The true meaning of Easter

Standing on tiptoe and stretching their legs,
They’d build up their towers of lush chocolate eggs.
With faces transformed by great smiles of delight,
They measured success, not in numbers, but height.
With Aero and Bountie and Crunchie and Flake,
They’d go for the spindliest tower they could make
And squeal in alarm as it started to sway,
Unstable through adding that last Milky Way.

And I’m sure, deep inside, they were fleetingly sad
‘Bout the single, dark choc’latey egg that I had,
Which I kept by my chair in the usual place,
Resisting the urge to start stuffing my face.

But while the twin towers were razed to the ground,
My solit’ry egg was intact and still sound,
And when their last eggs had been eaten with haste,
I’d smile at my hungry and slender-toned waist
And reach for my egg in my ponderous way,
While the others looked on with an air of dismay.
And I’d break off small pieces and moan with delight
At each languid and luscious and succulent bite.

One year, they removed all my choc’late, I’m told,
Replacing the wrapper back into the mould,
And when I reached down for my moment in time,
They laughed till they cried at their terrible crime.

Those eggs, so unhealthy and way over-priced,
Prove Easter is centred round chocolate, not Christ.

The unlikeliest hero of all

Raise a wand to the honour of Severus Snape,
Whose loyalty meant that he could not escape
A terrible death by a monster who thought
That he was the servant of Lord Voldemort.
Was ever a hero so wrongly misjudged/
Was history ever so grievously fudged?
Too late did the annals decide to reshape
The sad twisted story of Severus Snape.

He was scorned and despised; he was hated and jeered,
Suspected of treason as Voldemort neared.
But still he determined to guard Harry’s head
And all for the love of a woman long dead.
He was the unlikeliest hero of all
With cold, piercing eyes and a Slytherin drawl.
Yet Hogwarts remembers that black flowing cape
And honours the valiance of Severus Snape.

Meeting at the tree

You and me
By the tree
In the park.

By the oak,
‘Neath the cloak
Of the dark.

You’re me mot.
I’m your bloke.
O’er the knot
On the oak,
Carve our mark
In the bark
For a lark.

In the park,
You and me,
By the tree.

O’er the knot
Carve our mark
In the park.

You me bloke?
You me mot?
Want a smoke?
What you got?
‘Neath the cloak
Of the oak
In the dark.

Matches spark
And we smoke
‘Neath the oak.

There we squat,
Smoking pot
In the dark.

You and me
In the park
By the tree
For a lark.
Have a smoke.
You’re me mot.
I’m your bloke.

.

More homework for the Phoenix Writers Group - "write something about a meeting and / or a tree"

Farewell my darling

Our lives were off-track.
We had long ceased to grow.
We were riddled by flak
And she wanted to go.
I was taken aback
By this unforeseen blow
But her old Almanac
Said it had to be so.

There’d been plenty of craic
In those days long ago
When we drank Armagnac
And she called me her beau.

There’s no point looking back,
I declared to poor Jo,
As I dropped the large sack
To the river below.

The Five Senses

“This site,” said Justice Smelling
At the open planning hearing,
“Contains a tasteless dwelling
Which, one feels, is unendearing.”

.

Homework for the Phoenix Writers Group. "Write something on the five senses."

The St. Patrick’s Day Parade

I feel I ought to praise
Some great Being so divine
For the many joyous days
In this mundane life of mine.

For the day my spindly arms
Lifted up the Cup on high,
For the day my partner’s charms
Blotted out the moon and sky,

For the day my kids were born,
For my visit to Beijing,
For the wondrous Matterhorn
Shining bright in early spring,

For Shels’ 96 Cup win,
For that day in Alton Towers,
For the day that we moved in
To that tiny house of ours.

But my fav’rite ever day
Was the day my kids relayed
That this year, was it okay
If we skipped the Grand Parade?

Flood rising

.

The waters kept rising.
Wasn’t too surprising,
Someone built an ark which was very enterprising.
Ma and pa were baling,
Little Jem was wailing,
Hopper found a door and decided to go sailing.
Jeepers creepers!
The water’s getting deeper.
Climb onto the roof, ma, the floodbanks are failing.

Cars were being swept away,
Sightseers kept away,
Old Mr. Venous in his bedroom slept away.
The wind came squawlin’,
Little Jem was bawlin’,
Hopper sailed by with a sheet of old tarpaulin.
Climb the spire,
The level’s getting higher.
Better watch out, ma, the rain keeps a-fallin’.

Helicopters buzzin’
Ten to the dozen,
Old Mrs. Shiels was rescued by her cousin.
Kitchens were brimmin’,
Street lights a-dimmin’,
Hopper floated by with a door-load of women.
Shake and shiver,
Main Street’s a river.
Hold onto your hat, ma, I think we’re going swimmin’.

Frogs were a-croaking,
Little Jem was soaking,
Old Mr. Venous thought that we were joking.
Night owls hooted,
Main Street was muted,
Down at the plaza, the shops were being looted.
Head for the high lands,
Rooftops are islands,
Stories of drownings were urgently refuted.

The tempest was raging,
Ma was quickly aging,
Storm wasn’t tired of the war that it was waging.
Pa looked staggered,
Hopper seemed haggard,
Cops shot a looter, said he was a blackguard.
Adrenalin pumping,
Fishes were jumping,
Mayor in his dinghy strutted and swaggered.

