To celebrate the Saviour’s birth
He gave to her a stick in earth.
As promised to his love most true
A tree from that bare stick soon grew
And pears did from its branches form
To show his love for her stayed warm.
But she was troubled when she heard
him promise he’d give her the bird…
The Twelve Days of Christmas 1
To the unjust,
one trusts,
just desserts come their way,
if it’s true,
as they say,
every dog has its day.
First posted here 11th July 2020
Philosophising woodpigeon
poses existential questions
each and every morning, without … fail:
Who do-you think you-are?
Who do-you think you-are?
Who do-you think you-are? Who?
My very sense of selfhood’s
undercut repeatedly,
I really doubt I ever … knew.
Before I make my own quietus
feathered Plato shifts next door,
interrogates our neighbours … who
will too, in their turn, have
identities belittled by
his nauseating bill and … coo:
Who do-you think you-are?
Who do-you think you-are?
Who do-you think you-are? Who?
O moon, it’s time
I wrote a rhyme
to you, Selene,
pale-faced genie.
But rhymes for Moon,
like June and spoon,
make me go slack-kneed,
they’re so hackneyed,
so I’ll just praise you
for each phase you
go through, Tide-queen,
Earth’s mate. Thus my paean.
Written for a Twitter readalong of Philippa Pearce’s Tom’s Midnight Garden
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The virus from outside, just like a trojan horse,
attacks the victim’s inside, violates our very source,
though they try their very damnedest to repel it,
our bodies have their work cut out just trying to expel it.
The chronicles of nausea, vomit, diarrhea,
demonstrate a failure to keep clear
of the dread coronavirus,
an illness sent to try us.
Symptoms gastrointestinal —
in the analysis somewhat final —
is reported by 1 in 10 or 20
women and men: queasiness aplenty.
Today’s coronaverse was brought to you by the letter N.
© C A Lovegrove
When lockdown feels like house arrest,
remember who’s the jailer.
When feeling an unwelcome guest,
you’re really not the failure.
While lockdown serves to keep you in,
remember what’s kept out:
a thief so small, and short and thin,
who’ll steal without a doubt.
Coronavirus does not care
if you are good or bad.
It catches us all umaware:
the mum, the child, the dad.
Just like the thief who seeks your wealth
this burglar is not kind:
with sneaky stealth it steals your health,
your body, or your mind.
When lockdown eases do not say,
Hey, now we can go mad!
You want to live another day?
Take care, stay safe, not sad!
This coronaverse brought to you by the letter L.
Twelfth Night has come when some say ill-luck
will come to some souls and go running amok
if their baubles and candles still hang, and bright tinsel
and such dingle-dangles which they’re saying long since will
have lost their immediacy, attracting the spite,
malevolence and such-like of brownie and sprite.
So take down the décor, the fairy, the lights
which shine there from Advent to Christmas; Twelfth Night’s
the end of the season — or so it is said.
But what says one Herrick,* a poet long dead?
DOWN with the rosemary, and so
Down with the bays and misletoe;
Down with the holly, ivy, all,
Wherewith ye dress’d the Christmas Hall:
That so the superstitious find
No one least branch there left behind :
For look, how many leaves there be
Neglected, there (maids, trust to me)
So many goblins you shall see.
Then let us follow Herrick, who knew what must be known,
and keep our Yuletide greenery up till darkness has all flown.
* Robert Herrick (1591-1674): Ceremony upon Candlemas Eve.
It’s New Year’s Eve. So long, and thanks
for all the luscious puns and games,
for health reports, and news of pranks
you’ve played, and all the names
you’ve called your other half,
old whatsit… It’s been quite a laugh.
And so, as we see out this year,
it’s cheers to you! And mine’s a beer.
Credit: WordPress Free Photo Library
My cat Florrie was flattened by a lorry.
My old pa was run over by a car.
My mate Mike met quietus with a bike.
My pal Ron fought a red pantechnicon.
Poor old Sue claimed that nothing ever stopped her — until, one day, she took on a helicopter.
Now I’m all alone …
Do I really hear a drone?
Inspired by this post from Colin McQueen
Thunder teases, promised downpour,
does as it pleases, laughs the more,
you hate the heat, it piles it on,
you feel just beat, all pleasure gone.
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Waking up this morning with an earworm in my head,
Sucking the colour from a puffin’s bill,
Waking from a dream wondering why on earth I’d said
“Sucking the colour from a puffin’s bill.”
I was sitting on a train — Puffing Billy was its name —
When rising from my seat as I leapt up to my feet
Out the window then I flew as an arrow straight and true
All the while sucking colour from a puffin’s bill.
Summer’s pond skaters are long gone,
The garden pool glazed like a mountain tarn.
Rather than battered and tempest-tossed,
This morning trees glistened with early frost.
Standing on the platform waiting for the train;
not too long till I’ll be holding her again.
A selection of tweets using the hashtag #CoupletsForBreakfast
Zenrinji 