure Said the Deer to the Boar It all sounds like tommyrot really No florist eats worms Even on the best terms, Though fleas flee and flies do fly quite freely But how in the night Even with an owl’s sight Could I tell it was blue and thus smarter So frankly my friend, I must say in the end All this nonsense is just a non-starter.

141

“If you’ll pardon me, please” Called an Owl from the trees There are some things I really must tell you All I see’s black and white Though I hear you alright By good luck I’m unable to smell you” “Now the Blue Bottle Fly Waits ‘til living things die So its larvae once laid won’t annoy them Not like those damned fleas That drink blood, bring disease All one wishes to do is destroy them” “With worms in the ground There’s flowers all around The florist is happy in clover” “It all sounds quite foul” Said the Deer to the Owl I’ll need to think all of this over 142

Said the Deer to the Boar As they foraged some more Giving thought to the Owl and his statement “He seemed very wise But the biggest surprise He spoke English without any accent!” “There’s a reason for that” Said a tree-hanging Bat A scouser by the tone of his voice Owl went to college Picked up all his knowledge They say he’s read all of James Joyce

But wasn’t Joyce Irish Said the Boar somewhat churlish Glad he got to play Trivial Pursuit The Deer was quite lost His quoit was long tossed His attention caught up tugging roots

The Bat said “there’s more Owl knew Dumbledore When at Hogwarts he doubled as Hedwig Where Bluebottles too Were broomsticks that flew And Hagrid sent Harry some earwigs!

143

Said the Deer to the Boar I can’t take any more This ruminating’s making me thirsty There’s a small pub nearby Serves a nice whisky dry The barmaid’s a friend, her name’s Kirstie They just took a mo Cos they needed to go After eating and gorging aplenty Then off they did trot To the Old Trough and Pot Where last orders they call at ten twenty

Said the Boar to the Deer Happy sipping his beer Pondering all to which they’d born witness “What a wonderful night It turned out alright Now it’s your turn to tip our fine waitress!

144

Whilst The Blue Bottle Fly With his large beady eyes Buzzed down to the floor of the glade Where, like it or not He dumped his maggots In the mines that the two friends had laid Which all goes to show That whatever you know The food chain’s one part of the picture While we all look ahead It still has to be said Be aware of what goes on behind yer

145

146

S A N G

S O N G

I sang a song of sixpence And pocketed some rye Felt bad about the blackbirds Getting baked inside the pie And when the pie was opened Amazed that they could fly

To sing before a king it seems Who liked to count his money Forget about the fat old queen Filling out on bread and honey But even in my tender years It seemed more weird than funny

And then there was the parlour maid In the garden hanging clothes When down came a well-baked bird And pecked off her little nose. Jenny Wren put it back again What happened with those crows?

There’s Mary and her Little Lamb Mother Goose who had a few Old Mother Hubbard, The Duke of York The Lady who lived in a Shoe The pie man, the piper, podgy George Tom Thumb and Little Boy Blue

147

What were they really saying Were they trying to give us clues Sheep, out fleecing, selling wool Us round a Mulberry bush turning blue On a cold and frosty morning Learning to wash and dress for school

Atishoo Atishoo we all fell down Running rings around the Rosay While Little Miss Muffet astride her tuffet Was eating her curds and whey When Incy Wincy came down the spout And scared that poor damsel away I often wonder what it was all about Greedy kings and fat old queens Big Bad wolves and Frogs and things With babies falling out of trees These songs we sang as children Cast their spells before our teens So when we left the nursery Short on reasons long on rhymes The befuddling continued But different from past times No more singing songs of sixpence Imitating sleeping lions

148

Comes the time to knuckle down Buckle up, be somewhat meek Contain all that unfettered joy, Play a different hide and seek The fancy dress more uniform-ness Raise your hand before you speak

Seems Humpty was a really big gun Eanie Meanie ‘bout catch dem slaves Bloody Mary really was quite contrary With her torture machines and mass graves Ten little Indians in manner quite veiled Hid the slaughter of Indian braves.

We absorb it all and become what we do Depending on how you receive it The way that we dress, the laguage we speak What to do and how to achieve it “Who controls the past controls the future” Or so George Orwell perceived it Then it happens and we bear witness To the idea he sought to portray As statues fall and flags are burned Trashing icons that don’t hold sway The past gets hidden but we still get ridden Believing we’re winning the day

149

150

For all along the Watchtower The Princes still have their view Watching as the cities burn Everything up for review Toss a few crumbs, turn down their thumbs Not to comfort but calm the milieux The nursery songs still resonate Those rhymes became implanted The stories we were read at night Enthralled us and enchanted We drifted off into our dreams Taking those tales for granted

History’s writ with the winner’s pen That’s the reality and the convention And just as with all those nursery songs Why would there be any mention Of the massacres, theft , horrendous crimes Slaughter and subjugation Now that we all have internet To rake and plough for answers Can a Google search really change a thing? Can we be players not just dancers? The stage was set so long before This pantomime just advances

There is so much more to those nursery rhymes when you start looking!

151

152

C R A Z Y

M E X I C O

After making Mexico my home for the last 27 years this seems to be what I feel about it. A wonderful country of colour and light, Pity about the bad stuff but in the end it is all mad stuff!!!

153

“You’ll come back”, they said. Had I forgotten something? The Mexican food is ‘patrimonio de la humanidad’ Then you get Moctezuma’s So-called revenge but what did you do? The girls are something else But then so are most girls They say Mexico is the second most corrupt country Because it paid Brazil to be first On a Mexican roundabout nobody cares Nobody learns how to drive Only how to get a licence And then they just work it out Chiles are hot peppers But peppers aren’t always hot chillis Tuna is a fruit and atun is a Tuna Moles get crushed up in a sauce And taste a bit like chocolate Mi late chocolate Has nothing to do with an evening beverage “Mi casa es tu casa” But not the front door key “Para servirle” A prelude or postscript to no service “Estoy a sus ordenes” And then nothing happens And “un servidor” who only serves himself Mexiquences, Chilangos, Chapanecos Regios, Tapatios, Jarochos, Campechanos Jalapeños. Habaneros, Poblanos Amaranto, Alegrias, Chiclets Besame mucho, La Bamba, La Bomba!

