642 - It may not be true

It may not be true that late evening thought
Must be more negative, be more haunting
Often at work or shopping I get caught
In reveries about life’s more daunting
Insolubilities, answers wanting
Human debilities both mine and yours
Assuming guilt, consuming calm, ranting
Inaudibly, Don Quixote on horse
Or Ford Fiesta on motorway, course
Set for maximum upset, fuel bought
At high cost, the long strange trip exhausting
My patience with fools who expect applause
When all they do or say falls sadly short
Of nobility’s reach, the gap yawning
Sat 7 June 2008

399 - These days it seems no-one at all believes

These days it seems no-one at all believes
What politicians say. We’re all cynics,
Spinning our frosty autumn webs on leaves
No longer green, unsupportive of tricks.
We’re all fierce dogs, for whom they throw thin sticks,
Hoping to distance us and keep us sweet.
But we’ll foul up their park! Instead of licks,
They’ll get our jaws clamped on their trouser seat.
The public creature, once such easy meat,
No longer laps up master’s words, deceives
Him, turning like a wet worm. In a fix,
He fumbles for umbrella but is beat,
As year-end gales assail it. He achieves
Just muddy boots, the kind of mud that sticks.
Mon 8 Oct 2007

398 - We never really see things as they are

We never really see things as they are.
We look at the world through distorting eyes.
We twist and elongate, we miss and mar,
Especially when it comes to our own size.
This has been taught for decades; there’s no prize
For guessing which country we think the best.
Which species we love most you can surmise,
And also whether we like work or rest.
Since we were suckled on our mother’s breast,
We’ve taught ourselves to look in the mirror
Dishonestly, distraught when we hear lies
From others who are not quite as impressed.
Well never mind, just smile for the camera
And for them all, and learn to compromise.
Sun 7 Oct 2007

325 - Is this world real, or is it in my head?

Is this world real, or is it in my head?
Readers, do you exist, or has my mind,
Without my knowing, fathered you instead,
And, if so, am I God, but somehow blind
To my own creation? I am inclined
To think not. Think of what happens each day
When we lose keys or umbrella, then find
Them once again in a strange place where they
Don’t normally belong. Our minds are prey
To amnesia, but the world’s larger head,
Like an old elephant’s, has rich stores, mined
By all creation, each second, each day.
So your minds mine mine, as this work is read,
And we find keys to all mysteries combined.
Thur 26 July 2007

297 - I'm tired and drunk and desperate for my bed

I’m tired and drunk and desperate for my bed,
And so I’ll write this sonnet and retire,
And in the morning won’t care what I said,
As long as something’s written (what a liar!)
Of course I should try hard, I should perspire
To write the truth, but frankly, do you care
If I say anything, or walk the wire
Between fact and fiction, dream and nightmare?
To be meaningful’s more than I can bear
In my current state, with my screwed up head,
With Bacchus lewdly strumming his old lyre
And fixing me with his old red-eyed stare.
Tonight with Spanish food I am well fed,
And so to bed, and its surreal empire.
thur 28 June 2007

260 - There's concepts that just don't exist at all

There’s concepts that just don’t exist at all,
Like time, truth, soul, life, death and uniqueness,
And things that do exist, things that we call
By any name, such as a rose, I guess.
Each thing is indeed separate, more or less,
But each thing’s also a community:
The heart is not the brain or pancreas,
But all together make up one body.
That body, from a distance, you won’t see;
It’s now part of a crowd watching football,
Whose presence, from the moon, you would not guess.
No sign of life in this whole galaxy
That lies hidden within that drop, so small
You’d not believe it was a universe.
Tue 22 May 2007

259 - Truth's nothing but each being's own viewpoint

Truth’s nothing but each being’s own viewpoint.
The ant finds most of his down in the grass,
While we look up to distant stars to point
The way ahead, to where we all must pass.
From bloody prison cells, through two small glass
Eyeholes, we survey the allotted strip
Of outside world our senses encompass,
And, weary, create a mental starship.
On death row, some still cling to hope they’ll slip
The rope that jungle justice would appoint.
And they’re right; dreaming, scheming, we surpass
That brick wall truth, catch whispers from the lip
Of nature, as it appears to anoint
Its children as they graduate from class.
Mon 21 May 2007

251 - Sophia, golden goddess of wisdom

Sophia, golden goddess of wisdom,
You’ll never rust, decay, depreciate.
No fear, bold, on goodness insistent,
Forever you must stay and seal my fate.
You bore me and will bear me to the gate,
And there you’ll leave me, needing you no more.
Before the hands are still, let me await
Your fair jewelled evenings, reading from your lore.
Your sense, ability and shining ore
Are both beauty and truth’s inspiration.
Immense facility, refined, innate
Devotion to duty, proof of the law:
Your golden rule, ancient divine system,
You’ll always uphold. Nature incarnate!
Sun 13 May 2007

195 - Great swathes of time reduced to nothing when

Great swathes of time reduced to nothing when
They’re spent asleep, in the office, or in
Some humdrum ho hum tedium again,
Some home scene has-been routine assassin
Of ambition, anodyne medicine
For achievement’s bereavement, head in sand
Ostrich approach, caustic reproach to sin
Of pride, success’ suicide, a planned
Retreat, retrenchment of resource, a bland
Defeat, deceitfully described descent
Into decent and peaceful pieces. Bin
Those schemes and dreams and themes and all those grand
Theses: all faeces. Flush ’em down the bend,
Wash hands of truth, watch washing machine spin.
Sun 18 Mar 2007

107 - A teacher got told off for telling kids

A teacher got told off for telling kids,
Aged nine, that Santa Claus does not exist!
Parents in uproar! She is on the skids,
Exiting school in Exeter, unmissed.
Well, not quite true - she’s just Rudolf-red-faced,
Her realistic reign dearly paid for
With reprimand and news articles laced
With jolly seasonal guffaws galore.
Meanwhile the reindeer gallop gallantly
Above, as school kids laugh behind her back.
Saint Nick is sick at the lack of chimney
Stacks, and also concerned about the sack.
Now it’s half-filled, with no metal or glass,
And no whisky while working at Christmas!
Wed 20 Dec 2006