Indecision

Do I really need to move my car

or shall I take a chance and risk it?

Portslade might be a bit too far

and I might end up with a ticket.

I'd have to make apologies to the group

and scuttle down a busy crowded pavement

but better that than end up in the soup

and owe a silly thirty smackers payment?

Crows

They know the slow solemnity of earth
ungainly labouring to pace across
the ground and feed. They strain to flap escape
from passing hominids, a cat or fox
and slog through Spring and Summer building nests
and rearing young. Sex is a moment's touch.
So now in early Autumn's failing sun
when these dour corvids soar and wheel
high in the wind, playing with gravity,
surely they cannot help but  feel elated.

No need to worry. You can do it.
If everyone else can, so can you.
It won't be easy getting through it
but it's certainly something you have to do.

You always knew it would come to this
but also thought it too far away
to bother about. Now here it is.
You're going to die today.

Who is Maurice?

Mid-summer solstice, Highdown Hill,
with sunshine fading
the worn blue hem of the crinoline sky
and tired trees shading
the spreading stain on the grass still dry

enough for sitting on until
the solstice dancing
begins. Soon tribal uniforms appear
like lamps enhancing
the darkening scene and bright colours spear

the lowering gloom. The rising chill
is warmed by glowing
fantastic fluttering tatter coats
and kerchiefs showing
the dancers lit by the moon which floats

gibbous above the path uphill.
The tribes are coming,
the savage hordes of famed morris men
and women humming
accordion tunes to be ready when
the squeeze box wails to show their skill :

heeling and toe-ing,
to-ing and fro-ing,
forward and backing,
struck sticks clacking,
hopping and skipping,
bobbing and dipping,
expertly pacing their dancing drill.

At last the music and dancing petered out ;
stillness drowned the final goodbye shout ;
the vibrant gaucho colours leaked away ;
an end must come to even the longest day.

Exactly what we celebrated isn't clear
but any excuse for joy is welcome
at the sad point of the year.

Council swimming pool

Skinny and old
I feel the cold

While waiting for the taxi brousse to leave
the gare routiere, my rucksack roped on top,
my pallid wealth raised hopes of sales among
the numerous street hawkers veining the crowd.
Regretfully declining proffered food,
dark glasses, watches ("one for the other arm?"),
I noticed at the back of the long line
of minibuses, touts and ticket huts
a group of men more ragged than the rest.
This was black Africa where one man's white
sports shoes mocked many sporting none, barefoot
among the dirt and litter, dry just then,
and any flashy watch churned envy
among the unemployed unoccupied
waiting for lady luck to change their lives.
My group of men appeared a level down
in squalor even from the norm with shirts
unwashed and trousers stained and torn as if
no women organised their lives. Just then
a well-built man, erect but past his prime,
parted the crowd, a cubic cardboard box
so huge and heavy-looking on his head
it strained his face and threatened his dignity.
Two of my group of paupers took his load
both of them struggling to lower it until,
once upon the ground, it was surrounded
by the rest of the group expectantly.
I shuffled closer, curious as to what
the box contained and inadvertently
locked eyes with one of those whose prize it was.
I palmed and shrugged my question and beckoning
hands encouraged me to join them all
chattering in a circle round the box.
Then just as I advanced, a matronly
woman severed the circle, knife in hand,
and started to attack the cardboard lid.
Excitement rose as she pulled the cardboard back
revealing - CRABS, monsters, caked in mud
but obviously alive, at least the ones
on top, menacing their claws and crawling
to escape. No chance. The men brought wicker tubs,
truncated cones, and filled them from the box,
covering the seething contents with a sack.
They lifted the heavy tubs by their rope straps
to wear them rucksack-like upon their backs
and marched off jauntily into the town
presumably to sell their share. My man
grinned as he passed, proud of his load and job,
his dirty working clothes irrelevant.
He gave the thumbs-up sign and left. I climbed
aboard the bus, also irrelevant to
the daily life of which I was not part.

It's right old folk should be depressed
now Heaven's relegated to myth;
no haven now for those oppressed
by the sad decline to death.

Less superstitious, atheistic,
we suffer still the pains of illness,
so scientifically fatalistic
where ignorant faith was bliss.

Now fearful of what future's left
and vainly struggling to cope,
without the promise of after-life
we haven't even hope.

We humans think we're so bloody clever,
the peak of natural evolution.
Then how is it that we clearly never
learned the process of hibernation?

Do we enjoy the freezing snow,
cold rain in the face, the fingers numb,
the chill in the chest when the winter winds blow -
just enduring till warm days come?

We try to enlighten the dark winter scene
with some event always tempting near -
there's Harvest Festival, Halloween,
bonfire night, Christmas, New Year.