154

Charreria, the national sport But the sport of choice is fut Basketball courts everywhere Where the barefoot Triquis kids win gold Like the Tarahumara women and men Running and winning again and again in sandals But little recognition for their sandalismo In robotics, mathematics, Triumphant results but lack of exposure Always resplendent in paralympics Paracaidas, parasoles, Paranormal, paradigma Mexico is a crazy country With every apparent advance It becomes majestically more so The Rich get better at being rich And the poor get better at being poor The narcos, robbers and kidnappers Join hands with police and government And go free to dance in incredible sunsets. Everyone eats tacos and beans and aguacate All mums wear an apron The good the bad and the majority Boots with long toes Hair well-greased back More power, more ‘mojo de King Kong’ Combed into thick hair Big brimmed hats, bigotes Bizcochos and conchas Verga and Pinga Chinga a su madre, Que padre, su gato, Su perro y su pez Y hasta su vida 155

Photos by Olivier Evans

156

La raza mas chida Pega la piñata while blindfold Dandole duro hitting out with the stick Sometimes hitting a little cousin by mistake But in the end The paper mache effigy surrenders And out tumble sweets and more sweets Accompanied by Coca Cola for los niños Cuba Libre for los grownups Holidays on beautiful beaches The jungles, the mountains Highways and hijacks Soldiers and police Shootings in the distance Screeching wheels Escape from the rat race Into the rat run Acapulco divers Who get shorter with every dive Taxi drivers in their Tsurus Who can never find anywhere The national anthem Which seems to get longer with every rendition And the bandera, the most beautiful flag in the world Tri ‘rock and roll’ in Español TRI the national football team And PRI the biggest national disaster Nevermind earthquakes and volcanoes Bricks and ash can be shovelled away Not so the PRI who just morph Oh Crazy Mexico A lot of noise and even more nuts. Much ado about something wonderful You are my home and now my heritage At once my deception but also my inspiration You are my sorrow but also my sunshine! Shamble on Crazy Mexico! 157

158

A C A P U LC O

G O N E

LO C O

Acapulco was once the jewel of the Mexican Pacific coast and playground of the rich and famous. Ever since I have been here it has gone to the dogs. A great shame and despite all the promotions and efforts to bring tourism back it will require a major shift in the whole country to bring about peace and prosperity not only to Acapulco but also to an increasing number of other cities and states.

159

Acapulco’s the place for some fun and some frolics Unless you’re unlucky and they cut off your bollocks Or kidnap your daughter or slaughter the lot of you Caught in the crossfire of yet one more narco-feud

This town full of runnels, big ships with small funnels And fishing smacks no longer up to the gunwales Escape to the hills through the two Maxi tunnels Not quite the tube but neither the Chunnel The catch in this city’s the one on your door And safety in numbers along the seashore Dirty green waves crashing down on the beach In Paradise lost, gone, so far out of reach

The famous no longer look out from Las Brisas No longer the haunt of those little Caesars So where does that leave us twixt narcos and divas A coastal retreat for the dumb or the devious

I try to avoid Even thinking about it Go there again? I very much doubt it!

160

U N A

C A RTA

P R E S I D E N T E

A L D E

S E Ñ O R M E X I C O

You mingled and now re-emerge In a place on the cusp, on the verge, Preparing its nethers And preening its feathers, To break out in colour and sound Now most want for you to succeed Having so far seen too many bleed This new generation Needs no explanation So do all those things you expound

Brush swishing and scrape of the pan The way for the brand new Tlatoani, The Fourth Transformation, A regeneration Sweeping changes that will be profound No longer to fly like a king And with policies mostly left wing Success and its flurry Could slip into slurry Please don’t let corruption abound

You promised to bring winds of change But these winds seem to buffet and range Round the same fungal creepers, Perennial sleepers Let’s hope there’s some new blood around

161

This nation must stand on its feet, Heads held high with a massive heartbeat Bring happiness and hope Not just throw out a rope And more salt to get rubbed in the wound Each sunset will bring a short night ‘Til the sun rises up and shines bright, Bringing new opportunities For all the communities To make this great country astound

At times you appear quite derailed Though you promised to leave if you failed Renew the connection Or face more rejection If the people regret who they crowned Do well then Señor Presidente Like us you’re one more residente But the job in your hands Is return these great lands To a beautiful merry-go-round!

I am quite fond of this old duffer. Manuel Lopez Obrador, current Mexican president, as he prattles on in his daily press conferences about uniting the people and doing away with corruption. He gets a lot of stick from opposing parties but his overwhelming victory demands to be respected and I really do wish him well. This is a letter to him. 162

163

T H E

H E L I C O P T E R

P I LO T

Como aguila pasamos entre nubes y bosques entre mar y cielo Las montañas a nuestro lado asentados sobre los rios del valle o cañon Volando hasta la noche Y en cada nuevo dia Eso es vivir

Unidos en el vuelo Nunca cansamos a ver las calles y rincones de los pueblos y ciudades Sobre los campos y cultivos Vemos huertas, vemos chivos El mais, el trigo y la caña La cosecha, la hazaña Eso es vivir Con Mexico convivimos Sus triunfos, sus tristezas Llevando ricos a sus ranchos Y a pobres sus dispensas En disastre y destreza El latido de los rotores Nuestro sangre y aceite Compaginan en volar Eso es vivir

164

F O R

M A N D Y

G I L E S

Where would one be Without one’s hat Propped on one’s head To avoid all the splats On the bonce, down the neck On the brow and the nose But it is recommended One also wears clothes

The sou'wester is fine For a nut in a storm The barnet stays dry The lug-holes stay warm Fur-lined wellies, thick jumper Some gloves and a mac The complete attire For combating the cack

So out you go then Suitably adorned With your mutt close to heel Hey folks you've been warned Clear the path, warn the kids Hold your tongue, watch the goats There's a stalker about Toting titfer by Totes

165

O N

R E T U R N I N G H E R

H AT

On tendering your tenner At a bank that I frequent The tender-eyed young teller Asked me how it would be spent I said "quite wisely really It will go towards the rent She thought that fairly prudent And nodded her consent

Politely I excused myself (For a fart I couldn't prevent!) Picked up my slip and left the bank Quite cheerful and content Richer by a tenner If not wiser by a cent They say it pays to think though And I'd now see what they meant O N H I S

C A S H I N G C H E Q U E

There it was - a PARKING FINE That warden he's no gent Littering my windscreen With his little document And so I have to tell you Though never my intent That dosh was just the ticket But as it came, it went!!

166

FA N G S F O R

T H E

M E M O R Y

167

I am the last tooth Not mine to gnash or grind Gnaw, chew and bite For I am the only tooth Lonely but strong Defiant and long I am the last tooth In this gaping hole Now all gap and gums A derelict outpost Sticking it out I am the remanant

All that remains To smile, chide and nag A rag-mouthed, buttress To lip and tongue Indentured, incisive I stand alone I am the last tooth Rancid rune-stone, In guttersnipe grin Grimacing grimy tusk Foamy-lip-framed Solitary, insolent

But when all is said And will be done This jaw-bound stela That stands so firm Does slip from the grip Of flesh and bone No longer upstanding But forever lasting Unbridled snag Undaunted fang? No longer sheathed But still the last tooth 168

T H E

LO S T

C H O R D

The lost chord turned up today Silly of me to forget I mislaid it when I put the 'cello away In the loft with the chemistry set

It must have got stuck to the rosin In the bit where the bow takes a nap When I opened the case that it was in The chord just fell into my lap

Only now I don't recall the tune to play Silly of me to forget But the day that I put the 'cello away I took up the bass clarinet A N D

Y O U

C H O R D S

C A N ' T O N

P L AY

G O B - S T I C K

169

170

171

P U R P O S E

All land is an island All that lives was a seed The oceans around us Just water we need

Our bodies are functions Of our genes’ selfish needs We're simply the complex Where eternity breeds Like ants in an army Or bricks in a wall We contribute little Facilitate all

The smallness of being The greatness in lives Survival is knowing What always survives

It takes little effort Our duty gets done Knowing our purpose Can we now have some fun?

