Index

Ambitious Fish
Harum-scarum
Dali Does
Through Bottled
For the Good of All Mankind
ScambleJack’s Aunty
Spinning Lines
The Marquee Mouse
Autumn Glory
School Days
The Conflict
The Jazz Festival
Celebration
Listing
Beloved on the Stone
I like Twisted Endings
Skatwangle Fangledangle


Ambitious Fish

The tickly, prickly Stickleback
disappointed at his obvious lack of land based skills
said: ‘Hey watch Me!’
to the fly and the flea on the window sill.

He splished and he splashed and flicked his tail,
causing a stir that unbalanced the pail
he was swimming in.
NOW he’s dry-side bound
And the fly and the flea?
They are drowned – Poor things!


Harum-scarum

(Inspired by: The Dance of Youth – Picasso)

Jovial juvenility in colour jiggs from primary
to black and white and back and
peace depicted by an outlined dove
absurd in size but otherwise precise
predicts repose.

A carefree tip-toed terpsichore -
no score; no rule; no less or more
than ‘dolce far niente.’
Oh to live such youth forever !


Dali Does It

Preoccupied by time and eyes;
eyes and time and slipping, ticking clocks.

He paints and watches pocket watches twist.

Swans upend as elephants.
Sycophants applaud.

Oh Lord, I love the randomness;
the tandem bus;
the mushy peas.

Surrealists inspire me ...


Through Bottled Ruin

He walked like a man recently returned to the world.
He walked with a stick and a limp and a list.
He moved in series of lines from A to B
and often (c’est la vie) he ended where he’d begun.

She’d wait; always waiting,
while the storyline unfurled.
She watched for a ending;
for a turning; for a twist.
She moved in a medley of mimes
and clear to see
the heroine she was (or thought she could be)
was unsung.

He stumbled like a child;
while asleep he fetal curled.
He slept like a babe
and sucked his thumb and clenched his fist.
He crawled through bottled ruin
and dishevelled in debris
he mumbled (maybe backwards)
in the Devil’s mother tongue.

She sent him, swift and silent
to the firey underworld.
She set the records straight
and satisfied he’d not be missed,
she changed her facebook profile
back to ‘single, divorcee’
then searched for a replacement (male or female)
fit and young.


For the Good of All Mankind

I catched a million aliens in these woods.
I thrimbled past the Nickty Knack
and skeened them
for the good of all mankind.

I linkined through the limber stacks;
muncty spackt the Ipsiefacts
and skeppered them to flucks and back.
I’m guessing that’ll learn them.

They come ‘round here and steal our logs.
They’re worser than the Janderzogs
and Janderzogs are grim
by any standard.

I never pandered to them though,
I told ‘em, ‘Kyds, you gotta go’ or else
I’m gonna open up some whoop ass.

And go they did, the Knact, the kyd
and every Zog that ever hid in stacks
of wood from here
to bloody Beulah.

And me? Well I am resting now
And Stacey comes to mop my brow.
Stacey has a white dress and a fob.

She thinks I haven’t noticed that
The bit of neck behind her plait
Is puckered like the Ipsiefact!
I’ll skeen her with my skedder
When I’m better.

ScambleJack’s Aunty

Gemma Lee Skibbit’s a flibbertijigget;
a froggetty ribbit;
a giggletisplit.

She spics in a vessple,
a trumbly scetzle
that’s four stories high
and wizpally lit.

For tea on a Tuesday
she russles a rissole
that’s made out of mammble
and framberry grit .

She’s ScambleJack’s aunty.
She’s marbleless, scanty
and niney bits frampty
but bibbertie fit.


Spinning Lines

inspired by:
Starry Night over the Rhone 1888 – Vincent Van Gogh

Rod and me, we stood and waited,
baited hooks; bated breath
and line.

Reeling in, we breathed it
our senses swamped by salt sea breeze
and oil-skined mackerel lure.

Long dead suns aped our action;
casting light lines across the dim lit bay.