But everything's been commercialised
as just a temptation to spend more cash.
Tradition's changed when firm's realised
it's the perfect chance to enhance their stash.

Sure, fireworks may spark up your life
but its wearing, when you're nearly broke,
to have to indulge your kids and wife
and watch your money go up in smoke.

And it seems to me that everyone loathes
anything colourful brightening their day -
everyone wrapped in their dullest clothes,
black and brown and dingiest grey.

I'm fed up with cloud and drizzly murk.
I really don't want to get out of bed.
No way do I want to go to work.
Why can't I just stay home instead?

I feel like I'm getting too depressed.
I wish I could hibernate today,
settle down for a few months' rest
and sleep the winter away.

Attractive only as taboo;
elsewise a rather ugly view
when spread, so flabby vulgar -
a woman's precious vulva.

Dermatology

What is this sad disfigurement
that scars a beautiful face ?
What is this inflammation so
infects the human race ?
More serious than a nettle rash,
some type of dermatitis ?
Or maybe it's a sort of eczema
that needs a diagnosis.
Life threatening psoriasis or hives ?
Certainly no port wine stain from birth !
But which of these diseases best describes
the spread of Man across the skin of Earth ?

A Pecking Order

My garden restaurant clientele
are loyal regular customers;
ethically diverse they vary
in their characters as well.

Cocky sparrow boys push their way past
timid uncomplaining dunnocks;
busy bluetits move so fast
they leave their greater cousin flummoxed.

All alone in a polka dot dress
a poor old thrush repeats herself;
nearby a posing blackie blessed
with as good a voice shows better health.

A hubbub of new arrivals heralds
the locally infamous Finch's clan
(quarrelsome green, bejewelled gold)
who soon get in their usual flap;

more respectable dapper chaffinch
none the less hints a secret life;
mysterious bullfinch home on leave
from spying comes to find his wife.

A gang of noisy starlings enters
respecting nothing for street cred,
baiting jackdaw for her headscarf,
calling pigeon 'Old Pinhead'.

Even so they stand aside for
braggart magpie who they know
sometimes acts unwilling guide for
gangster godfather Old Man Crow.

There's only one bird lives to kill -
psycho sparrowhawk Mac the Knife
yet freebird robin unafraid still
whistles the corner late at night.

So now my story's at an end
but if you think it's been too brief,
what you must do is just suspend
some feeders and your disbelief.

Cathartic ?

Does porn really exorcise demons
or merely exercise them ?

"Look straight in my eyes or you'll have bad sex."
she said as she stared and we clinked our glasses.
I tried to be clever and quickly replied
"There's no such thing as bad sex."

"You speak as a man or you wouldn't say that.
The things I could tell you about my ex.
He thought he should do just whatever he liked
and walked over me like a doormat."

My joke had misfired but I didn't turn back
and I asked her just what did she mean.
"I'm not even sure you would understand
considering how stupid you've been.

But maybe it's due to the male situation
being different for humans and animals.
When young men want sex and then find they can't get it,
it's the women they blame not more powerful males.

Resentment builds up and the feeling develops
that females are something to conquer.
Sure, men fall in love but when tenderness fades,
underneath there's a layer of rancour.

And matters get worse now the internet shows
pornography freely available
for men can't resist the temptation to watch
women making debasement saleable.

What once were perversions are now merely tricks
which men expect women to do as of right;
when randy they can't think of anything but
the thrill in their heads and the twitch in their pricks.

Without any love sex becomes domination
with too many women demeaned and degraded
and even in love men vent their frustration
on women presumed to accept being jaded."

I started to feel I had heard quite enough,
recalling some times when sex hadn't gone well
for my wife because I had enjoyed being rough.
I stood there embarrassed and guilty as hell.

"Alright." I admitted, "My comment was wrong.
Apologies both for myself and your ex."
"Well, thank you." she said, "But I'll bid you 'so long'.
Just remember my eyes and Don't Do Bad Sex."

Posted by Michael at 01:35 0 comments

What pleases the eye may not please the mind
but both are needed together to start
the arc in the rain from the sun behind
that fires the brain and enthralls the heart.

What is saddest about grief is that it fades,
like memories whose colours drain away and sharp lines blur.
The once life-threatening wound of grief gradually heals.
Some deny this, wanting to keep their injury as intact
as their loved one's bedroom. They pick at scabs,
preferring the poignant pain to numb insensibility,
guarding their wound as a badge of honour.
Yet over time the raw flesh seals;
the scar can be touched without wincing.
But the shrine created for their loved one
has become more important than its dedication.
After all the turmoil, it must not spoil.
Distraught, they cannot put aside the thought
that to stop grieving is to be disloyal.