172

Searching for the Quality button On a jar of strawberry jam I was prompted to ponder the question Of just what it is that I am The inner tubes that keep me alive The arteries and the veins The pipes and tracts and glands And ducts that every body contains

Q U A L I T Y

B U T T O N

Imagine all those blood-filled lines That simple sanguine self Red and blue – like a nursery rhyme The violet and rose of good health

Our beating hearts that thump away So our blood can keep on flowing Through thousands of miles of tiny tubes To keep our complexion glowing! These vessels share a crowded space We harbour such a mess While the brain keeps skulking silently Up there in its cosy head nest Then there’s the intestinal gut Those gurgling smelly parts Transforming all we gobble up Into pee and pooh and farts

While leaving behind some nutrients Proteins, fats and carbs Minerals, water and vitamins All absorbed in a matter of yards!

So what serves what, why are we thus It’s obvious I suppose To a doctor or a high priestess Or maybe there’s no one who knows 173

And why is it that we differ so Being basically all the same Imagine if we had a button like that That could put us out of the game And so I catch my breath, inhale Now there’s another story The air we breathe, suck in, let out At least that bits not all gory

What of the soul, I ask myself For somewhere it resides In this visceral home of blood and bone That we like to call our ‘insides’ Now I must dash to catch the Tube The irony is yawning Another bloody clot on board Like every working day morning Still time to pay the groceries Though I really can’t be late The jam´s without a quality button And I don’t have a sell by date In the metro we are taciturn Though everyone has a voice We share so many private parts How can privacy be a choice

A skinny bag of gristle and guts Cloaked in cloth and shame Most like to keep themselves to themselves Anonymous, but all the same The miracles of life go on For humans and strawberries too The fruit gets put in a punnet While we live in the Human Zoo 174

P L AY T I M E

See-saw, Roundabouts, swings Playing in the park, Slides and climbing frames The earliest days When life was all games

Up, up, So high you climb Shouting out to mummy Look at me, look at me Then before you know it There you are climbing trees More fun Riding your bike Splashing in puddles, Skidding and jumps Getting ready for life, The pitfalls and the bumps

Day’s end Covered in mud Grazes on elbows and knees Savlon and a plaster Right now you are the challenger But someday you’ll be master!

175

176

FA I R G R O U N D

The fun of the fair Is just over the hill If we don’t go now Then we never will The coconut shies, The rides and the slides The long bungee cord That shoots us to the skies The Helter Skelter And candy floss trees Betting some pennies On a circus of fleas Winning a goldfish Or a few fluffy toys The fun of the fair, Is for girls and for boys

The lights are so bright, The music is blaring Swirling in tea cups, The pirate boat’s daring The carousel spinning, Dodgems careening The Ferris wheel turns, Happy people are screaming

The eery ghost train, The hall of bent mirrors Keep testing ourselves Getting the shivers All part of the treat, Forgetting our troubles Blow a small fortune While blowing some bubbles 177

178

A N O T H E R

O L D

M A N

A N D

T H E

S E A

I was reminded of the sailor setting his sails Bound for the open sea His smack smooth on the calm waters of the Estuary Soon to be buffeted by North Sea waves He knew of Moby Dick whales, Kraken giants The hunger of sharks He knew the treachery and treasures of the sea, Of triumph and tragedy He knew the stories of Pirates and ghost ships He knew the mighty power of Neptune The pull of the wild He was a deep sea fisherman His to mine the surly depths Fill the well of his two masted ship with fresh catch Then bring his haul and his crew home, Theirs then to tell fearsome tales Of storms and waves so high they left you in shade And fear but with an overwhelming craving for life

He knew how to line up his ship into the waves Brave and yet calm accepting of fate He knew how to drive into the towering seas To crash down into safety as he advanced to the other side His father and his father’s father had shown him How to face those watery cliffs Meet every challenge in his way Always believing he would see another day Share the fruits of his endeavours. He was not a fierce man or a cruel man He was a man of, and with nature He knew to be kind and receive kindness He knew to face adversity He knew when to cry with sadness’ tears Or cry out in defiance or joy For he knew he was not alone 179

180

He was blessed with an eighth sense A sense of adventure The responsibility to live his life Seek new bonds and boundaries He was a kind man and a kinsman Living in kinship with those who turned to call out ‘Be with us for we are with you. You are not alone’ He was a king and kingsman Loyal to his country and true to himself A man of duty who could also see beauty in all things The sea was his battlefield, his well smack his battleship His duty to return and return again To the welcoming mouth of the Estuary To the firm earth, to the hearth, to his home

There he might light a pipe in front of a blazing fire, He might snuggle up to another’s flesh to find human comfort He might sup on broth, chowder, or bisque Fill his belly with hot food Spit out an errant flake of tobacco Feel lust and desire for all earthly things, Still his sea-boots would await his old sea pins by the door. The seafarer’s heart and soul forever ocean bound, Always hearkening to the Siren’s call, Yearning for the churning waters, Nets and lines entangling his spirit in their mesh Beckon him once again to set sail From the watery edge of the ocean onto the endless mantle of truculent blue An old salt forever he’ll be. A salt of the earth who put to sea

181

182

B E F U D D L E M E N T

A kiss and a cuddle Can lead you know where But piss in the puddle And who'll ever care

If you miss in the muddle Well I won't so there

183

184

K E R P H E W !

How I wish that it were true Me, screaming blue murder Protesting like fury At the New World Order

Or with National Geographic To film a documentary About life in South Africa From the turn of the century

Out marching with placards And banners, uprising With brothers and sisters Proselytizing

The wars of the Boers And British supremacy To releasing Mandela And how he won clemency

Or just a game of footie A brief cascarita Con la gente de siempre Que siempre me invita

Or trekking high pastures In search of bald eagles Or, failing that, sparrows Or some disgruntled seagulls

Or browsing at a market In search of a knick knack, A treasure, a trinket Amongst all the bric-a-brac

Maybe playing guitar Up there on a stage More Johnny-come-lately Not quite Jimmy Page

Or sipping margaritas Facing out to the sea On a Fantasy Island Some beach babes and me

But sadly I must tell you I’m not up to such mischief I`m under curfew with a cold All sniffles and ‘kerchiefs.

