© Budget Night: Sad Show

© Budget Night: Sad Show

S o now it is one thirty nine am; nothing stirs, nothing shows, such a sad show.

H ow did things ever get to be in such a confused state, I’ll never know.

A utumn once more gives way to winter and our displeasure grows.

D espair the world that its bold inclinations are due to cruel folks apropos.  

O ver on the other side, in another dimension, well intentioned intuition flows.

W asted effort tries to stem the tide of avarice; that like Everest ever goes...

S kyward. Who will be the first trillionaire? Who cares who wins the game?

H ow these vast fortunes are accumulated – are but windows in the frame.

A nother element of my intellectual capacity, with alacrity, covets the same!

D ichotomies some say are dim memories, money is neutral, takes no blame.

O ut in the country seasons come and go, winds blow, although...where’s the rain?

W ilful negligence of those things that are fundamental, a sentimental refrain:

S ave us, save us, if you please, from these infernal bourgeoisie; they have no shame.  

© At It Again

© At It Again

At a pinch it should be a cinch to gain your trust, just one more time.

At the annual general meeting, although it was fleeting, clearly there was shift in the paradigm

At a discreet table, she was more than able to run her hand along his thighs.

At the turnstile, she turned and smiled; the girl with the kaleidoscopic eyes. 

At the touch of her lips the prince became a frog and found a hollow log to croak in, so blue.

At a fork in the road was an ugly cane-toad that paused on the way to the heart of Kakadu.

At risk of adversity are the tenets of biodiversity; throw out the baby with the bath water.

At least you can see I went to university and learnt how to render a rather mixed metaphor.

At any price, we strive to keep things nice so dig up the coal; to hell with the reef!

At world’s end we can blame the other side; Lord, their crocodile tears are beyond belief.

At barbeques aplenty there are arguments that gently debunk the facts, whilst others bury heads. Say...

At risk of sounding churlish, boorish or truculent, ma’m you look quite succulent in those threads.

At present indications although the risks are many, we’ll save the economy before we spend a penny.

At length I said, ‘Have you rocks inside your head? Who cares when you’re dead and not getting any?’   

At the break-up party, I was feeling hale and hearty, when the casual conversation took a sinister turn.

At the epicentre, our muse and mentor was wallowing in self pity ‘cause the fools will never learn.

At the coast in Coolangatta, at the Track of Oodnadatta, there’s a sense it doesn’t matter what tomorrow holds.

At a fuchsia in my garden, there’s a parrot – no ‘beg pardon’ is feasting on the nectar held in the flower’s folds.

At such close range, it feels rather strange to know that their beauty is just a passing illusion.

‘At Eternity’s Gate’ is a painting by Van Gogh; a late model of the master’s art before his sad conclusion.

At home with my partner I’m content to wash the dishes, pay the rent or feed the fishes, whatever – here’s the list.

At first sight does love exist; at first light should we end this tryst? Oh but you’re so naughty, slap on wrist!

At her beck and call, through the junque shoppes we do trawl amazed at the bargains that are within.

At in French is à – my little pigeon, a most important preposition also meaning ‘to’ and ‘in’.

At the third stroke...I was feeling somewhat flustered and I admit that I just came all undone!

At what age should I stop acting childish? Most likely, when my funeral service has just begun.

At the start of this poem, verse, doggerel – what you will; I said that you could trust me –did I not?

At the conclusion of the ‘at’ trilogy, I offer a soliloquy – mutters: trust me... It’s another anagram you clot!

(C) Mural

(C) Mural

A Muralist Mexicano was José Orozco whose style révolutionnaire was Symbolist Manifesto. (C)

Despite losing his left hand in Zapotlán el Grande, José raised the level of art el Hispano.

Diego Rivera married to Frida, painted murals in Moscow, Mexico, San Francisco.

Frida did the foxtrot and things that she should not with Leon Trotsky; including the tango.

In the Sistine Chapel - Adam, Eve and the apple, were adorned on the ceiling by Michelangelo.

Whilst the walls of the Sistine were covered with pristine panels of Moses by Ghirlandaio.

Sandro Botticelli, Perugino and many more muralists did pluralist work there also.

And ‘The Temptation’ by Rust is considered a must after passing through Ragley Hall’s portico.

Cave paintings at Lascaux, Altamira and Chauvet are the original murals painted so long ago.

These frescoes were admired, and also inspired street artists like Banksy and … Pablo Picasso.

Murals in Northern Ireland are politically wired, religiously conspired and aggressively so,

To inflame deep held passions and prejudice fashioned to turn men into robots; so aggro.

But a mural is not always a durable record of humanity’s ills in the world that we know.

Modern graffiti, in the towns and the cities, is often removed after only one show.

What constitutes art? The critics are polarised when structures are vandalised by false bravado.

“Mural mural on the wall, who’s the bravest of them all”? The silent catchcry is incommunicado.

