Macduff5 Poetry (25)

My audience,
Not for the most part educated,
In poetry,
Iambic pentameter,
Odes,
Sonnets,
Ballads,
These are all things,
From a past,
When books were the domain,
Of the educated elite.
Who would bother,
Nowadays,
To fathom metaphors,
And similes,
Or even symbolism.
It’s an ancient art,
A cultural activity,
Better left to the audiences,
Of the Globe.
They lived in the world of words,
And imagination.
There was no TV,
No films or Internet.
There was just the power of words,
And costume,
And the special effects,
Of a lightning bolt,
And darkness and light,
And music.
But people knew their poetry,
The actors knew their poetry,
It was a simple escape,
From the rats,
And the plague,
And the death,
That surrounded them.
The imagination lifts people,
It offers an escape.
It attracts people,
It creates Gods,
It gives us purpose,
It sets us free,
And some things,
Never change.

I get in my car,
And drive to the hospital,
Our mortality plagues us.
Treatment and cure,
Optimism and hope,
The mind is willing,
But the body is susceptible,
To those destined blows….
A bit like the black knight,
In the “Search for the Holy Grail,”
His arms and legs severed,
But an infatigable belief in self.

I drive past the house,
Where we made passionate love,
I can recall all those senses.
Like all things it didn’t last,
But I knew I was alive.
Such a tenuous bond,
Such a capricious journey,
Of stops and starts.

We never know where things will lead us,
And rationality only rears its head,
In hindsight.
You can’t help thinking of those close moments,
That float in the wind like Autumn leaves,
Only to wither away in the dust,
And beauty dies,
And life moves on as darkness beckons.

No more speaking,
A broken fingernail clawing the balcony,
Where Juliet once stood,
Why such complex creatures?
This is our gift and our despair,
The poetry anaesthetises us,
The hospital labyrinth looms.
On the return journey,
Will it be with a black sail or a white?

Far away in the tropical waters of the Caribbean,
Were two prawns named Justin and Christian,
They loved swimming around and being larks,
But were constantly harassed by hungry sharks.
Finally one day, Justin fed up and forlorn,
Told his mate he was sick of being a prawn.
“I wish I was a shark and couldn’t be beaten,
Then I wouldn’t have to worry about being eaten.”
A mysterious cod appeared out of the dark,
And turned Justin into a great big shark.
Christian now fearful of being tempting bait,
Quickly swam away from his once good mate.
Time passed and now Justin was bored and alone,
When his friends saw him they scurried off home,
Justin soon realised that his appearance outright,
Was now the cause of his unhappy plight.
One day while swimming alone in his domain,
He encountered the mysterious cod again,
He begged to be changed from his menacing shark form,
And lo and behold he once again became a prawn.
With tears of joy in his tiny little eyes,
He went and bought cocktails for all the prawn guys,
(Ah! You might be thinking prawn cocktails in this verse,
Is the punch line…but no… believe me… it’s worse).
Looking around the gathering amongst reef and coral,
He couldn’t see Christian, his dear old frightened pal.
“Where’s Christian,” he frantically sought,
And was told he was at home and very distraught.
Looking to put things right again and to make amends,
He shouted through Christian’s door that they should be friends.
“No way man,” said Christian, who had grown so much thinner,
“You’re a shark! I won’t be tricked into being your dinner.
Justin replied, “No I’m not…I’ve learnt my lesson,
I’ve found Cod. I’m a Prawn again, Christian!”

Walking the tightrope,
Was so easy,
The balances were tuned,
Muscles as tight as a crossbow,
The rope was broad,
And no wind blew.
I could defy gravity,
In the strength of youth,
I was invincible,
Shielded from harm,
By luck and self belief.
But now the body rebels,
I walk in the shadows,
Knowing despite an entrenched will,
Body clocks tick to their own tune.
The ropes are thinner now,
The wind sways in all directions.
Yes, there is bravado,
It keeps us alive.
That safety net,
Is tenuously tied,
Maybe there might not be a happy landing.
The shadows grow longer,
As the bright sun of yesterday, sets.
I’ve been here before,
But sooner or later the fall will come,
Into the darkness,
Into that great abyss,
Into the world of shadows.

There was a time when I entered these Elysium fields,
Of the poetic,
Yes I strutted and fretted on the poetic stage,
And met in this crazy nether world, like minded people,
Who were happy to challenge and create,
Or simply amuse.
Jim was one.
We never got really close but it wasn't difficult,
To see he was a gentleman,
A live wire with an amazing repertoire.
I'm deeply saddened to hear of his passing.
It's like all larger than life people,
You think they will last forever.
Yes, we have to be philosophic,
Or fatalistic,
Or a believer in faith,
And certainly Café, our much beloved Café,
Strutted his hour upon the stage,
And now will be heard no more.
But those still here,
Will remember and ponder,
With thoughts indelibly printed,
Of the man with the cocky baseball cap,
And the backwoodsman's sense of humour,
You've found peace now,
Life's fitful fever has run its course,
And now you can truly join,
A poetic universe.

A dowager summoned her butler with some duress,
“Please Jeeves, come take off my dress,
Take off my petticoat,
Take off my bra.
For I know the man that you really are!
Please take off my panties,” she said with some yearning,
She knew that her butler was discreet and discerning.
“Yes Ma’am,” he answered with respect and with tact,
Finally she said in a language exact,
“Now if you wear my clothes again, you’ll be sacked!”

“I do all that becomes a man….he that does more is none.”