185

186

T O

T H E

C L E A N E R S

187

There are many things you can do for yourself But many you simply choose not to There are those that tend and cook and serve Others that scheme and plot too You can hail a cab, take a bus catch a train But somebody else has to drive You can dine on squid or legs of frogs Without having to catch them alive You can build your own house but most people don`t Preferring the route of a loan The idea of building one far from their minds When all that they want is a home Let’s suppose there are kids (that you make by yourselves, the easiest bit by far) In come the midwife, the doctor, the nurse Boyscouts, for a bob, wash the car

188

For a night on the town, babysitters are hired A person that you can rely on Then off to the theatre, the flicks or a show Without actors it’s all just a try-on Let’s face it with years we’ve all honed a few skills A dab hand perhaps or quite deft To deal with stuff and some accomplishments, yes But who cleans up all the mess that is left? It does take all sorts to make up this world We all hope for a life that has meaning But whatever we do, with our aim firm and true There is always so much that needs cleaning. So here’s to the cleaners, the brush, mop and broom The hoover, the polish, the duster Without such attention and real dedication Our lives would quite simply lack luster

189

190

191

O V E N

G LO V E

I’m here to protect you again and again No more than a mitten no glove made of chain To keep your hands cool and protect from the flame And if that doesn't happen don't say I'm to blame Were you to get clumsy and let me get wet I become fairly useless so please don't forget To keep me away from the damp washing-up That always surrounds you when you're cooking-up Try not to set fire to my dainty design When all singed and flaking, I don't work that fine And please don't forget when the cooking is done The hook on the wall where I like to get hung To watch over the kitchen, in nonchalant style Lend a hand when needed, every once in a while When toasting or roasting or baking in tins Your fingers reach out and my function begins

My role is quite simple and really not new Take the heat for a moment that’s all I must do An Oven Glove’s life may not suit everyone But I think a loo brush would much rather be one!

192

D J I

B E R W O C K Y

Most know the Jabberwocky poem and it’s strange words and alien imagery from Through the Looking Glass by Charles Lutwidge Dodgson - beter known as Lewis Carroll. Our aerial filming business here in Mexico effectively came to an end with the arrival of simple high quality drones equipped with high definition cameras. Having written this poem it suddenly dawned on my that I could spell Jabberwocky as DJI-berwocky in honour of the major player in the drone business.

193

Our gyros and gimbles went up in the sky Frabjous those moments when we got to fly Now it’s all done remotely, these toys put aside As very few need us for filming up high

Twas brillig until some slithy toves Perfected the drone, now they’re out there in droves Whiffling through tudgey woods or mangroves It makes us feel mimsy like those borogroves There’s no snicker-snack with a sharp vorpal sword To take out the DJI-berwocks, now so adored They burbled, they bit and caught and clawed And now are galumphing where Helus once soared Not much we can do ‘bout this manxome foe No uffish thoughts or something to throw They outgrabe up there, we frumious below Callooh! Callay! Mome raths, what a blow

Though still we remember the old Tumtum tree Those beamish days when the Kestrel flew free Now Mavics and Phantoms the birds that we see With the wabe full of drones by D.J.I. company

194

C H O R U S

O F

C A R S

Flame Red Firebird Or rusty truck Glossy panacea Or pick-me-up Poor man has a pony Rich man has his greed Small men feel envy Big men need the speed Meteoric Metalloids Thundering wheels Engine in overdrive Tyres making squeals Decimating insects Sucking in a bird Animals like rejects Lie drying by the Kerb Hard-nosed warriors Of modern times Rubber dub hubs Enumerable crimes Eating at the energy Poisoning the air Biting at the Bitumen Consuming unaware

195

Bench seat snoozling A first romance American Graffiti Driving to the dance Pedal to the metal Speedo starts to climb Feeling in fine fettle The very best of times Lights are dazzling A flashing gaze Peach hammer images Knife through haze Sending the passengers Crashing through laminate Heaven bound messengers Not now but never, better late A Chorus of Cars This sad refrain Weapons of choice Again and again We can’t live without them These wonderful toys Red for the girls Yellow for the boys

196

A R C T I C

W I N D

197

The Arctic Wind bites into my neck Silver, severing, shifting, freezing air Cutting down, cutting up, cutting along Invisible card in nature`s deck

Fresh-chilled in a place, godforsaken Carried from and to icy oblivion Go blizzard in another quarter I may be shivering but will not be taken

Desperate tumbling, mad Arctic Wind Go home and blow here no more Lift-off rooves, raise waves, ground crops But find no opportunity with me and my kind

Un-trampled I defy you to snuff my strut Un-weathered, I defy you to wear me down Un-numbed, I deny you my bones for freezing Un-ending wind, I deny you my door to bang shut

198

199

B E

T H E R E

Are you going through thick and thin? The tug of the rug, the prick of the pin Dancing emotions but mostly heart-wrenching Tears welling up, fists tight and clenching Pulling and pushing and caving you in? Moments of madness, despair and chagrin Aware of the paths and the craziest paving Keeping your cool but internally raving The structures, the hopes all stacked up in dreams, the fat of uncertainty stressing your seams Each day a blessing a chance for renewal To tiptoe through tulips or grope through the gruel Have you ever truly floated? Uplifted upheld by forces unseen To hang in the air like musk No foothold, no handhold No reference, no deference to gravity Surprised by the levity, the severity The unbearable lightness of being,

Adrift between obligation and temptation, satisfaction and challenge. Inertia needs initiative, impetus thrives on impetuousness. Drive on, steer a path, think in three or more dimensions, clutch at chance, dance with danger, reconcile, defer, detour, deter.

So many words, so many swords and hard places to be stuck between. Marshall the arts, sidestep, jiggle, jump, prod and pray, be prey to good fortune, delay nothing, be importune, render your design, impose and dispatch it if you can But most of all B E

T H E R E

200

S PA R R I N G

PA RT N E R S

Boxers ready Gloved hands Queensberry rules Man on man

Rubbing ropes Up tight Jammed in corner Puts up fight

Seconds out Bell sounds Lock together Nine more rounds

Blood ‘n spit Square ring Round after round King on king

Shielded face Masked blows Quick reaction Covers nose

Cut ‘n thrust One, two Sparring partners Him and you

Nimbler man Cross, jab While Slower feet Duck and dab

Corner stool Split lip Cut-man’s jelly Get a grip

201

Know your skills Keep pace Hold your station Watch your face

Count of ten He’s out No more time bells In this bout Gum-shield smiles Bruised brows Hug the loser sweaty towels Some are lost Some won The fight is bigger Life goes on

202

G R A D U AT I O N

203

In these dragnet days Of fostered promises And graduated expectations Is it hollow fear That lurks in the fat of your eye Facing a rainbow but colour-blind