Poor Farmer Baker
Who owned the hundred acre,
Looked out the window and prayed to his maker.
Pa was scowling,
Little Jem was howling,
Hopper never tired of the women he was towelling.
There went McCreevy
With a stolen TV,
Chief of Police said he favoured disembowelling.

Water kept flowing
To wherever it was going.
Little Jem laughed at the bubbles he was blowing.
Pa seemed affected,
Shopping mall’s protected,
Mayor was only thinking of getting re-elected.
Folk couldn’t win,
Hopper’s done in,
Grab a rubber ring, ma, high tide’s expected.

The torrent was flying,
Pa started crying,
Said it would be months till the house started drying.
Ma was worn out,
Front gate torn out,
Hopper’s bold prediction really had been borne out.
All the Bible thumpers
Were queuing up to jump us,
Poor Farmer Baker couldn’t get his corn out.

The Mayor was bloodied,
The waters got muddied,
The bar was closed because the cellar had been flooded.
The army dropped butter
Onto our gutter,
Old Mr. Venous battened down the shutter.
Watch out, bud,
It’s one hell of a flood.
“Best night of my life,” I heard Hopper mutter.

In the dead of night

The cheesy moon shone brightly
In the lazy summer heat.
A comet, fleet and sprightly,
Flashed across the blackened sheet.
The crickets chirped contritely
To the low nocturnal beat,
As her severed head rolled lightly
Down the peaceful cobbled street.

Bus lane bounders

I’m sitting in a jam
And it’s furious I am,
Watching cars fly down the bus lane at great speed.
My brake pedal’s on the floor
For a quarter hour or more
And I feel I’m getting very mad indeed.

I’ve no problem sitting pretty
In the centre of the city
If I knew that everybody did the same.
But to watch them all fly by
Makes me hang my head and cry.
Do these people not possess an ounce of shame?

Of course no traffic cop
Jumps out to make them stop
And give these ******* ******* their desserts.
They just speed on blithely by
With a twinkle in their eye,
And Lord, I’m telling you, it truly hurts.

Of course I have been tempted
To join in with those exempted,
Succumbing to what jealousy induces,
But I know that I’d be caught
By a most officious sort
Who wouldn’t give a fig for my excuses.

So I’ll sit here in this traffic
With my language strong and graphic
As all around poetic justice flounders.
And my engine will be boiling
And my gaskets will need oiling
As I observe these brazen bus lane bounders.

Twas a shame that she died when she did

‘Twas a shame that she died when she did,
Falling foul of the ‘lectrical grid,
She had so much potential,
She was so influential,
‘Twas a shame that she died when she did.

If only she’d seen the loose wire,
How her star could have soared so much higher,
But the wire became live
And she didn’t survive.
If only she’d seen the loose wire.

If her husband had mended the plug,
‘Twould’ve needed no grave to be dug.
She’d have ironed his pants
With a cursory glance,
If her husband had mended the plug.

‘Twas a shame that she died ironing pants,
A victim of cruel circumstance.
At the end of the day,
‘Twas an unseemly way.
‘Twas a shame that she died ironing pants.

The song of a despairing father

As a father, I’m perplexed
About whom she’ll bring home next,
What lamb she’s going to lead up to the slaughter.
I am sure the next poor victim
Will soon rue the day she picked him.
Is it so hard to marry off a daughter?

There has been all shapes and sizes,
Some quite normal, some surprises,
But ultimately none has cut the mustard.
Whether gorgeous hunk or dolt,
She is bound to find some fault
To sour the fruit that’s stewing in the custard.

There’s been doctors, there’s been students,
Lecturers in jurisprudence,
Movie stars and scurrilous reporters.
There’s been schoolboys, there’s been oul’ lads,
There’s been saints and there’s been bold lads
And one I think had several great-granddaughters.

I am sure if Jesus Christ
Could in some way be enticed
To come back down from up above to court her.
I am sure that even He’d
Find it quite tricky to succeed
In meeting the requirements of my daughter.

It seems the male population
Doesn’t match her expectation,
Breath smells bad or nasal hairs need trimmin,’
Oh the list is getting daughter
For my fussy, single daughter.
I daresay after men, she’ll start on women.

I just sit here in my roost
And I’m politely introduced
And sometimes they will shake my hand and smile.
And if I seem a trifle distant,
Bit stand-offish and resistant,
Its ‘cos I know they will not pass the trial.

If I engage in conversation
As an elderly relation,
I feel as if I’m wasting precious breath.
In a week, or little more,
He’ll be promptly shown the door
And I’ll be inching nearer to my death.

To gods Christian and Norse,
I’ve prayed that one might stay the course,
That one of them might live to tell the tale.
If one pacifies the dragon,
Then by God we’ll share a flagon
Of the finest of the country’s real ales.

If only one could subdue her,
He need no longer call me ‘sir,’
I’d praise his name through this and many lands.
He could take my house and car,
Run my tab up at the bar,
If only he would take her off my hands,

But till then I’ll sit and pray
As each new suitor has his day,
Not knowing he’s a number not a name.
Perhaps I’ll smile politely,
Share a witticism lightly –
But if I do or not, it’s all the same.