Tribes

Tribes

It’s tranquil here on summer days, green meadow and gold barley,
steady beat of August rain deep-puddles clay and marly.
Dormice scuttle in the hedge, grey squirrels are in glory,
blackbird, from yon ancient oak, sets music to my story.

Fort and church lie in my path, how strange the two cohabit,
ghosts of worthies haunt the one, the other’s home for rabbit.
The cottager, with all his brood, in yonder churchyard moulders,
while ‘neath the mound lie splintered bones of tribesmen, chief and soldiers.

I never thought of bloody war in these my woods and valleys,
yet beneath my very feet lie many dread reveilles.
God knows I wade through mothers’ tears whichever way I wander,
of men who gave us freedom’s choice to cherish or to squander.

My mind’s-eye sees a troubled land where factions fan upheaval.
Power-drunk – they lunge and kill with disregard for evil.
I hear the clash of Celtic swords, see Saxon spears fly flashing.
Now Vikings from their long-ships leap and o’er the sand come dashing.

Norman arrows, from the sky, pin down the weary English,
swordsmen, charging on the scene, beleaguer and extinguish.
They crush the white rose on the red and fill the fields with gore.
Then all around in Civil War I hear the canons roar...

I waken now as kingdoms merge to form a mighty nation,
sensing that salvation lies in peaceful integration.
For common-people are the glue that holds a land secure,
and such a land, where all are one, will prosper and endure.

Yet even now there float dark clouds across the sunny skies.
Forming in new phobic-groups, diverse communities arise.
Politics of identity are full of fatal flaws,
for tribal lands, we’ve seen before, are prone to tribal wars.

Tweedletrump and Tweedlekim

Tweedletrump and Tweedlekim

Fatboy Kim and Trump the Grump
agreed to have a battle.
Naughty Kim gave Trump the hump
with threats to nuke Seattle.

Grump told Kim that he would get
the mother of all hidings,
lest that he called off the bet
and gave us all glad tidings.

Lost Soul

Lost Soul

We’ve gathered here to say goodbye
to yet another boring guy,
kept on yelling for attention
till it gave him hypertension.
Now in the box beneath the shroud
he’s got the eye of all the crowd,
best leading role he ever had,
but no applause and no one’s sad.

Old mourners sprinkle ancient pews,
ill fitting suits and pee-stained trews,
some glasses, dentures, aching backs
with makeup plastered in the cracks.
They kneel for prayers on creaking limbs
then silent lips mouth unknown hymns.
The dead man’s peers in church are few.
Who pays respects where none seem due?

His painted widow in her weeds
now wonders who will sate her needs
with hubby just about to burn
and end up ashes in an urn.
She never grudged the man his health,
content enough to share the wealth,
but pleased this sudden turn of fate
serves up his helping on a plate.

Poor vicar wonders what to say.
about this stiff that’s come his way.
He’s no great speeches in reserve
just... bless a saint and damn a perv.
He settles for the standard rite
then tells the crowd they’ll be all right,
“beyond the stars lie happy lands,
so love your neighbour all shake hands.”

Corpse’ brother sitting cap in hand,
chief mourner in this dismal band,
now ponders on the decent wait
before a widow has a date.
Just wants to get her into bed
but cash and sex means getting wed,
been dodging that since leaving school
concludes that life is Goddamn cruel.

Sister of the spurned cadaver
cannot stand all this palaver.
She didn't like the man in life,
all flashy cars and tarty wife.
Deep down she’s feeling rather chuffed
for all his din he quietly snuffed.
Same cap fits the other brother,
clone of father, not his mother.

This woman weeping by the door
floats back in time to years of yore,
dreams of a lovely friend at school,
so kind and gentle fun and cool,
who shared a secret both held tight
that seemed to change him overnight.
He truly was a super lad
until abused by evil dad.

Why do I Wait?

Why do I wait?

Why do I wait until my lovely friends are dead
before I trace to ask how well they fare?
Do I delay to reminisce those half-forgotten
plays until the leading players are not there
for fear a line or two reveal I chose to
search the roots while they moved on
to scale the heights of life’s great tree?

Though I dug deep into that well tilled soil
there was no treasure trove hid there for me.

Truthward Steer

Truthward Steer

Who knows the right and wrong of
foreign wars with truth so hid that
none can tell the cause? For
fact and fiction come in strange
disguise. God’s truth for one is
for another lies. Each land should
go its people’s chosen way and
we, till clear, a cautious
distance stay.

The world is now a complex game of
chess. Cack-handed players leave
the board a mess. Each one will
say, “the truth is on our side,” but
that my friend is all too fatal pride.
New fact can turn belief upon its
head and leave you with a hand
that you may dread. Never be
afraid to change your mind,
for oft the track we tread
is false or blind.

Your honour is a precious thing to lose,
check well motives of the leaders you
may choose. When they say, “the
time has come to intervene,” consider
every outcome that can mean. Beware
of those who woo you with their power
for demons rise when ere they sense
the hour. As wind and tide combine
the ship to veer, hold firmly
to your wheel and
truthward steer.