Gone the wizened juvenile The unbridled adolescent Bring on the wet-behind-the-ears adult Pawing for a foothold Amongst boggy pondweed idealism Feet dragging, neck wrung, ears pinned In bereavement one changes How many times can you smile For the same picture. Stand corrected Pull back, console your soul Retreat in defeat of all you imagined Awaken and become aware See the foxy badger's weaselling Answer the provoking itch That propels you to a new place Where to more clearly hear The rustle of passing time

No longer pilloried Exposed to curmudgeons' blows Cudgel your brain Write code in sweet refrain Like the poet seeking out his garret Where to give reason to life in rhyme

204

F O O D

F O R E T H O U G H T

Beans and rice is very nice But meat and spuds is better Posh folk feast on salmon, smoked Or prepared with herbs and butter

When sheckels are few a pot of stew With offal, bones and dripping Will fill the guts in hovels and huts Of those eking out a living

The jet set munches on lobster lunches Fine wine and exotic cocktails All kinds of fishes and gourmet dishes Partridge, pheasant and quails

Children’s bellies get filled with jellies And sweets, iced-lollies and soda Bad habits that stay all through our days Till our teeth fall out when we’re older

205

We fry and grill what others kill Boil and roast fresh veggies Picked by the hands that work the land Its trees and fields and hedges The teas and rice and sugars and spice That make it to our table Sown and grown by people unknown Who eat whatever is available

Does how we dine really define us? Now there’s some food for thought To have good taste and leave less waste Are the things we should be taught

206

C U R R Y

When one is without rhyme Only time for disbelieving For picking up the pieces In a world which is deceiving

Curry favour with your passions, Make amends with your deception Turn the dial on the receiver Until you get a good reception

Hear the songs of joy and laughter With a rhythm once called heathen Tap your toes and your emotions There’s no need for rhyme or reason!

The tide of disappointment Is a tide that is receding Take your courage to the kitchen It’s your soul that needs some feeding Stir the pot, add in some spices Giving warmth and sweet aroma Turmeric for health and colour Happiness from Cardomoma

207

The peppercorns need cracking Chopped Chillis, coriander Caraway and cinnamon Curry flavour - nothing finer!

If reason takes a pass Has you questioning your lot Throw your worries to the wall There`’s no x that marks the spot And the sum of all anxiety Won’t amount to much at all. Think of all the good things Not the bad that could befall

Let a tide of love rush over Raise your hopes and lift your spirit Life`s a dish that’s richly flavoured Bite it, taste it, eat it, live it!

208

I S

T H E R E

LO V E ?

Did a story fall on hardened eyes? Did a wand withdraw from lightning skies? Was there pity wrapped in sad disdain? Has a city ever suffered pain? Does forgiveness swallow hand with glove? Is there love? Can desire become a raging fire? Consuming like a passion or a pyre? Was a ferry joining cross the sea? Is there more than one, more than me? Was the olive branch before the dove? Is there love? Did a lock of love secure your smile? Has the tug of time displayed its style? Would a touching hand dispel belief? Was a tone of voice a tone of grief? Can a phone call ever be enough? Is there love?

209

210

LO O K

A LO N G

T H E

L I F E L I N E

Family Ensor

211

Kumbaya My Lord - Come By Here

Precious moments with the breath of our souls Life-size shades and light of our being Dazzling and drifting, caught on waves and in shallows Lit like sparklers bright, fizzy, smoky, impatiently burning down Not yet unforgetting nor unforgiving But unrelenting in the search for understanding This the kingdom, the power and the glory The spirit of life, love and harmony The bonds and entanglement of desire and devotion Wanting the best, only the very best Never settling back, Never settling The uncomfortable rush to do justice to time. Sing the songs of freedom and play right your hand Push the boundaries, pull the bell cord Summon the muse, the ghosts of inspiration Inhale deeply the moments as they pass Tread softly do not disturb, do Not disturb For nature is doing its good work Kumbaya My Lord - Come By Here

212

B I RT H D AY S

I N

T H E

T H I R D

Family Howard

213

A G E

Sipping or quaffing one more down the hatch No longer beginners and quite up to scratch Know what you’re doing and do what you know The clock may be ticking but ever so slow. The long years behind you, some feathers in caps Cheerful reminders and many more laps Our stay in this world is measured in chances Some taken, some missed as our time advances Then comes the day with urgency receding A comfy old chair where to catch up on reading Or travel, no pressure, the world`s at your feet What once was your oyster is now more a treat Do you sit on committees, stand up for rights? Or have you bidden farewell to those everyday fights To focus on family, friends and the garden Of Eden of course - not that small patch well trodden You passed through some hoops climbed all rungs on the ladder If you’re blessed with good health now the best can be had A life in retirement’s no life in retreat Though ears may need cupping, still hearts miss a beat On the roadmap of life, getting up, getting down Working things out and coming around To the conclusion that everything matters, all things have their place We’re part of that fabric, we should accept it with grace So let’s raise those glasses to good health and times Always aware for whom the bell chimes For thee and for me are part of mankind And still on that road trip to reach Samarkand

214

T O M T H E

J E R R Y

A N D

H O L E Y

B R E A D

M Y S T E R Y

Tom Wilson

Jerry Garcia

215

There’s a place in Scotland called Shieldaig Where a spade’s a spade and a pig is a pig And where Tom bakes bread that his girlfriend will dig But there’s a hole in this loaf though not very big It got Tom to pondering , how could this be? So he put out some feelers and one got to me It sprung to my mind the similarity What if Tom WAS Jerry what would his answer be “There’s a hole in my banana bread” Said Jerry García of the Grateful Dead What would then go through his head Perhaps he should’ve stuck to hash brownies instead A baker in the kitchen would be kneading some dough A pizza chef spinning pies high in a throw But drug-riddled Jerry well what could he know Always high as a kite on his huge stash of blow So what would have happened - well this is my theory, While Jerry was prepping his loaf he’d get weary And imagine a trip with his old mate Tim Leary All that toking and drinking would have him get bleary So in tumbles a sugarlump with LSD spiking The bread would heat up but the cube keep from shrinking Til it left this small hole with the sugar dissolving I’m sure Jerry would be happy, all quite to his liking! Now Tom likes fine wines and the occasional cigar He would walk pole to pole if there was a footpath He might live in the ‘High’lands, but has no guitar And Jerry’s long gone - a spliff far too far! The banana bread problem is quite easy to fix When blending ingredients just don’t overmix Let’s leave Jerry Garcia in his Heaven noodling licks And Tom in his kitchen baking loaves shaped like bricks 216

R E S T

S W E E T

217

S O U L

Rest Sweet Soul That sowed joy and showed love Showered affection and glowed like lit silk You were never driven by creed or by speed Or spoiled by desire or sorrow For your place was a lullaby cooing me into slumber A somnolent cradle song that would send me away Away to the sandman and into the realm of dreams Teasing, pleasing, uneasy maybe crazy dreams

To safely cross that dark and wakeful night

In that moment of surrender to your sweet song We weren’t wrong We weren’t right We were just drifting Away from light Into the night To rest our own sweet souls Eternal melody atoning The certainty Of departure And return

218

A N G E L A

Angela Mother of pain You breed inflammation But I want you again Angela Lover of life You seed adoration And I need you again Angela Weaver of spells You feed confusion Bewilder me again

Angela Keeper of Keys Heed all information As I say once again

Angela Bringer of fever You held my attention Transfix me again

219

220

221

M I R A N D A

I see your shadow on the wall The fall of your perfect hair And swell of your cheek Resting on its shoulder

The brow of those so bright eyes Hinting at the hidden smile

That would hold the glint of your perfect teeth But you are nowhere near at all

As the sun rises and takes you away Mine for so short a moment

You dissolve and fade with the passing clouds But tomorrow at ten shall I see you again?

