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.