Da Vinci’s ‘Last Supper’ - unarguably the uppermost example of the mural but not true fresco.

Down through the centuries, armoury to penitentiary, the painting’s condition has waned to and fro.

French troops threw rocks at it, prisoners spat at it, a doorway cut through where Christ’s feet should go.

Finally, Dan Brown’s pot-boiler produced one last spoiler – John became Mary, oh woe Leonardo!

The Last Supper’s  restoration fires the imagination, stimulates senses, and strokes the ego,

Of artists such as Banksy, who like ‘Widow Twankey’ uses satire, ridicule and innuendo.

The mural is not a cure-all, or graffiti all excreti; it seems that a compromise is not going to flow.

There’s a difference in implements: charcoal and crayon pencil to spray-can and stencil, although…

Beauty’s in the beholder and now that I’m older, I’ll just sit on a boulder and feel the wind blow.

© Memories of Cracker Night

© Memories of Cracker Night

 I don’t regret exploding all those bungers up an elm tree.

We ran away, my mate and me and laughed so merrily.

But my father, in a lather, took a rather stringent view.

For I’d set the tree on fire and dire consequence ensued.

I’d set the mini dynamite in a portion of the girth,

With the consistency of a tinderbox that was drier than the earth.

Dad came running with bucket of water, then resorted to a hose.

The smoke was growing thicker; it was quicker I suppose…

Than to call for the local fire brigade; I laid low for awhile,

It was clear I was in trouble but still I couldn’t help but smile.

Once the fire was extinguished, in anguish, I reappeared,

Dad had called to me repeatedly now his wrath was unimpaired.

He boxed me ‘round the ears and he used some colourful speech.

He tanned my backside with every item close within his reach!

And finally he confiscated all of my remaining stash;

‘Chopped them up in tiny pieces and then dowsed the final ash.  

So no more Catherine wheels, sparklers or the dreaded bunger...

Was I allowed; my dad avowed to deprive me but I hunger,

Still to relive the thrill, that excitement in the belly,

When you blow up stuff...enough! Now I watch it on the telly!

On New Year’s Eve we watch the pyrotechnics on the harbour.

The colours are so dazzling, entrancing and spectacular.

But something is still missing from the wondrous huge display,

‘Eternity’ burns upon the bridge and senility’s on its way.    

(c) Memories

(c) Memories

As I look down my corridor of memories,

I’m pleased to say I’ve made more friends than enemies,  

This is very surprising as I’ve made many mistakes,

There have been rifts in the family causing much heartache.

Astonished I am that I’m now sixty something;

It appears I’m a survivor, not ripe yet for gazumping!

Two thousand and twelve marks my diamond jubilee

In Terra Australis, in terror paralysis, my earliest memory:  

I dimly recall watching the waves and feeling the sea spray,

Six weeks on a migrant ship, Scotland now so far away.

East from Gibraltar and across the warm Mediterranean Sea,

Through the Suez Canal, close to Mesopotamia were we.

Down the tropical Red Sea to the Gulf of Aden

Left to Sri Lanka then called Ceylon; we were laden...  

With elephants carved from an ebony tree,

Mother said, “We had the most amazing pot of tea”.

We went ashore at Colombo long having been on board,

Soon crossed the equator, where, King Neptune gave accord!

Then South-East for many weeks across the Indian Ocean,

To dock in at Fremantle; there was much emotion.

Australia at last, yet so far still to go, when do we alight?

Like an albatross in flight, we spanned the Great Australian Bight.

And put in at Melbourne and met some strange relations,

But we were bound for Sydney town: our penultimate destination.

From there we travelled to the Blue Mountains, finally relief.

Arriving in July fifty two, the Fahrenheit was too: a new home in Blackheath.  

© Legally Annoyed

© Legally Annoyed

A little baby in distress, from an Asian family no less, makes a mockery of the concept of a ‘quiet carriage’ on the train. Many people complained, couldn’t hear when speaking on their mobile phones – perhaps it hasn’t been explained properly to her in dulcet tones; but is it legal?  

Blind justice – the ability to split hairs or pull a rabbit out of a sack, or turn back boats, buy them or hide them; whoops, sorry – keep it quiet, don’t want a riot. We decide who comes to this country and the way in which it shall be reported; otherwise the news becomes distorted.

As they say, ‘ignorance is bliss’.   The adults are now running the show (so they claim), so no-one else to blame. Best to check with Frank, George or Rupert; it would be stupid otherwise to spread more ‘lies’, sorry (again!) I meant propaganda. Oh dear, how politically incorrect of me – must I genuflect to thee or pander to your whims? Truly, boatpeople may not be Christians, but for the most part, they’re not crims – but is it legal?  