222

L I K E

T H E

S A N D

Voice like the sand Eyes like the sky Memories, places Time passes by Love’s like the wind Some gales some storms Rustling the leaves Sounding alarms Over the distance Echoes again Voice like the sand Pitted by rain Hearing my words After you do Tantalus or Sparticus What am I for you?

223

224

225

E ,

No house, no home Taken by California fire and turned to cinders Only the view remains, reminder of thoughts behind the eyes. The blaze that swept away guarded hard memories, Photographs, letters, so treasured but now just smouldering ash Children raised here now see the soft grass and hedges razed Hardwood houses charred without frame, streets melted Cars and tires twisted pyres, homage to the rampaging fires The burst street lamps atop buckled posts, not much to illuminate now G

E ,

Shaken from reverie a moment of learning, a coffee break Shuddering Mexican earth turning walls into dust Now only the remains remain to remind me of the fear In one long minute lives turned to death in the collapsing rubble Tearing at the flesh so weak in what seemed once so strong A place of learning, leaning, a printers now just pressing innocent flesh, burning, Stomach churning screams for help Plans and wishes and lives now changed, destroyed G

E ,

Ravished by rain and storm sweeping away the houses Trees, roads, bridges, towers, flowers, power lines All just so much rubbish now scattered, torn broken and forlorn Tropical forests that shut out the light now just desolate Birds, frogs, cows, beasts of burden, horses Raked and rustled and ruptured in Caribbean Islands now with so much undone Unfed, un-watered, unlit, unhappy, abandoned people in despair

226

E ,

As on and on, the shelling never ceases as the drones come Fingers in a far off land flicking out lives on computer keyboards Not knowing yet the misery or the pain My Syrian home pummelled and trampled Nowhere to hide as the skies rain down their terror And the bellicose hatred armies plunge their swords further into my dead town’s belly Cos hope cannot be delivered by men in a tank If I can summon a smile it isn’t to thank It is to release the tension of all my muscles in fear of my last breaths coming G

E ,

Scorched earth crazy eyes of high soldiers Throwing baby onto a fire, executing father, raping mother Free passage to hell from a Myanmar home that never was Scrambling for life as journalists scribble their words To catch the first edition, press our case but no one cares We are small stuff that doesn’t need to be sweated Pursued, killed and abandoned to give another one a bitter peace. No hope for the Rohingya homeless as stateless we become. G

E ,

The rising tide of shit and filth lurching out of the drains Merging with all waters from the sky and from the river and reservoirs and the tears Blood and oil and chemicals mixing in a besmirching froth This is my home but my safe haven has becomes my hell Calm, stinking, toxic Texan waters reflecting an indifferent sun As I judge each day by the grimy lines left on the walls by the receding flood.

227

E ,

The sea empties of life and fills with plastic The rivers empty of fish and fill with pigs’ blood and noxious foam Turning brown like the shit it will become No restraint in this world of greed But we are becoming less and less in the face of Earth’s fury She will dominate all things for she is the good earth A mother who gave us everything for life and we return only discord and disrespect We put flags in her soil and soil her with our custodianship As if itching she begins to scratch and we are the irritation G

E ,

No tears for the dead, for they have wept enough As torn from life they were swept Away to wherever it is That we go to without the right to reply or reclamation The trembling earth, trigger pulling pointing finger Or mighty waves, storms and conflagration driven by hell God given gift of fire and rain and wind and this fine earth All rising beyond expectations in greatness against our follies G

E ,

The chance to reform and realign, to make amends Is it too late to hold back the hands of the ticking doomsday clock Rewind a little to a time when people cared, shared and dared and fared well Not this, knocked over, buried, drowned, burnt to a cinder, washed away farewell Our body and souls are nothing if we don’t look after what is beneath the soles of our feet For when all is said and done We will all be dead and gone And all we created and plundered and poisoned will be returned To try another time, have another chance In Mother Nature’s endless dance L

O N

228

1 :

W O RT H I E S

There are some Who by coniving and breaking all rules Through lying and talking to us like fools Seek a way to change the World Maliciously they will use bluster To rouse, incite and muster Build up false hope and faith As they pave their own paths with gold And there are others Through resistance and resiliance With persistence sometimes brilliance Will create something to behold Uniting and not dividing us They delight in and take pride in us People who really earn our trust So most of us feel involved

And then there’s we the people Though not one, nor won over by deceit Nor ready to run, nor be run over in defeat Just because someone’s ideas are extolled Doesn’t mean that they are right Or that our dreams are trite We always need to fight for our beliefs Hold fast in our resolve

229

2 :

T H E

N A M E S

We know the names The leaders and feeders of hope for change Those who inspired or conspired or were deranged And somehow ended up in control Stalin Hitler, Gandhi Mandela Amin, Tito, Mao That other fella Pol Pot, Hussein, De Gaulle Francisco Franco, Kim Jong-un Fidel, Pinochet, Churchill, They were indeed men of their times Yet so many ended up committing crimes Damned by their deeds, few benevolent in their number and few worthy of our love

230

3 : L E T ’ S G E T O U T T H E R E

231

Let’s get out there By haunting and flouting Taunting and touting Change the World Be cutting and gnashing Strutting and dashing And being true and bold

Let’s get out there now Informing and reclaiming Performing and naming And get people sold On helping feed the needier By roping in the media Some stories must be told

Let’s all get out there Solve monkey puzzles Remove donkeys’ muzzles Before we’re too old Pause and then take reference Our laws, the lack of deference Is something to behold

Let’s get out there Pointing and alarming Anointing never harming Let sanity unfold Be the weavers and the witches Pull the levers, flick the switches For we can break the mold Yes! We can break the mold!