Don’t look for heroes,
I’m not Theseus battling the Minotaur.
Once someone showed me the world,
Of imagination.
I’ve learned I can live there quite happily,
Off with the fairies,
Creating a persona to live by,
Not as grand as Jay Gatsby,
But with the same Romantic vision…perhaps.
I can fly like a drone outside myself,
I can survey the world of ritual,
And instinct and platitudes,
I’m part of it.
Those squizzy moments of rapture,
And the fantasy of dreams.
I’ve placed so much upon them,
While truth has always lurked,
Beneath the illusion.
Often I won’t let it enter.
In the end I am all you think I am,
And nothing,
A creature scuttling and grasping,
And believing and hoping,
As ordinary and as great as everyman.

I know we are all different,
My problem is that I idealise,
That's the Romantic in me,
Thinking that there is perhaps ,
That metaphysical level,
Beyond just shagging.
I don't always connect,
And although it's complete,
For me,
I sense the lack of awe,
In others.
Perhaps it's there for awhile,
And with some it's never there,
It's a strange bedfellow,
That you can be rapt,
Totally involved,
And then whimsically,
No longer flavour of the month.
You can be so close,
And so separate.
I wish someone could explain it to me.

It's logical to believe that we not alone in the Universe,
Wow, how did we get here?
Some would say a divine force (God) created us,
Philosophies emerged,
The ancient Greeks believed in polytheism,
And also a form of reincarnation,
As did the Hindus,
The Vikings had a warrior culture with Thor and Odin,
Judaism had the one God concept,
As did its spin off Christianity,
And of course Islam has the one God concept too.
The Incas had their Sun God.
The concept of a creative force makes sense,
Each culture developed its own philosophy of existence.
They developed a set of moral rules,
Necessary for peaceful coexistence,
All very commendable.
They based it on the known world of their time.
It gave people hope from the disease,
The hardship,
And their transient life.
The world moved on,
We saw the stars and the infinity out there,
We figured out some laws of physics,
But it always stopped at that big question,
Yes but why?
What came before the Big Bang?
What is the purpose of these forces of physics?
And why are we such little, frail creatures,
So curious?
Perhaps the answer is so simple,
We are part of this amazing process,
We have evolved enquiring minds,
As part of our survival.
We want answers,
Some use logic,
Some simple mystical belief,
I’m sure in the end we’ll get there,
But only if we let reason,
And our unique enquiring minds,
Let the universal laws,
Give up their answers.

Once upon a time, there was a handsome prince,
Good looking and ever so kind was he,
One day while out hunting unicorns by chance,
There crying by creek bank, he met an old lady.

Getting off his charger, he asked what ailed her so,
She said she just needed to get back home,
But the creek was swollen and bridges too far to go,
The water cold and muddy just made her moan.

The Prince simply told her to dry her tears now,
He would carry her across most gently,
Though she was as fat and heavy as an old cow,
And smelt quite putrid, incidentally.

Reaching the other side showed his care for another,
She smiled and laughed at his great kindness,
Then she transformed herself to a fairy godmother
And granted him a wish for his noble fineness.

Spying his grand stallion, the Prince made quick recourse,
He asked this strange, mystical godmother fair,
If he could have genitals just like his horse,
The wish granted, she vanished into thin air.

Back at court, the Prince just loved his new gear,
He was besieged by many a lady's endeavour,
But the news of it soon reached the King's ear,
And he too went in search of the fairy godmother.

The King while hunting found an old lady by a creek,
He carried her over and she became godmother, of course,
She asked the King gratefully, what wish he would seek,
And he told her he wanted genitals like his horse.

However, the King had been riding a mare that day,
But it wasn't a complete disaster,
The King and the Prince got married straight away,
And lived happily ever after!

Once upon a Christmas a long time ago,
Santa was getting ready for his annual trip,
But problems began to appear high and low,
It was enough to give even Santa the pip.

Four of Santa’s elves got sick, life can be cruel,
The trainee elves could not produce toys very fast,
So Santa was becoming behind schedule,
And as a result he felt very downcast.

Then Mrs Claus told Santa her mum was coming to stay,
Santa couldn’t stand the whining old biddy,
This stressed Santa even more on this important day,
It made him nauseous and quite giddy.

When Santa went to harness his reindeer, what a mess,
Three were about to give birth and two had jumped the fence,
They were out there somewhere which caused him more distress,
His face grimaced as his body became tense.


When he began to load the sleigh it cracked like a gun,
The toy bag was scattered all over the icy ground,
This Christmas Eve was turning out to be not much fun,
Which was echoed in the sleigh bells’ hollow sound.

Santa needed a drink; his usual apple cider and rum,
But the elves had hidden his liquor and he had nothing to drink,
He began to get frustrated and morbidly glum,
He could see that his career was teetering on the brink.


Then he accidentally dropped his cider pot on the floor,
It broke into a hundred little pieces all over the kitchen,
When he reached for the broom, mice had eaten the end with straw,
It was like some horror story fiction.


But just then when all was doom and gloom, the doorbell rang,
Santa opened it and saw a little angel with a great big tree,
“Merry Christmas…what a lovely day,” the little angel sang,
His face beaming with Christmas spirit so joyous and free.

“I have this beautiful tree for you, where would you like me to stick it?”
He said like a happy queen bee,
Santa without thought knew where it would fit…
Thus began the tradition of the little angel a top the Christmas tree.

A chicken and an egg were lying in bed,
The chicken grinned and moved his head,
He was smoking a cigarette and had a satisfied smile,
The egg in contrast was frowning all the while,
The egg muttered with a forlorn expression,
“Well I guess we answered that old question!”