Bow bottomed bobbing boats Dylan rolled,
Mexican waving in time to the flow.

The chance of a catch was minimal.

The whole concept wild; surreal.

But all we wished was to feel the emotions.
To taste
and to gain an impression.


The Marquee Mouse

It started as a smorgasbord; a veritable plethora
of fine horderves and fancy foody fare
and ended with a tittynope; the barest crumbs
and little hope of filling up an empty belly there.
I waited, (a well mannered mouse)
‘til all the guests had fed and gone
(A tiny morsel fills my meager frame)
and then unlike ‘the good church mouse’
who lives and eats in God’s own house
I gorged before the other rodents came.


Autumn Glory

(Free verse)

WINNER 1st Prize at (Perpetual cup) Upper Chapel Eisteddfod 2010

Wait...
A weight has lifted and the heavy heat of summer
is displaced.
Cool hurries forward
and a hoary breeze makes foray
through the hardy,
needled trees.

'Kiss me.' says the sun, again
and 'sorry,' says the season
to the ones who are not tough enough
or evergreen or both
or in between.

The Broadleaf,
the Weeper and the Shrubbery
recoil from me.

The hedge-row and the like-wise-hog
curl and brace for winter now.
All around turns golden brown
and slows and glows
and flickers.

The snap-dry, spark-fly pyre
of a man-made, 'Guy' fuelled fire
conjures faces in the flame
- until tradition pours down rain.

Settle now for evenings in;
painter’s skies;
early nights and shut eye..
Thicker quilting please, another summer-time is wilting.

Meanwhile, on the bright side;
on the right side,
to the West:
A striking sunset steals the show.

Nothing but the best.


School Days

The loser weighs his school days in measures of lost time,
recanting how he played the fool; Über cool;
rebelled against minority rule.

Telling how he’d little time for essays and appraisals.
Far too busy blazing trails
in tandem with the latest school-boy crazes.

He demonstrates the haze he veiwed his teen days through
by blowing smoke,
and waving it.

His tales are ‘of the best of times;’
weekly bus-drive outings to the leisure centre pool;
holidays for Easter; Summer; Yule - and inset days.

Leisure’s still his pleasure now
but entering this ‘mid-life’ phase
his default reminiscings fail to mask the cruel trick.

Sickend by the ‘wasted time’ he tries to blame the system.
‘Err in haste’ will be ‘regret’ experienced at a slower pace.
‘Rage against’ at this late stage is pointless, he concludes
and consequently: Nothing ever changes.


The Conflict

There was friction and infraction
when the factions ran afoul.
The ensuing insurrection
set the scene for what is now
a genuine engagment,
where the rings are pulled as pins
and the hands that once were shook
become the hands that launch such things.

There’s abrasion in the air and an underlying growl.
A tension rides in ripples through the minds
and hearts and how
will the rules that must be followed show
that when the victor wins,
the loser will accept the score
and bow to foriegn Kings.

Perhaps in light of history
the urge to disembowel,
should be supressed in favour of
a consionce and a vow
to display the diplomatic card
and curb, as it begins,
the flicker of aggression
and the conflict song it sings.


The Jazz Festival

Second Prize 2010 Trallong Eisteddfod.

We went to the Jazz in ‘93
my husband, our kids, the ‘Jack’ Russell and me.
We pitched our tent and headed for town;
we sampled some Scat and boogied on down
to random percussion and vibes in the air.
We’d banked on a cheery and joyous affair
but woe is a bugger and cloudy she came
to rain on our outing and sully the game.

It didn’t take long to be soaked to the skin
or locate a quagmire for Jack to roll in.
The kids had Kagools and Wellies to boot
but I wore a dress and ‘Himself’ wore a suit.
As a group, as a whole we looked quite the sight
and, as is the way, it ends up in a fight
when some bloke shouts: ‘Matey, you look like a mod!’
and ‘Himself’ takes umbrage and decks the poor sod.