232

4 : F U N

A N D

G A M E S

Fun and games How did that work out? Seems now it’s guns and fame To be part of the mob, Or a lone ranger Clutterbuck or clusterfuck The disgrace of God Thanking Him for protection and guidance? He who does not exist For something that never seems to persist How does that help anyone? Still what befalls prevails A multitude off the rails Or the raging exit of a looney But what about the fun and games In a hate-fueled fug and calling names Madmen let loose with rifles and guns Fear in your hearts as young upstarts Armed to the teeth, cocky and loaded The power of the bullet, not the word power of the bully, nervous finger on the trigger Squeeze it and become a public figure Wastrels playing at the gates of hell Fun and games of thrones and war Our jaws clench as we all wait for more Some reaching out to God now asking for mercy Well good luck with that too And so we lose the game But wasn’t losing just part of the fun and games before?

233

234

235

N O

O N E

No one wants to die but we do No one wants to fail but we do No one wants to cry but we do No one wants to go to jail but they do No one wants to be wanting but we are No one ever knows who they really are No one moment marks you for life

No wonder we are confused enthused, abused But for every accuser there is an enthusiast, outcast, Iconoclast, climbing the mast, pushing past, Setting the sails going east, going west. The opportunities we have are not the people we are. We are what we become, there is no birthright. No one understands what they see in the mirror No one can reflect on the future No one sees their destiny No one has any rights No one knows Not one Not 1

236

P O P P Y

I thought I saw a soldier I couldn’t tell you why Perhaps the stiffness in his gait As if marching off to die He was elderly and orderly Well dressed and with a tie And wore a scarf and beret Not common in July I imagined him a younger man Filled with grit and pride Swear allegiance to his sovereign Not just along for the ride Lee Enfield cocked and ready Other proud men by his side Full of fear but trusting That together they’d turn the tide I pictured him in full battle cry Leave sodden trench into wire Barbed and razored tearing flesh Headlong into enemy fire The rush and spill of bloody men Through mines and gas and mire The stench of death, no safety near Living hell and its hellfire

237

The whistle and thud of passing shells Summoning some to death Cut down before their lives took shape Muted gasps of one last breath Cheeky grins of yesterday turned to grimey grimace Trampled under squaddies’ boots, as their souls they bequeath Torn limb from limb, mown down or shot Somewhere they’ll lay a wreath They say it was a mincing Or so it was told to me On those killing fields of Belgium Where my Grandfather fought at Ypres They’d leave the trenches side by side Most to fall, left to rot in heaps A million men lost, many buried there Laid to rest in uneasy sleep I thought I saw a soldier But what was it I saw Just a child of god nearing heaven’s gate Or a shadow from before? A lucky one who made it back But crippled by the memories he bore? In Flanders Fields some poppies grew And that’s how WE remember that war

238

F O R G E

O N

As long as I shall breathe, take in the invisible light that fills my body and gives me life, allow the elements combined to strengthen my bones and replace most of me many times; As long as the wet rains that make sodden my clothes and splash on my hands and dancing shoes do not dampen my spirit but bring freshness and cleanliness and with soft winds a cleansing of soul and feeling of solace and rebirth; As long as I shall feel the sun’s hot hand on my face and neck, radiating, enabling life, awakening burdened beast and twitching bough, stirring flighty feathers and veined leaves, moving, everything;

John Franck was a good friend and an inspiration to his friends and family. His enthusiasm and drive got us all going, he brought us together. I first met him during his stint at the British Embassy as commercial secretary and like the rest of us we were shocked to hear of his passing on a trip to the UK with his Mexican wife Rocio. Originally titled ‘For John’ it tries to capture his character and how he must have felt when he collapsed and died almost instantly in a cold car park in Tunbridge Wells 9th December 2016. R.I.P. John, thanks for the memories!

239

As long as I shall live, my words will be just and my motives be clear whatever storms and torments arrive I shall be just without fear, Only just. Only just.

I shall be obedient to my beliefs but subservient to my desires, no one will doubt me more than myself, I shall be strong and deliver a full life from small beginnings to its inevitable end And when that final day dawns and this man falls, Short of breath short of time, one idea To be brave, to forge on, show no fear Thinking of then, now and tomorrow, beyond

Promises un-kept, holidays not taken Farewells, received, love forsaken House unkempt, dishes unwashed, bed unmade And me somehow to blame for ending like this. Gasping for the invisible light Not enough to pull me through Dryness and sobs Slow hard inhale Slow rasping exhale An urgent rattle And a sigh At my

Good bye F O R

J O H N

F R A N C K

240

S A I L

O N

Your gaze reaches me across the screen Glasses, bow tie, a button, And there in-between that mischievous grin edging into a smile Looking through the camera and the photographer’s eye You didn’t know you would be looking at me! I never made friends easily But you would have been a good friend As you were to many But for now you slip those bonds

241

As the lengthening shadows in our sickening world glide like the silver mists. With sails unfurled, good men set their course Into that longest of nights Plucked as if driftwood from the stream Wet sticks to build new fires While we remember The burning flame That was a life From forceps to the grave we come and go unknown And grow to hope that a saviour Awaits us beyond Heaven’s gate Or a welcoming spirit in Mictlan To say “I know you my child, You are a good soul and welcome here For yours is no disgrace” You ran a good race In these quietened times only tolling bells and whispery memories Occupy the dusty halls where we’re supposed to play No action, just more delay We no longer get to say ‘Goodbye’ Or even ‘Hi’ Strange times indeed To slip into darkness Across that simple divide F O R

D AV I D

T H O R N T O N

242

D A N C E

O N

A chicken can be trussed but not be trusted A fiddle can be fit but never run You can enter with a flourish, though not flourishing And plants can also do this which is fun Myself I am quite plucky if you get me Enjoying plucking chances from the pack And looked forward to your birthday celebration After all 80 years ago’s a long way back I noted there was a table for those gifting Nothing floral required nor fruit to boot So I was limited to jigsaws or some knitting A book, a tiepin, some cufflinks or a newt I pondered on a goldfish soon dismissed it And struggled to forget, you like your wine So I guess my gift if not to be bubbly Could be a sub to fruity Playboy Magazine! Then I received a gut punch later when I was informed That you had slipped away quite informally It was good to have seen you dancing at your shindig And I shall forever cherish that sweet memory

243

When we all got together To formally say goodbye Lots of flowers and candles No room for a cherry pie I realized then that Playboy Might have been out of place Perhaps a sub to Mad Magazine Would have better suited your case You were a great man But a far greater loss Dance on my friend Let your soul be the boss!

F O R

J O H N

G I B B S

244

F O R

C H A R L I E

245

Tristan’s cat died today I hardly know Tristan I certainly don’t know his cat Do I empathise or sympathise How can I share the pain? That look in those little eyes The black footprint That is his nose That woeful gaze I want to feel something As Charlie Departs this world

246

G R A N D

O L D

C E N T R A L

247

S TAT I O N

The clock keeps ticking Our time is running out It gets you in the end There’s never any doubt

Tomorrow is a gift Not everyone will see Each Christmas is the last one A ghostly reverie A new year beginning Another chance to be The one that you aspire to The ego and id that’s ‘me’

Each sunrise brings its setting Each summer ends in rain We live since our begetting Like a voyage on a train

As we head for journey’s ending To a siding or a station The brakeman blows his whistle With no thought or hesitation

And we close in to the buffers Of our final destination With hope that no one suffers In that Grand Old Central Station.