Johnny England

Johnny England

So who allowed the foreign grey
to drive the British red away?
While running freely up our trees
they eat the food and spread disease.

While further north it’s worse than that,
extinction for the dear wild-cat.
Moggies of a different strand
can wander freely on their land...
That kind of thing is never good,
it leads to mixing of the blood.

It’s much the same with woodland too,
trees should be British through and through,
‘cos don’t-y’-know it’s beech and oak
make lovely walks for gentle folk.
Those foresters with foreign firs
are philistines or tasteless curs.

Thank God the matter’s well in hand
with vigilantes round the land
combining their almighty might
to put these dreadful things to right
with battle cries that ring profound
like... “British life on British ground!”

***

There’s many deeds do-gooders do
but, Johnny England, none for you.
You were not asked and not informed
your land would change, your town transformed.

As populace swells uncontrolled,
“It’s good for growth,” so you are told
by boss and banker as they strut
and plan new ways to undercut
your hard fought wage and meagre share
with labour brought from, “over there.”

Traditions too must dampen down
lest they offend and cause a frown
on someone’s face who chose to be
where once you felt relaxed and free.

As services come under strain
it’s you that has to bear the pain,
and not a thing that you can do
for no one gives a damn for you.
For, Johnny... you’re not cute you see
like cat and squirrel – or a tree.

Bear and the Birds

The First Nations of the US and Canada have many stories that link the sky and earth.
The following rhyme was inspired by one such tale told by the Micmac people of Newfoundland
relating to Ursa Major.

Bear and the Birds

Vernal equinox comes shining.
Hungry wolves in forest whining.
Mighty bear awakens growling,
time to go on sky’s great prowling.

Chickadee feels night-time falling,
“feed me food” from stomach calling.
Mother bear up sky comes climbing,
fatty flesh with perfect timing.

Sky-bear is big and bird is small
so chickadee puts out a call,
“if all want food then all must hunt.
I’ll bring my pot, who goes in front?”

Cute moosebird cries, “I choose the rear –
to sweep the mess – it’s not from fear."
Cock robin shouts, “I’m in the lead!
My trusty bow will do the deed.”

“I’ll peck her juicy nose and eye
and you can have a meaty thigh,”
cries chickadee, “a-tee-hee-hee,
and moosebird gets a bony knee.”

All summer long they stalk their prey
who hides behind the sun by day
but when the lid goes on at night
they see her there by lunar light.

“It’s Autumn now, let’s slay the beast
then hide our meat for winter feast.”
But bear stands high to make a fight
with paws that strike and teeth that bite.

Moosebird and chickadee fly low
for fear the beast will land a blow
but robin, with a steady eye,
takes aim and lets an arrow fly.

Sharp barb rips into bear’s great chest.
Her spurting blood stains robin’s breast
then covers maple trees in red.
Leaves fall like tears as bear is bled.

The winter fat seeps from her bones
as cold as death as hard as stones
and all the land is covered white
and plunged into a winter’s night.

Her frame still floats in northern sky
but hush belovèd do not cry,
her spirit fled back to the den
so in the spring she’ll rise again.

Then by the light of crescent moon
like starry handle of a spoon
three birds will follow after bear
as close as any hunter dare.

Whore

Whore

Whore

Part I

Silence stalks the night-dead docks.
Bollards mushroom cobbled wharves and murky locks.
Primordial beast-like towering jibs
time-frozen in their ten-wheeled cribs.
Sleeping ships rope-cuddle rain-wet walls.
Lifeboats lie uneasy in their falls.

Embowelled within these rusting freighters
she services the fornicators.

Shunt-worn tracks, the path she treads,
by wagons tanks and haunted sheds.
Booms lean out from shadowed decks,
hook-guys slung, “For sinners’ necks!”
A dawn-gull screeches like a tart...
She scurries on with pounding heart.

Watchmen clock a toil-worn slut.
Gate-cops step inside the hut
to miss the trespass in the quest
of weary girl with tender breast.

Whore

Part II

Douched, showered, pampered hair
sleeps fitful in suburban chair.
Horror movie in her brain
reels to an end then plays again.

Battered woman, battered child
fleeing in the midnight wild,
far-off town, stranger’s name,
life in shadows on The Game.

No benefits no prying eyes.
No questions heard no call for lies.
Don’t ask yourself what’s right or wrong,
just learn the tune then sing the song.
Friends abound who cannot cope,
sweet Sue’s depressed, Jill chose the rope.
Trish from The Valleys met The Curse,
beaten, drowned and missing purse...

Whore
Part III

Weary woman, bruised and thin,
wakened now by traffic din
or vicious mother’s drunken snorts –
digs out the facts and then extorts.

Time for Vicky’s morning call,
innocent among it all
though born of incest, drink and rape
in hell without a fire escape.

Now morning-mum runs kid to school
all middle-class in-vogue and cool,
then joins the girlies for a chat...
cost of living – this – and that.