Wednesday, 23 April 2014

Birthday Poem for Will Shakespeare

Today we celebrate the 450th birthday of William Shakespeare. Here is a little celebration of some of his quotes and thoughts.

Also Happy St George's Day!

Where there’s a Will
To celebrate the 450th birthday of William Shakespeare
If you’re looking for a leader
If you’re feeling lost
Follow Bill is my advice
You won’t find Love’s Labour Lost
There’s no need to be tongue-tied
If in a pickle or a pinch
Just make a virtue out of necessity
And refuse to budge an inch
Don’t act more in sorrow than anger
Just recall your salad days
Make yourself a tower of strength
Even if you suspect foul play
If you think it’s about high time
The game is up and truth will out
Remember All’s Well That Ends Well
Ignore those traitors known as doubts
If you’re more sinned against than sinning
And our hopes have vanished into thin air
Don’t suffer from green-eyed jealousy
Insist on play that’s fair
Enjoy The Comedy of Errors
We choose to know as life
Don’t make Much Ado About Nothing
We all live in a fool’s paradise
They say a sad tale’s best for winter
But tis better to bear the ills
This message may not be As You Like it
But be the beacon of the wise. Just follow Bill

Tuesday, 22 April 2014

Sonnet for Sanity

I don't often write sonnets, so here is a rarity.

Mark x
Sonnet for Sanity
Is it my turn for the remote control?
To pause the world to catch up, figure out
what is going on or at least patrol
the tumbling avalanche of white out
we call news these days. That data rich haze
of background static that leaches, preaches
in strident tones, the clothes to wear, the plays
to see, crowds the mind but never teaches.
Let’s unplug for a day, a month, a year.
Find a place of tranquillity and heat,
where running out of books is all we fear.
No clocks or calendars, just earth’s heartbeat
to regulate the hours, live in a blaze
of Monet sunsets, in our dying days.

Monday, 21 April 2014

Poem 21 of 30 Birdsong

If heard on the radio,
you’d think the sound effects department
had overdone it, setting the scene of a country park.
Yet somehow in the open air,
it seems perfectly balanced;
treble, bass, rhythm and counter-rhythm
underscoring the walk.
Cacophonous but distinct voices
blend in harmonious chaos
weaving dissonant melodies
into a tapestry of sound.
I sit on the bench, eyes closed
oblivious to everything
but nature’s song, trying to learn
the vocabulary of birds.

Sunday, 20 April 2014

Up In Smoke

Wow, so two thirds through NaPoWriMo already. Day 20 of 30. Hope you had a good Easter.
Up In Smoke
He takes the table nearest the sunrise
at least an hour before the café opens,
waiting for caffeine or inspiration,
not caring which comes first. 
He hopes there is something in the rays
to mend frayed edges,
stop his mind unravelling,
a tapestry picked at too many times.
Perhaps he’s read too many mysteries but
considers missing his flight home,
creating a new identity that
properly fits his holiday clothes.
He used to understand what home means.
These days he doesn’t feel rooted,
a patchwork of an existence,
week by week, a different rainbow theme.
He exhales, imagining his breath as
the burnt hydrocarbons of bad dreams.
The coffee arrives first, which he figures
is as good a reason to stay as any.

Saturday, 19 April 2014

The Walk: a series of triplet poems

Today, is a  short series of triplet poems. A triplet is three verses of three lines of three words each. Here they are linked to create a narrative.

The Walk
1)    Man
The clouded sky
makes liars again
of weather forecasters.
He shivers without
his favourite fleece
circumnavigating the lake.
Further proof of
the price paid
for misplaced trust.
2)    Dog
Walk and wag.
Bounce and sniff.
Stop and pee.
Growl and bark.
Fetch and drop.
Run and Greet.
My one honest
relationship he thinks:
Man’s best friend.

3)    Woman
Their dogs meet,
sense an alliance,
run and hide.
She; time rich,
money poor, content,
not really looking.
Apologies and chat,
giving hounds chase.
Anything might happen.
4)    Café
It’s his routine,
stopping halfway for
caffeine and regrets.
Sleeping dogs lie
as if they’d
booked a table.
He suggests coffee.
Anything might happen.
They let it.

Friday, 18 April 2014

No More Mr Nice Guy Poem

No More Mister Nice Guy

“The nice guys are all over there, in seventh place.” Leo Durocher
This is the original quote that when contracted became “Nice guys finish last”.
From now on I’m going to be a bastard
From now on I’m going to be a sod
I’m going to shout “knickers”
At Bishops and Vicars
Then argue about the existence of God
From now on I’m going to be a bastard
From now on I’m going to be a cad
I’ll learn all your regrets
Embarrassments and secrets
Then spill them to your Mum and Dad
From now on I’m going to be a bastard
From now on I’m going to be a rotter
When friends, racked with worry
Ask for a very mild curry
I’ll make it at least twenty degrees hotter
From now on I’m going to be a bastard
From now on I’m going to be a rogue
I’ll seduce daughter and mother
Not tell one about the other
But kiss and tell for a fortune in Vogue
From now on I’m going to be a bastard
From now on I’m going to be a swine
I’m going to eat Brussels Sprouts.
And when farts pop out
Swear blind they’re yours and not mine

From now on I’m going to be a bastard
From now on I’m going to be a heel
I’ll house sit when you’re away
Sell all your stuff on ebay
And not give a stuff how you feel
From now on I’m going to be a bastard
From now on I’m going to be a hound
I’ll let others pay
As I drink scotch all day
Then hide in the loos when it’s my round
But I’m not really cut out to be a bastard
Being a bastard just isn’t me.  
Sometimes I dream of scenes
Being magnificent and mean
That’s the last time I watch reality TV!

Thursday, 17 April 2014

17 of 30 Poem: All Too Short A Date

This poem was inspired this view.

All Too Short A Date
These blossomed boughs
hung heavy with the promise of
future harvests,
shedding tears of pearl and silk.
The Japanese would picnic
in your draped petticoats,
celebrating your spirit
with sake and merriment.
Feet and wheels trace meanders
through scattered confetti,
all too brief a season of
elegant decoration.
The occasional traveller
stops, considers before shaking a branch,
showers in the symbolism then
walks on with a smile.