Ruminations 'Pon Watching Monsieur R. Polanski's Moving Picture Based Upon Thomas Hardy's Heartbreaking Rendering Of The Lamentable Treatment Of The Much Put Upon 'Tess Of The d'Urbavilles.'
Caution Miss, if the rich young Master approaches
Offering up gilt plated hairpins or silv'ry broaches,
Don't shake his hand, shake firm your pretty head-
'Oh no sir, no engagement 'til our banns are read.'
Yon Master is a man who'd rather do wrong than right,
You want your wedding day, he wants his wedding night,
Pearl earrings, gold necklaces, baubles of every kind,
But handing a wedding band... somehow slips his mind.
Master may well say he will give you everything-
Give him not a thing till he promises a gold ring,
Tess, 'tis not for your sweet heart his hand reaches,
Push his hot hand away and hold on to your breeches.
(Yes, it's a light-hearted take on a grossly tragic tale. But tragedy, humour, two sides of the same face?)
Pure Solid Pyrite.*
Whatever happened to the good ol' Conservative?
Those who serve their country, long as they may live?
Those who yearn to not take it all, but to humbly give?
Where now are those leaders, those ol' salts of the earth?
Who knew the the value of sweat, what hard work is worth?
Why would one revere this man, made a billionaire by birth?
Good ol' values long gone, now old dirty money talks,
Nowadays it's 'carry a big stick, smack anything that walks,'
Around the tower of power the Big Bad Boogeyman still stalks.
There's a statue of Trump proudly displayed at CPAC?
The old bold gold-plated Tin God is mounting a comeback!
Can't the eyes of the wise perceive something's out of whack?
Behind his thin skin of gilt'n'glamour lies a cold heart of brass,
A false idol with tons of bullshit bullion but not an ounce of class;
Still fools bow low, blinded by the shine of this massive stuck-up ass.
*Pyrite: AKA Fools Gold.
(Some particular days you wake up feeling old. So, no funny business today. Sorry.)
Year Upon Year.
I still like to stroll 'neath the blue late summer sky
Though days run short and autumn's chill feels nigh,
Time was when I'd stride easy towards my leafy glade,
Nowadays a few more slow and stately steps are made.
This cool bower's perfectly placed for stop and rest,
Of late I feel this truth in my bones, and in my chest,
This stout tree I lean on now I've long thought as my own,
From young stripling and sapling, together we have grown.
As I look above those old signs are seen,
Subtle curls of gold amidst the sea of green,
Soon 'nough even summer's greenest leaf must fall,
Tomorrow, or two months hence, autumn reaps 'em all.
Don't get me wrong, I'm ageing happily every day I get,
Still, the years weigh and weary, we accumulate regret,
Every tree has twists and turns, Nature shapes and forms,
Each tree has boughs bent, bowed, scars from recent storms.
Will we weather another winter, to see in the spring?
Older, wisened to the fact the rose holds within a sting?
So take a little time to remember blooms cut cruelly short,
Long life holds more sorrow than we once young 'uns thought.
Down to Brighton the team bus quietly drove,
To where Palace hoped a point might be nicked,
At best to share the spoils with Brighton and Hove,
A dour nill-all draw the score this Palace fan picked.
But what a strange televised game we saw unfold,
Brighton controlled the ball, a team wholly possessed;
'Twixt his pristine posts the Brighton 'keeper idly strolled,
Never had he or TV watchers seen such a one-sided contest.
But the crosses flew in from the heave-Hove side,
Hot shots blocked by Palace's desperate defending,
Volleys from the blue clad lads blazed high and wide,
Brighton's besieging of the Palace seemed never ending.
Finally, came one brief moment of respite,
A Palace foot hoofed a stray ball down the line...
His untroubled face turned up towards the sunlight
Hove's 'keeper rose from the grass- time to rise and shine.
In came the hopeful cross, from far far away,
But one Palace player had made an exhausted run,
That's how slick-heeled Mateta, against the run of play
Made the most of his chances, or more precisely, our one.
As the Palace players smilingly celebrated
'Twas tragic to see the Seagulls managers pain,
His all-going-according-to plan smile evaporated,
To return once the one-way traffic commenced again.
Palace retreated back in the box, same old same,
Our 'keeper breathlessly making miraculous saves,
Just get to half-time, our is an offensively defensive game-
Endlessly the blue tide washed 'round the Palace goal in waves.
The half-time whistle blew, and scratching his head
The manager of the boys in blue traipsed past, downcast,
His team followed behind, shuffling like 'The Walking Dead'
In the Palace shed, *Roy, head bowed, prayed his luck would last.
Half-time came, ten minutes later it went,
The game recommenced, settings back to default,
Whoever had charge of the console seemed Hellbent
On bombarding the Palace with all-too common assault.
Eventually the Footballing Gods smiled on Brighton,
The football finally found purchase in the ol' onion bag,
Leaning back on his goalpost Hove's 'keeper yawned on;
When you've not even sweeping to do tending tends to drag.
