Just for a change let’s have a chit-chat about the shi- weird weather. Ah well, into each life a little rain must fall.

Aqualand.

The late autumn sun setting in a blaze of glory
Put me in mind of that hoary old wive story-
‘Red sky at night brings the shepherd delight,’
Well, even wise old wives ain’t always right.

Before bed I looked out at the wildening sky,
Stepped out for a moment with questioning eye,
Under the rusting verandah in dire need of replacing
The wind whistling through me felt more than bracing.

As the wind whipped the dust from the rusted spouting
My faith in those wise old wives tales I started doubting,
The temperature was tumbling even as I numbly stood
‘Neath a stormy sky and an ill wind blowing no good.

High up in the Heavens something nasty was brewing,
Not God literally; my belief in Him remains nothing doing,
But that wind filled this soul with dread and apprehension,
I felt it in my water (and somewhere else I daren’t mention.)

After replenishing my hot water bottle from the hot tap
I set off to bed, tossing an ice-cube to my nightly nightcap
Only to waken at exactly midnight to either rain on the roof
Or some hoofer tap-dancing up there with heavy cloven hoof.

I wondered if I had been wrong and Judgement Day had come…
But time passed, and on high the rain and hail continued to drum,
So I realised I was still here on Earth, but Hell, it was pissing down-
Now concerned my rosemary, thyme and garden gnome might drown.

Peering anxiously out into the cold deep dark
My small holding looked more like a water park,
In the strobing lightning flashes I saw a sea of mud,
In the morn I’d step off our stoop and into the flood.

Come noon and we’d not seen the effulgent glow of the sun,
Ten inches dumped and *Ol’Send It Down Huey’s not yet done,
Heavens, I feel I must take a good book to bed to pore o’er tonight,
‘Boat-building For Beginners’, the Bible of the amateur Ark-wright.

*Australian entreaty to God to dump down a deluge of rain in times of drought.

 

©Obbverse

Ringo Starr bashes his way to eighty. Good to see Richard’s still kicking that kit.

Starr Bright.

Happy 80th birthday, Ringo Starr,
Who’d have thought you’d come this far?
Does the oldest member of the worlds best band
Take a moment to bow his head and silently stand?

On his auspicious day there’s a tinge of regret
As he remembers the glory days of a great quartet,
Since he’d first set the Beatles beat on ‘Love Me Do,’
Time has now cruelly edited the Fab Four down to two.

©Obbverse

Colourful character Brazilian President Bolsonaro contracts a Covid cough; Sounds like a case of Karma to me.

Sniff.

So, the Brazilian President has a teeny touch of the flu.
Boo hoo.
Both green and red-faced, but consumptively battling through.
Aaaatishoo!

‘Simply donning a mask could’ve protected me- and you?’
WHO knew?
Now he thinks wrapping a mask over his mouth is the right thing to do?
Waaaaay overdue.

He could have picked the itchy nose he had as his first clue;
It grew.
He sees the look in the grave eyes of his masked medical crew.
Code Blue.

©Obbverse

A slightly perverse offering for Lucy’s Works/ Horror House Wednesday flash fiction #4. (Another one to toss into the Shlock Mock Horror vaults.)

(The prompt as supplied; ‘Isn’t this… romantic?’  “You’re a psychopath.”)

Work In Progress.

‘Isn’t this… romantic?’
“You’re a psychopath.”
‘I’m trying to be empathic
So let’s not make this a bloodbath.’

‘What my psychiatrist proposes
Is I indulge in empathetic thinking-
So here’s a bunch of wine and roses
For your nose and for our drinking.’

‘Your eyes look wary and distrustful
Even as my finest Cabernet you sup,
Do my cold eyes turn red and lustful
As I see scarlet dripping from your cup?’

‘I’ve prepared a five-star meal,
Fois gras, truffles and sirloin steak,
My culinary eye can scarce conceal
The chef’s made an all too rare mistake.’

Her sweet face taut with leaden lividity,
Her tender mouth ceases its idle talk,
My eye falls with a dreaming avidity
Upon her gleaming knife and fork.

‘I swore I’d strain to show restraint
But you see the truth, you know I lie,
Now you look like you’ve seen a haint-
Now the knife points out your blind eye.’

It’s the nature of the beast
To take a lamb to slaughter,
My famine has turned into a feast
And my loves blood flows like water.

 

©Obbverse

Beneath Mount Rushmore Donald Trump looks up from his speech, stops talking and takes a moment to think…

Big Bust.

Don longingly looks up at Mount Rushmore,
At that monumentally stone-faced famous four,
Musing that it’s high time to make room for one more,
Who’s fine face would be a Great fit in this al fresco decor?

Not Obama, not Clinton, someone less blue, more red,
But it’s a ‘no’ too to two-term Reagan, too long dead,
Someone with stone-cold business smarts instead?
Well, he comes complete with rocks in his head.

 

©Obbverse

Donald J. Trump, or in his mind, the Lone Ranger; The latest mutterings and musings from behind the mask. Hi-Yo psychosis away!

Who Sees A Problem?

Has our unmasked hero decided to stand up?
Donnny says he has masked up and manned up,
He says that mask makes him look like the Lone Ranger-
No more will he be laughing loonily in the face of danger.

But the Lone Ranger wore his mask to cover his eyes
Not as a medical protector but as a personal disguise,
Then, Don feared wearing a mask wouldn’t look Presidential, right?
Pushing a mouth mask up over his peepers, now don’t he look a sight?