Turning to bigger boats, whatever happened to Clive’s votes? No doubt there has been a military conspiracy. Then again, is it a gigantic stuff-up (a technical term) of titanic proportions? One cautions restraint; politics isn’t for the faint hearted or the newly departed. Does one detect the smell of a burning martyr? Try a little palm oil to ease the malaise or try to think up ways to control the senate. How could it possibly generate such an unholy alliance? Be you Coalition or Labor, it’ll be hard to curry favour with this motley crew. You should have voted below the line, one hundred and ten more times – but was it legal?

When shopping in Africa is on the agenda, keep your wits about you when in Kenya. Ignominious death is on special; do ‘the youth’ wrestle with bestial guilt? Let that filter through your brain; but is it legal? No, it’s just insane! Come to the shopping mall, fun for all!

I have to give blood to pathology but they refused to take it. There was a blackout due to high blustery weather and I gather from the nurse it’s a curse to take blood in the dark. Was Dracula ever concerned about workplace health and safety issues? ‘I vant to bite your neck, but vait, I’ll just check with ze union rep if it’s legal; have you got your Medicare card? It iz zo hard to bite by candle light!’

So high ho, to the hospital I go to walk up and down and push weights around. I ride the bike that goes nowhere. But as insidious as ectoplasm my back goes into spasm and I must abandon the exercise for the day. By the time I get back home the pain has gone; but the consequences linger on. There is something rather perverse about an exercise programme that makes you feel worse. In a former life, I must have caused considerable strife to a Chinaman. I wonder: was it legal?

Oh Jesus, Muhammad and Buddha; I should have finished this rave by now. But I swear by other ‘sacred cows’ that it’s so hard to focus with the clamour that the locusts make. Not to mention the strident attention from the man who cuts the lawn I don’t know how much more I can take so perhaps I’ll take a stroll down by the lake (when back pain desists) and try to feed cicadas to the ducks. Oh shucks, you can’t do that! It might be desirable, but, tut tut, is it legal? 

© From A Window…

© From A Window…

In the early hours of the morn as we were borne by bus from London to Dover,

We gazed nonplussed from our window at the wide stretches of parkland and clover

Called ‘Blackheath’. “Good grief”! My old hometown named for this place

Where are buried countless victims of the 'Black Death'. But this green space

Is where county cricket is played watched by genteel folk sipping lemonade,

In summer. Not daunted by the highwaymen who haunted the passing parade,

In the 17th century. Eventually, many dangled from gibbets ‘til their bones bleached.

Later, other flibbertigibbets campaigned here for women's suffrage and free speech.

Other women, not as discriminating, gaze from their shop windows in Amsterdam.

They watch scornfully the punting ‘mugs’ and other thugs who damn

Their occupation. Gawking tourists, who stroll by the canal, marked by their banal

Comments and apparel, oblivious to the blandishments of hawkers in flannel.

We gazed upon the city of water; from the barge other sights caught our attention.

Anne Frank’s Achterhuis where she hid with her family to avoid detection,

From the Nazis, who were particularly nasty; a poignant reminder of a dreadful war.

A happier sight is an ocean liner cruising towards our hotel, seen from the 14^th floor.

Later on the Grand Canal, in total bliss, we glistened along by boat and gondola.

Venezia – the city of masks, the city of bridges, St. Mark’s square and laguna.

One tries, in vain, to see the Bridge of Sighs, covered by hoardings, and yet a kiss...

To buttress our union as the legend say; hey! Lord Byron doesn’t know what he missed!

Long colourful mooring poles poke up drunkenly, like oversize drinking straws

From the dank water. We saunter beside the canal, ordering white wine – “per favore”.

Then pay homage to the ‘Queen of the Adriatic’ despite how aromatic she seems.

A decaying, erratic, erotic dream sinking slowly into the realm of the slipstream.

As we approached in our luxury coach, we gazed, amazed by the hills of Tuscany,

The medieval town of San Gimignano arose in fragrant musk. Any...

Chance we took to look for cappuccino in the gorgeous trattorias.

Paintings of Etruscan vases; a perpetual reminder of the long and glorious

Past history of this region, visions of the Roman legions heading north

To conquer Europe. Inhabitants of Gaul and Hispania also sallied forth.

To no avail, the endless tale of plundering armies assaulting the garrisons,

Alas, dear friends, our European adventure now pales in comparison.

From the window of the hospital I gazed, unfazed, upon the city of Lucerne.

The mountain ~ Pilatus stood in ‘stark relief’ and in silent grief I turned...

My mind to contemplate and renegotiate the unlikely status of my life.

In Florence, ‘David’ had looked odd; his upper body and head jaded, in strife.

And here was I just the same, or perhaps I lieth ... I am Goliath instead?

I could find no answer, and with nothing fancier to do, I lay in my bed.

To ponder Renaissance obsession with perfect harmony of form, ratio, expression.

I’ll use other windows in the future to nurture my comprehension.