Ninety minutes approached with both teams played out,
Had Palace drawn out a point, with a team of ten at the back?
Then came that miraculous moment that leaves one in no doubt-
Those devilish Footballing Gods keep a joker in play in every pack.
A ball splays out to a man on the wing, gasping his last,
Though cramped up he somehow forces his legs to obey,
Into the Brighton half where he had so rarely trespassed,
He lobs the ball up in the air, anywhere, to get it out of play.
Toward a fresh legged substitute the ball kindly fell;
Our Mr Benteke is known more as Mr Hit And Miss,
But today his shot put us in Heaven and Hove in Hell;
Those Footballing Gods sure can take a trick, and the piss.
'Glad All Over' boomed from the visitors dressing room,
Then chorus after chorus as the London bus drove away,
But in the Hove shed the blue room was as silent as a tomb,
A seaside smash-n-grab, a torn-up **Amex? Crime does pay!
(* Roy Hodgson, the wise old old Yoda of football managing. Or on this day, one lucky bastard.
**Amex Stadium, home of the Seagulls/Brighton and Hove Albion/poor unlucky bastards.)
Accept this humble Valentine's card, my sweet,
Know 'tis only you who makes my life complete,
You cause my happy heart to lightly skip a beat,
I freely give you my heart- consider my card your receipt.
My love, my love for you runs true and deep,
Know I dream of you at night before I sleep,
So my love, close to your heart my love-note keep;
I'd hand you a few roses too- but I'm too damned cheap.
(Written in response to Chel Owens A Mused poetry competition.)
Well, doesn't Ted Cruz just take the cake?
Taking time off in Cancun for a winter break?
What a tropical hot spot Teddy has chosen
Especially when his home state is frozen.
Well, doesn't Ted Cruz's thinking take some beating?
His one day in the sun sure feels all too fleeting,
Now he's back, flush faced, looking none too thrilled
About getting grilled over leaving his constituents chilled.
Well, doesn't Ted Cruz's excuses take out first prize?
His taking a sojourn down South wasn't too wise,
'Protect our Great borders' strikes a dry hollow note-
Those Washington speeches now stick in his throat.
Well, doesn't Ted Cruz's cool logic simply take it all?
Once happy to build on and bolster Don's border wall,
Now with the frosty reception our border jumper's getting
His thoughts turn toward re-election- boy, now he's sweating.
Today's Weather Wrap Up.
All over the Continental United States
An ill wind brings in snow drifts and dire straits,
Louisiana has plunged towards an all-time low,
Even Surfside Beach is dusted with snow.
Be you from down South or ways up North,
Intrepid driver, don't set forth,
From the East coast to the West
Staying safe at home will serve us all best.
Yet some brave Souls put their trust in the Lord,
Venture out with sat-nav and faith on board,
Jeez, don't go out and rubberneck, please?Must snow down South bring on a brain freeze?
Typically, dumb some people can't let it slide,
They just wanna go out on a fun joyride,
To make snow angels out by the seashore,
With God as your co-pilot, who needs a 4 X 4?
Stay wrapped up at home, crank up the heat,
What's the point of a quick spin down the street?
Don't wrap those threadbare tyres in snow chains,
Leave the Kia in the carport, use your brains.
She stood aloof, with a Kool, looking hot,
Hand lightly holding that dangling invitation,
My pledge to stop my vice instantaneously forgot
So up I stepped, Ronson raised in anticipation...
I lit up her smoke, hand slightly shaking
Certain I'd struck up a true love match,
She turned away, left me and my heart breaking;
So it's back to solo vaping and the nicotine patch.
(On losing 0-3 at Selhurst Park to Burnley- bleeding Burnley!)
Same Old Selhurst Story.
Losing to lowly Burnley is hard enough to comprehend
But coughing up three lousy goals at home tends to send
A message to fans and foes alike; if it's goals you're seeking
Come to Selhurst Park, where the home side's goal keeps leaking.
Down, down the table the wounded eagles painfully descend,
Our front boys can't hope to score, our defenders won't defend,
Nowadays Roy's tried and true old school team tactics are creaking,
With the teams average age well over thirty, they're well past tweaking.
We're sinking towards the relegation end,
Waiting to be washed down, 'round the bend,
Roy stubbornly still says his old boys are just peaking
But what a load of old cobblers Hodgson keeps speaking!
Not you, not I dare say old Roy is not well intentioned
But half Roy's hobbled side also deserve to be pensioned,
I'm told I'm sounding ageist with my sage but savage critiquing-
The naked truth is this team of stumblebums is well past streaking.
The impeachment trial of Don's January actions
Is seen vastly differently by the two rival factions,
Democrats are all for piling on now departed Don-
They want him impeached and legally real real gone.
Republicans are all too happy to forgive and forget-
Stirring up Trump's mad mob can still cause regret,
Evil is seen heard and said, but they'll keep on denying,
Those simple silent Republican jurors are hardly trying.