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…
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
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.
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!
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.
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.