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?)
(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.)
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.
Morning Has Woken.
Isn't it great to wake with a smile in the morning
And find the world's not facing another Armageddon?
That trusted policy hasn't flipped without warning,
There's no mobs clogging the streets he's wittingly egged on?
Isn't it a great comfort knowing there's a calm hand on the tiller,
To not be Bermuda Triangle bound, led by a First Class egocentric,
Back on a course charted by someone with a functioning Amygdala
Not by some Captain Crazy, sailing in circles increasingly eccentric?
Isn't it great to gratefully head happily to bed at night
Knowing in ten minutes you'll be peacefully snoring?
That yesterdays fading red dawn is turning blue and bright,
The days will be quiet, safe, secure and delightfully boring?
Isn't it great to not wake with the cold sweats
Without night terrors brought on by ghastly Tweets?
Not dry-heaving with gut-wrenching tummy upsets
With no further need for Laudanum or rubber sheets?
End Of The Hippy Dream.
When I finally take my last shot,
Knock back that final tot of gut-rot,
Line up that last toot and blow the lot...
Though mine's a wasted life, swift forgot
Remember this when laying out this old sot:
Lay me 'neath a cool chill spot,
I fear too soon I'll be smokin' hot-
Plant some fragrant herb, a little pot?
Pop in a few wild poppies as a forget-me-not,
Some grassy rolling field; make mine a fitting plot.
Snakes On A Plane.
His final flight is ready to take off,
The ex-President is set to snake off,
His eyes look out, dark, cold, reptilian,
Farewell, you contemptible low con man.
Fly away to your welcome in Mar-A-Lago,
Fly, fly off, off to to your hidey-hole you go,
Go to ground, wait for the storm to pass...
Natural, for an old snake in the grass.
A man is known by the company he's among,
So visitors, cock an ear for a f-f-forked tongue,
Hisss twisted words hark back to original sin,
And he sheds friends as he does his thin skin.
So Don, slip out and lay back 'neath the Florida sun,
Relax, uncoil, your long retirement has just begun,
Or scale back the sun bed regime, let down your hair
Then slither under a rock and stay- at home- there.
‘Warning- Contains Lingering Traces Of Venemous Vitriol.’
Clear As Mud.
We've had it, blue Summery skies a'plenty,
We're looking up at bone-dry Day Twenty,
No cool palm oases, none for miles around,
No shelter for sweaty man or panting hound.
Our once lush Spring verges, greenly grassed?
A ground down sepia brown, fading into the past,
Daily the Weather Guy repeats himself once more,
Hoary dry old promises, we've heard 'em all before.
So, it is no wonder noonday darkness startles us,
Our empty sky is deeply banked in Cumulonimbus,
Ain't no empty promise in this passing thunderstorm,
A rumble, then down she tumbles, wet, welcome, warm.
(In these highly charged tempestuous times about all we can safely talk about is the weather. So...)
”No, you misheard me, what I said was ‘Look, Sky Water’.”
Hush a Bye Bye/ Potus Gets The Message.
First, my electoral defeat-
That left me a tad downbeat,
Struck dumb by shock, sad to say,
'Twas indeed a dark blue/grey day...
But now I had grievous cause to bleat
About the GreatesT ever electoral cheat!
Lies, all lies, but lies I'll happily repeat,
Easily flicked out by a simple tweet,
But now I read, with deep dismay
They took my tweet voice away!
Where fantasy and fable meet!
Now my misery is complete.