Coming of Age

So life is sex
and sex is life
and everyone fucks
when the chance arises.

Funny how all those years
I never twigged.
I guess you could say
life’s full of surprises.

(Sorry, I’m getting carried away. Better stop now.)

The Rat’s Desertion

Enough! I will not stay another Hour.
Gentlemen, your leave to quit this faking.
Our Heresy makes Devils of us all:
our Bread is neither earned, nor fit for breaking.
I urge you to renounce your Faith, for there’s
no Profit in this idle Verse-making.

That fickle Mistress will I serve no more;
her Moods too quickly turn, and for the worse.
A false Muse tempts men’s Honour, like a Whore
whose shallow Beauty, painted by each Verse,
condemns Mankind to worship and adore.
On Poet Covens I bestow a Curse!

For Rhyme and Metre were the Blocks that built
a Gaol, within whose hard-defined Constraints
I’ve languished and soliloquized my Plight.
My ev’ry Work proclaims my State of Guilt –
you Poets, do not scorn these dread Complaints.
Enough, I say, I need clean Air and Light.

Fair English was the Bride to whom, in Youth,
I pledged myself and swore I would defend.
But now she’s violated and Foul Offspring bears.
O Poetry, when will you speak the Truth?
Reform yourself, ere your Disciples end
this Tongue, whose lilting Cadences she lightly wears.

My Verse was once a roving Bark that sailed
where’er the Winds of Fancy blew. Her Boards,
though fine, were breached when Navigation failed.
I prayed safe Journey Home; for all my Words,
the Tides of Change against her Prow prevailed
and drove her on the jagged Reef to rot.
The Hull was smashed, the precious Cargo spilt.
I tried to float her free, but I could not
preserve the Frame on which my Craft was built.

Disobedience

James James
Morrison Morrison
Weatherby George Dupree
Took great
Care of his Mother,
Though he was only three.
James James Said to his Mother,
“Mother,” he said, said he;
“You must never go down
to the end of the town,
if you don’t go down with me.”

James James
Morrison’s Mother
Put on a golden gown.
James James Morrison’s Mother
Drove to the end of the town.
James James Morrison’s Mother
Said to herself, said she:
“I can get right down
to the end of the town
and be back in time for tea.”

King John
Put up a notice,
“LOST or STOLEN or STRAYED!
JAMES JAMES MORRISON’S MOTHER
SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID.
LAST SEEN
WANDERING VAGUELY:
QUITE OF HER OWN ACCORD,
SHE TRIED TO GET DOWN
TO THE END OF THE TOWN –
FORTY SHILLINGS REWARD!”

James James
Morrison Morrison
(Commonly known as Jim)
Told his
Other relations
Not to go blaming him.
James James
Said to his Mother,
“Mother,” he said, said he:
“You must never go down to the end of the town
without consulting me.”

James James
Morrison’s mother
Hasn’t been heard of since.
King John said he was sorry,
So did the Queen and Prince.
King John
(Somebody told me)
Said to a man he knew:
If people go down to the end of the town, well,
what can anyone do?”

(Now then, very softly)
J.J.
M.M.
W.G.Du P.
Took great
C/0 his M*****
Though he was only 3.
J.J. said to his M*****
“M*****,” he said, said he:
“You-must-never-go-down-to-the-end-of -the-town-
if-you-don’t-go-down-with-ME!”

Alan Alexander Milne

Some things I like

One of these things is the curlew’s cry.
One of these things is a mackerel sky.
One of these things is the world made new.
One of these things is walking with you
an hour after sunrise, the saltmarsh wide,
tracking the ebb of the morning tide
and staring in silence, side by side.

Wisdom

The geese that fly over the water
see everything here below,
for the wisdom of geese in the ways of men
is something I’ve come to know.
They followed me to Jamaica
through the Gulf of Mexico,
then they wheeled away over the water,
they flew on over the water,
in a chevron over the blue, blue water
to the lands of eternal snow.

The geese that fly over the water,
where they come from, nobody knows,
and nothing that we can do or say
will change how the high wind blows.
And they seemed to be urging me caution
but I failed to understand,
so the geese flew over the water,
the geese flew over the water,
the geese flew over the blue, blue water
as I turned my face to the land.

The goose that flies over the water alone
will never, ever return.
But the wisdom of men in the ways of geese
is something I’ve yet to learn.
And the man who flies over the water
to discover his purpose in life
would do well to remember the sea and sky,
should only consider the sea and sky,
must always beware of the endless sky
before he returns with a wife.

And geese will fly over the water
long after I’m laid in the ground,
for the talent of geese to navigate
is mystical and profound.
I should have sought their wisdom
not left my way unplanned,
for geese will fly over the water,
geese will fly over the water,
will always fly over the blue, blue water
while worms burrow under the sand.

Harken to the harpers voice
That drifts across the hall,
So sweet and soft, like Apple smoke,
To hold us in its thrall.

Memories of old romance,
The Harpers’ song is calling,
Lovers won and lovers lost,
And maids’ tears softly falling.

He bids ancestral war bands,
Steeped in blood and fame,
To raging run the gauntlet
Of the shield wall once again.

He tells of hoarded treasures,
Of Wyrd, and Dragon’s might.
A Selkies’ shapely shifting,
And the Spectre shrouded night.

Entwining Elfin wisdom
With an Ash-hearts song of strife,
And a Queen of Faeries’ toying
With an ancient poets life.

The Harper has a knowledge
Of an alphabet of trees.
A Rowan’s whispered secrets,
And a Willow’s Moon writ leaves.

He weaves this magic gently
Around the smoke wreathed hall.
So softly, singing dream tales,
To hold us in his thrall.

martin pallot 2015

Wander lonely, like a cloud,
An aimless, gentle, breeze blown way,
Avoid the purposeful pressing crowd,
Just let your feet, pied piper play.

And walking, let your mind roam free,
To touch, then let the thought go far,
Let eyes not fix on what they see,
But lightly hold to where you are.

Give no thought to journeys end,
Nor fear the ever circling time,
Just see what intuition sends,
Or wait some serendipitous sign.

For this walk from place to place,
This idle, undirected drift
Away from whirl of daily race,
May bring the grace of wisdoms gift.

I will by Trish Davis

If I purr will you stroke my immaculate skin
will you take then accuse me of culpable sin
will you argue I’m rotten without and within
while your soul remains pure?

If I sparkle and smile and you fall to my lure
will you use me then tell me my heart is impure
will you tell me my role is to serve and endure
while your heart remains free?

If I love you, declare that you’re destined for me
will you waste me then yawn and complain of ennui
will you tell me I’m useless then pack up and flee
while your mind’s disengaged?

If I follow and find you, my senses enraged
will I storm you – a merciless tiger uncaged –
will I strike till my heart and my soul are assuaged?
You bet! And I’ll win!