248

T H E

C LO W N ’ S

FA R E W E L L

The only comment to make here is that the legs can be read across both or individually so it would be hard to recite this one!

249

I am about to recount the farewell account that was given by a clown when he left a little town and put his best foot forward. suffice it to say he’s not there today but somehow still he remains IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII A feast was laid out on a table of oak For a clown’s farewell to the local townsfolk With fruits in abundance and plenty to spare Much merry was made and done as was dared

The ale overflowed, the wine never ended Cider was drunk and the girls were up-ended By men doing dances, and flashing their muscles As young ragamuffins just tumbled and tussled

Waving his joker, the jester was hearty He never expected so handsome a party And tears found his cheek as he pondered his lot Had he made people happy who were otherwise not? He picked up his voice having silenced the crowd Then choosing words carefully he spoke out aloud

Oh Farewell good people So long my fine friends I love you and leave you A piece of my heart Parting’s sweet sorrow Well that’s just not me But I’m happy I’m off Where I finish, I start The Small twists of fate The journeys we make Crissing and crossing Makes each life an art So, thanks for the memories And thanks for all the fun

250

Here I will stay I’m not going away A big part of me Is embedded in thee And aches for the past I’m no iconoclast So my life rearranges Really nothing changes Things that bind us together with no care for the weather twixt here and there-after full of love but much dafter That’s quite enough for me What more can there be

T H E BY

R O A D R O B E RT

N O T

TA K E N

F R O S T

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

251

J O H N S E A

M A S E F I E L D

F E V E R

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking. I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

252

253

254

D O

N O T

D Y L A N

G O

G E N T L E

T H O M A S

I N T O

T H AT

1 9 1 4 - 1 9 5 3

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

255

G O O D

N I G H T

N A M I N G H E N R Y

O F

PA RT S

R E E D

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday, We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning, We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day, Today we have naming of parts. Japonica Glistens like coral in all of the neighbouring gardens, And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see, When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel, Which in your case you have not got. The branches Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures, Which in our case we have not got. This is the safety-catch, which is always released With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see Any of them using their finger. And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers: They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt, And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance, Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards, For today we have naming of parts. 256

I N

F L A N D E R S

J O H N

M C C R A E

F I E L D S -

1 8 7 2 - 1 9 1 8

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

257

J A B B E R W O C K Y BY

L E W I S

C A R R O L L

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” He chortled in his joy. ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. 258

259

T O

F R I E N D S

260

A N D

E M I LY

S T U F F

A N D

N O N S E N S E

261

S E A N

BY R N E

PA B LO

BY R N E

Design

N E I L

A R I A D N A

G A L A Z

O L I V I E R

E VA N S

Illustrations

C AVA G A N

Illustrations

262

263

O N E

M O R E

A F O R E

Y E

G O

There was an old comic from Bruges Who’d played at the famed Moulin Rouge He was good at his craft and the audience laughed With no need for a stool or a stooge There was a hitch-hiker from Bute Who took to the roads in a suit He got lots of lifts and many nice gifts That dapper young drifter from Bute

There was an old gambler from Maine Hit the jackpot again and again and again and again and again and again And again and again and again!

There was an old man and the Sea As boring a book as can be What Hemingway wrote ‘bout a man and his boat And some sharks who liked marlin for tea There was an old man from the Scillys Who had quite a thing about Willis He loved his old Jeep, that could climb hills so steep And that is how he got his jollies!

264

During the colating of this book I have lost too many friends and aquaintances. It was a time of loss but I want remember them here. Harold Tweddle, Diane Vestey, Vaughan Oliver, Omar Orihuela, Tom Donnelly.

The owl is a very special bird Seldom seen, never heard As it passes above in silent flight Foresaking the day but taking the night.

267

E N D

PA P E R

The lord is thy keeper until the grim reaper awakes from his sleep alone he goes and sows his seeds amongst the flock, then when it seems everything is coming up roses and the good shepherd dozes he closes in and the cull begins. The scythe does its swishing an act of attrition, stalking and stemming leaving stalks and stems in the lay of the land Let us not weep for those who then cross from wellness and life or sickness and suffering into tomorrow and the deep lifeless well of our eternal sorrow but rejoice and give voice as the living who escaped the dark caped reapers device. And as we then behold the souls turned to soil and to memory, foretold in the roles of toil and eternity as we too wilt why feel guilt, when the reaper’s creaking cart approaches, reproaches do nothing to prevent the loading from arthritic legs onto rickety wheels to then be trundled and bundled into the pit of times gone by As our life reaches its conclusions, forgone and forgotten our relevance rolls into yesterday and beyond, before we leave others bereaved and grieving is it so wrong to wonder at the whys and wherefores of it all? Is it wrong too to have fun on our run along the pathways of life and make sure when it is our moment to stumble we realise how pointless it all was and look back recalling not recoiling and with a final grin, slip over the merciless edge and die laughing?

268

How To Die Laughing

Articles inside

One more afore ye go

End Paper

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll

In Flanders Fields John Mccrae - 1872 1918

Do not go gentle into that good night Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953

Sea Fever - John Masefield

Naming of Parts - Henry Reed

The Road not taken by Robert Frost

The Clown’s Farewell

For Charlie

Dance On

Grand Old Central Station

Sail On

Poppy

Forge On

Fun and Games

Let’s get out there

Rest Sweet Soul

Worthies

Tom & Jerry and the Holey Bread Mystery

Curry

Is there Love?

Birthdays in the Third Age

Food Forethought

Arctic Wind

Be There

Graduation

Chorus of Cars

DJI Berwocky

To the Cleaners

Oven Glove

Kerphew

Fairground

Another Old Man and the Sea

Playtime

For Mandy & Giles

Quality Button

The Lost Chord

Fangs for the Memory

The Helicopter Pilot

Crazy Mexico

I Sang a Song

Acapulco Gone Loco

Una Carta al Señor Presidente de México

The Blue Bottle Fly

‘Tis Better to be an Angel

Apologies to Edward

The Schedule

Step by Step

Onto this Moment, your Moment

Telling Times

The Moment

Changes

Airport

Freedom

Really?

Degenesis

Natural Causes

Erring

We do Nothing

An Ode to Truth

When Imran Ran

Trump as Toilet Brush

Fox News

Johnson v. Hunt

Social Diseases

Goodbye

2020 Vision

Life (& Christmas) in times of COVID

The Master Plan

Those Balloons

Got this Covered

Setting Sun / Fading Star

The Weekend Balloonist

Pie in the Sky

The Highland Fling

Past Times

Night Walk