Poetry
With homage to T S Eliot’s anxious Alfred Prufrock
Let us go then, you and I
To see the truth spread across the sky
And in deserted, fog filled streets
discern whispers that retreat
into sleepless nights
gathering like moths
around dimming lights.
What dared disturb the universe
With such insidious intent?
Global Governments well-rehearsed?
Scientific studies so well meant?
I have seen their eyes fixing us
With facts and formulated spin
And technical data sprawling on a pin,
And while the truth whispers
down protected halls
duplicitous deceits wriggle
on dividing walls.
And yet still, we can presume
Truth shall rise from impending doom
Behind rainbowed windowpanes
We prepare masks to greet
faceless folk we pass in the street.
And will there ever be time for you
and me
To share again toast and tea?
And would I dare? and, would I dare?
To cut and colour my unruly hair?
Instead I clean coffee spoons
listening to whispers in silent rooms.
They sent a rocket this year to Mars
While many arms bore deepening scars
and empty bellies and empty souls
wandered lonely roads with death-trap holes.
And you, isolated alone having been tracked,
a confirmed false positive - but not a fact.
As darkness falls on every alley way
What now do they all say?
Those men and women who stare from our screens
and advocate meddling with our genes?
Whose scripts fuel psychosomatic fears
And mandatory masks
hide our sanitized tears.
Though we have wept and prayed,
And many months been afraid
Would it have been worth it, after all?
To refute their statistics and not play ball?
To say: ‘I am Me, my life is mine’,
Impossible to say just what I mean
But behind closed doors,
I shield– and scream.
Yet still stupid questions fill each day
shall I wear blood red or Payne’s grey
Dare I eat an unwashed peach
or drive five miles to the beach
And what is it I am permitted to say?
And can I go into church to pray?
Do I need a certificate to pay for goods?
Can I take a walk in the woods?
Yes, I can be cautious, and meticulous;
A little pedantic and a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, somewhat ridiculous
almost at times the fool,
But I’ve always known the golden rule.
And if I missed that regretful curtain call
I want to say that’s not what I meant,
not what I meant at all.
Certainly, I have doubted more now,
than in my youth
but have always known the absolute truth
which whispers to all, though few choose to hear
but those who listen see darkness clear.
Waiting
We are waiting, waiting for a miracle to come
In a blaze of truth, the chosen one.
While snakes are coiling their sorcery far
Around the blood red of a medicine jar
veracity and myth together entwine
and Dragons dance to a planned design.
And the crack that lets the light shine in
Tracks and traces every sin.
Watch the auctioneer raise his hammer
A doctor cough to stifle his stammer
And a number held up at the back hall
wins the lot and profits it all.
The gavel has struck the final sum
while we remain silent and play it dumb.
Still, we wait for the miracle to come
The needle points to thousands dead,
light floods where those feared to tread
and others held their breath and said,
“The light slipped in, but our chance was lost”
Schrodinger’ s cat lies dead in the box
And we are waiting for a miracle to come
In a blaze of glory and a beating drum.
Across the globe, brass bells toll
Summoning those who sold their soul
And now they wait for a miracle to come
In a blaze of glory and the beat of a drum.
Nature’s Gift
In this small garden
and to the hills beyond
Nature’s glorious grandeur
Whispers its worth,
in flower, leaf and frond.
Passing clouds, not vapour trails,
brush the flawless sky
Chaffinch and Linnet herald dawn
and the red Kite’s evening cry.
Hedgerows brim with primrose,
bluebell and celandine,
flourishing in spring’s clean air
not coated with dusty grime …
And in the peaceful, lazy afternoon
cherry blossom pink, and lilac bloom
gently exhale
their precious perfume
Let us honour all earth’s trees
as birch and ash sway in vernal breeze
And while the poplar parades her newest dress
dare we look inward - dare we confess?
When last did we admire such beauty and design?
When last did we welcome nature’s bounteous gift?
Not in present time
have we inhaled such priceless wonder
or, of nature’s melody, taken heed.
We failed to note her increasing decline
with hearts sold on financial greed.
Realising we have traded the years so wrong
as we harken now to heavenly song
might we take comfort in nature’s embrace
and for a moment forget Covid’s cruel face.
Artists’ Fever (with a nod to John Masefield)
I must down to my studio again
The turps, brushes and oil
The easel and the canvas
And kettle on the boil
I must down to my studio again
And forget things for a while
Rags, charcoal and inks
Are sure to bring a smile.
I must down to my studio again
Solace there I will find
Since the grey mists of Corona
I fear I’m losing my mind
I must down to my studio again
The call now I can’t deny
All I ask are tubes of paint
And my creativity to fly
And when this dreadful dream is over
And skies are clear and blue
Brushes, oils and canvas
Will have pulled me through