His Mrs got feisty, all shouting the odds
and someone saw fit to ring out for the plod.
They came in a van which had windows with grills.
They searched through our pockets for powders and pills.
‘Ociffer!’ - I said, (I’d had one or two),
‘I really do think that the best thing to do
is give us a caution and send us away.’
‘Ok’ said the copper, ‘You have a nice day!’

‘Well that’s jolly decent,’ I said to my man,
but he just said: Siddons as quick as you can!
apparently somebody’s headlining there.
I would have asked who but I didn’t quite care.
Instead I took Jack and the kids in Kagools
back to the tent, where we listened to Jools
on the portable set in the back of the van.
‘Later,’ and drier!
A far better plan!


Celebration

This used to be a quality street;
lined with Aspen but then...
it changed.
Littered now with sweet wrappers;
foil wrappers; street rappers.
Heads down; shuffling to the shop for
cans and fag papers.

The well-to-do end filters into bedsit land;
lala land; the land of the dead
where faces off faces
peak out from inside shabby hoods.

No street parties now; no ‘Jubilee’ type knees ups.
The only celebrations here are ‘teasers, off Topics
and Marathon trips to Mars.

The Galaxy (like the neighbourhood’s)
been opened up by spacemen.


Listing

Early day, hazy eh?
Sheets and socks need hanging.
Waiting for the sun to peep and burn off.

Last night’s excess Smirnoff leaves an ‘over.’
Lawn is long; thick with clover.
Mower time!

Rover wants his kibble.
Scribbled notes for shopping.
Hopping mad, missed the bus.
Clueless!

Dinner time, red meat & wine
Bath; recline; divine.
Milky cocoa? Bedtime?
Fine!

Morning time - Start over.


Beloved on the Stone

She’ll not be sending thank you cards
to those who’ve been pretending
that the sting of loss can be crossed out
by Hallmark rhymes
and biro scribed condolences.

Poor old James is dead you know! she mumbles
as she writes his name, and very slowly
underlines below it.

Tomorrow all these faces drawn
with mouring pain will smile again
but she will see the world in darker tones forever now.
The moon, instead of silvered through
will hang there melacholic blue;
the sun will hide its head in cloud more often.

Their Willow, with its whispy shoud, will hang more weighted; sullen; bowed;
its boughs will bend with greenery untrimmed.
And songbirds who would come to call, will hardly ever show at all.
The feeders will lie prone and unfulfilled.

He shall be missed a million ways, and 'hollowed out' she’ll count the days
‘til underneath an eiderdown
of fresh turned earth and clay,
they’ll make, in time, the Rodin mould.
When wood has gone and all that’s stood
in honour of the love
is wrote:‘Beloved’ on the stone.


I like Twisted Endings

I like twisted endings;
yarns with sprung finales;
fables from the mouths of madmen
rock and ragged round.
Can you guess my Rumplstiltskin?
Do I pipe the way to Hamlin?
Is my hair a tad Rapunzel?
Am I Alice? - Going dowwwn.

In a gown of gold organza
am I heading for the ball
or, all slipperless and waifish
after midnight will I fall
among the Fagin Ali Babas,
will I help tear down The Wall?
Am I Petering and ageless,
am I Thumbalina tall?

Fragile in my straw house,
would you huff and puff me over?
Haricots won’t pay for bull
or weasel half a pound.
When I’m old like Father William
will you take me by the psyche,
shake until release,
then throw my carcass to the ground.

In a finish that’s befitting
of a theatre’s curtain call
resurrect me, like a zombie,
coded write me then install
on the latest gaming consol
with the power to enthrall
so the end, like many endings,
will not really end at all.


Skatwangle Fangledangle

I snagged my loose schimangle
on a angler’s bheetangle
but my terrier: Skatwangle Fangledangle
pulled me free.

The angler went doopidoo
and bashed me with his pampadue;
wee Skatwangle dandtiflew,
dysectipoohed his giblet.

The coppers came and wybberink
and now we’re in the rinkistink.
Quinkymink and quagmire fink!
Humdumperdinck a dumb day.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 13.12.2010

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