Poetry – memo to self

a rhymer’s style is one that’s neat
following form and counting feet
free-versers claim their way is better
no need to follow to the letter
some poems only seem to ramble
endless screeds all in a tangle
esoteric styles depress me
grandiloquence just don’t impress me

so what’s the best thing I can do
(the point of this iambic stew)
read those I love and worry less
write from the heart – not to impress

Sunday Ladies

those Sunday ladies – we’ll not forget
their plumage of sobriety
as they’d humbly genuflect
– such bastions of society

hats worn with amazing elan
pious looks of delight on their faces
believing in God’s greater plan
– already quite sure of their places

bake their very best cakes for the stall
knit socks for the halt and the lame
invite the vicar to come round to call
– “and it’s such a huge honour he came”

making visits to those who are ill
but not if it’s something too catching
taking note of the dust on the sill
– and whether the curtains are matching

discussing some marital state
reporting some kid’s bad behaviour
saying ‘wind up in clink at this rate’  
– and all in the name of the Saviour

with such rituals shown week after week
it was hard to equate what we knew
of their cold two-faced ways, so to speak,
– with their posture when sat in a pew


image from http://thesaltcollective.org/lets-give-church-ladies/ (with apologies)  

Reality Check

Where is she,
the ‘me’ I used to be?
Fading, shredding, wafting free
in ragged pieces, desperately
spinning, shrinking, hard to see.
Pretending, as things become less clear,
that nothing’s wrong, I am still here.

Inside I sigh
and tell physicians passing by
‘I’m not the same, although I try,
I’m crawling where I used to fly.’
The truth is hid in their reply
– ‘few treatment options for a brain’
I know I can’t be ‘me’ again.



[This is an extension of ‘A new reality’ posted a few months ago.]

Of Sadness

I cannot write of beauty
When sadness fills my mind
Why this should be I do not know
I’m not the moping kind

And though I look at lovely things
And wonder at their grace
Those trees, that sea, those starry skies
They’re from another place

Not nestled here within my heart
With melancholy signed
I cannot write of beauty
When sadness fills my mind

Yet there’ll come a day
Or so it’s said
With sad thoughts left behind
Those moons and loons
And rainbows
Once more will fill my mind

Meet Black

Black can mean so many things
and can be misunderstood,
like when it’s said in plural
it’s both racist and it’s rude.

Yet put the small word ‘all’ in front
and the plural form seems fine
– we’d like New Zealand All Blacks
to play in our front line!

We can think of Guinness drinkers
as they sup on their black grog,
or Churchill’s deep depressions
that he nicknamed his “black dog.”

Black beans will help your colon,
Black-eyed Susans flower in June.
Two ‘new’ ones seen in just one month
will give us a ‘black moon’.

Break a strike and you’re a blackleg.
Blackball someone and they’re out.
All in all black can be gloomy,
yet black coffee may stop gout!

Too much booze may cause a black-out
and black humor makes us laugh,
but for bad luck to pursue you
let a black cat cross your path!

albi aug 2016c

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