Hey, even getting Don to consider any mask ranks as a bonus-
As his long-standing contemptuous sniffing at Corona’s shown us-
So even if he stumblingly emerges from the darkness, dimly blinking
At least it’s one baby-step on his journey out of blind blinkered thinking.

©Obbverse

Walking through the backwaters of the ol’ neighbourhood I literally stumbled over a leafy landmark. So I sat back on the grass and recalled days of rash deeds, youthful foolishness and pure dumb luck.

Barking.

My young bro had a best buddy, Carl ‘Crazy’ Miller,
This singular boy did not possess one single scintilla
Of simple common sense the Maker bestows on mankind;
Carl could be big trouble, but very little troubled his mind.

Carl was a prospective member of the Punch  Bunch-
The kids who only went to school to share your lunch?
By the time Crazy had attained the heady age of eleven
‘Twas obvious he wouldn’t be heading to Varsity, or heaven.

Anyway, down at the dead end of desolate Ingoldsby Street
The long promised demolition of a fine old fixture, complete;
The barn-like Theresa Green Home For Refined Retired Gentlefolk
Finally lay laid waste, ‘neath the shadow of a high and mighty oak.

My brother and Carl, being at that tender age-
Before girls turn one’s head and hormones rage,
Before teenage hi-jinks result in serving hard time-
Saw a tree sat on now public land, and free to climb.

Previously protected behind a palisade ten feet tall,
Its private land and croquet lawn, now turned over to all,
Carl’s eye beheld that crazed glint of the devil-may-care,
This oak would be Carl’s Everest and my bros nightmare.

Up a handy branch Crazy sprung, with a single bound,
With simian agility up he swung, foregoing safer ground,
Monkey see monkey do, my bro followed, but slowly, in kind,
Leaving those below looking up at bro, pale, dragging behind.

Halfway up bro heard the sound of dry wood snapping
Followed by Carl plummeting past, arms crazily flapping,
My brother followed Carl’s progress aaaaall the way down
Waiting for one stout branch to stave in Carl’s thick crown.

As a switch took a swatch of Carl’s curls it dawned on him
That if he hit this tree they could both lose a healthy limb-
Now the blood curdling uncontrolled bladder loosing scream,
Oh- did I mention this tree was perched by a tinkling stream?

This body of water was contained by a concrete culvert,
But wherever Carl chanced to land had to bloody well hurt,
Came the sound of a splash and his pals dashed out to aid him,
Amazingly, Crazy landed in water and, miraculously, could swim.

He waded out of the chill waters, shivering but safe, Christ be praised,
All gathered gazed on amazed, yet Carl looked imperturbably unfazed,
A bump on the noggin, a broken fingernail, but not one broken bone,
I’d say Carl had the luck o’ the devil- but he’s known to look after his own.

©Obbverse

When you’re a Great – a really great, so unbelievably great- reality TV star, why would you hide your best asset?

That Open Infectious Smile.

Here’s a question too few Trump flunkies dare to ask;
‘Mr President Sir, why don’t you deign to don a mask?’

Even when Mr doting lap-dog Vice-President Pence
Says wearing a protective mask makes Great sense?

Now, covering up old affairs Don sees as only sensible,
No-one, certainly not Don, wants to look reprehensible.

Don believes his cherub-cheeked face is his shining glory,
That his sunny saintly smile can sell any half-assed story.

See, he wants his words to ring out strong and clear,
To spread his sick sad soliloquies into the atmosphere.

Ask about his taxes though, and he draws the veil,
When it comes back to taxes, privacy must prevail.

Don has facts he’ll openly doctor, and grudges to nurse
So why would he mask the brightest star in his universe?

Donald wants to show his public the full-frontal view,
The fake tan, the pearly white teeth, the eyes o’ blue.

Squint below the tinted TRESemme-ed locked-down hair
And see what cold soulless depths lie deep down there?

But, clothing his mouth… nope, Don could never embrace it;
He’d look even more like a bandit in a bandana, let’s face it.

 

(Background theme for this could be Frank Zappa ‘I’m The Slime’.  Just a thought, I’m in a whimsical mood today.)

©Obbverse.

Every writers nightmare; The answer, though, might be alighting right outside your window.

Grounded.

I’m really truly suffering through writers block,
I’ve reams of pure white virgin A4 stock,
Stacks of empty worded pages mock,
My inspiration soars, like a rock.

No matter how hard I try,
How I look up to the sky,
Lord on high knows why-
But my words won’t fly.

Thoughts scramble through my mind, tumble to the floor,
Once my brain and right hand had this great rapport,
This day all my high-falutin words serve but to bore-
And that bird wittering outside is the last straw! 

Guess I’ll lay down my quill and cease this fu- futile quest,
Broodily watch the machinations of a robin red breast,
Toss this page outside, inspirations gone West-
Hey, bird brain, take this shit to line your nest.

(inspired by a poem ‘Pretty Little Sparrow/Lauren M. Hancock
And the song ‘Look Over Your Shoulder’ by Alan Price.)

©Obbverse

Tennis star Novak Djokovic’s stubborn stance on playing through the pandemic proves problematic.

Return Of Service.

Oh, naive Novak Djokovic, where have you been?
Traipsing around Serbia, serving up Covid-nineteen?
Showing unmasked contempt for any possible vaccine
Till a routine swab returns results Novak hadn’t foreseen,
Novak was positive his snot samples would come back clean:
Gone from playing in open tournaments to staying in quarantine.

 

©Obbverse