Both Monty and Simon's poetry out and live

 

Two very different books out today; Monty, the flying mouse, reading level 3.4

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0HJWNP2GY

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HJWNP2GY

and Simon's Cold War Memories, poems and anecdotes

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0HJXCF3CM

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HJXCF3CM

Simon tried his hand at poetry

Our daughter in law shared a book of cold war poetry - mostly blank verse - to us, and Simon reckoned he could do better. I think he did. 

Klaxon, a pantoum 

The howling banshee wail, like living knives 

It stabs the silence, prompting frozen still 

Intruding terror on the peaceful lives 

It is the klaxon, warning of a kill 

 

It stabs the silence, prompting frozen still 

Unnatural calm with panic burning deep 

It is the klaxon, warning of a kill 

The bombs are launched, to bring eternal sleep. 

 

 Unnatural calm, with panic burning deep 

No time for last goodbyes, with minutes four 

The bombs are launched, to bring eternal sleep 

Then stumbling runs for home, for evermore. 

 

No time for last goodbyes, with minutes four: 

The world moves slow, moves fast, comes to a halt; 

The stumbling runs for home, for evermore... .

..Thank God! T’was just a circuit’s fault. 

 

The world moves slow, moves fast, comes to a halt 

One day, we’ll live, and laugh, forget the pain: 

Thank God, t’was just a circuit’s fault... 

But watch the klaxon, lest it goes again. 

 

Ferret driver’s beloved brew [couched as a Sapphic ode] 

On exercise, and battened down 

Where home and family seem so far 

At least we’ve tea to sorrows drown 

In armoured car 

 

 No shower, no shag, no booze, and, too 

Must mind our elbows, room we’ve not: 

But what we have is our great brew

– Tea, piping hot 

 

 We know that it’s another drill, 

Preparedness to act, to fire our shot: 

But still, the frisson of fear’s thrill... 

In case it’s not. 

 

At last, we get the call we want, ‘stand down,’ 

Uncrack the hatch, and suddenly feel free! 

Now, what we need is hot, and wet, and brown

 – A cup of tea! 

 

No Duff Message 

 “This is no duff message,” words that chill 

“This is no duff message – THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”

 Your last meal rises in the throat with bile 

Yet settles heavily, in reaction vile 

 

This is no duff message: frozen shock 

Then moving to our tasks, with feelings blocked: 

Numbly performing in our well-trained tasks 

How do others feel? Nobody ever asks. 

 

I catch the sergeant’s eye; his face is grim 

Two kids, another on the way, for him. 

What kind of world will for them remain? 

If there is a world... he blinks, and frowns again 

 

 This is no duff message. Time seems slow; 

Or, maybe, it speeds up; I do not know. 

And then the message, like a dream so calm: 

“Stand down! Stand down!” it was a false alarm. 

 

The stupid jokes we use to break the jinx; 

“A sparrow farted in Warsaw, near the message links.” 

“Some Russki dropped a fag-end on the ‘all clear,’; 

He shorted it with Vodka, it shorts worse than beer.” 

 

We laugh and horseplay till the sergeant shouts, 

Just a short warning, he knows what’s about. 

To die another day, fates postpone the dread 

And so, we soon forget, go to the mess instead. 

 

there's a few more, I think these represent the spirit of carrying on carrying on, moments of terror, and the slightly forced humour to offset it

Remembrance Sunday

 "They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old. At the going down of the sun, and in the evening, we shall remember them." 

God save the King. 

Slava Ukraini. 

 

Poppies, a villanelle

 

The poppies grow where blood once fell;

Scarlet, their coats in brave array,

Remind us of those years of hell.

 

 Ravaged the scene, where once did dwell

The peaceful farmer day by day;

The poppies grow where blood once fell.

 

Ravaged and torn by shot and shell;

A landscape torn in shades of grey

Remind us of those years of hell

 

And in the church the single bell

Tolling the cost of this affray;

The poppies grow where blood once fell.

 

In hope, for a better world they sell

Young lives, a bitter price to pay;

Remind us of those years of hell.

 

For those too numerous to tell

Respect for sacrifice this day;

The poppies grow where blood once fell

Reminding of those years of hell.

 

 

 

the vanishing lake

 watched a documentary on Loughareema, the vanishing lake - a lake on limestone with a peaty floor, and a sinkhole deep into limestone caverns below which gains a plug of peat, until the runnoff from the granite uplands wash it away and the lake vanishes - until it fills again. Only, being in Ireland, the fae solution seems much realler than scientific truths. 

Loughhareema’s there tonight

In time for midnight revels

And yet, by dawn

‘Twill all be gone

With nought but peaty levels

 

Loughareema’s shining now

And from its portal deep

The Sidhe are here

Through water clear

While mortals shift in sleep

 

Loughhareema floods the pass

The causeway watery now

Keep mortal men

From faerie glen

In quagmire and in slough

 

Loughareema’s gone again

Down to its peaty floor

Their revels spent

All fair folk went

Till it should rise once more.

 

irritating parliament poem

 Cruella Haterman's declaration that being homeless is a lifestyle choice got my goat. And it being Guy Fawkes day... 

Remember, remember

the fifth of November

and raise a pint glass to old Guy

Who'd like to dismember

each moronic Member

and hoist them all into the sky.

for I disremember

that ever an ember

of intellect may be yet found

in any pretender

to Westminster's tenure

whose puerility doth us astound.

sonnet on the dismantling of the soviet symbols on the Ukranian motherland statue.

 The Ukranians decided to raise some figurative fingers at Russia by removing the hammer and sickle from their statue, and it inspired me to write this. I didn't know it was going to be a sonnet when it started out, but it made its choice and shaped itself. 

Sonnet on the Soviet symbols

 

The hammer and the sickle, the symbol of the serf

Who pretend to bring their 'freedoms' to other people's turf

And to spread the worker's hell-hole to bring free people down

To change the happy faces to a universal frown.

 

They spread misery like rubbish, because they cannot bear

To see others who are better off, who laugh out loud, and dare

To enjoy a better lifestyle through their own hard work and toil

So they bring their crushing boot to bear on other people’s soil.

 

The hammer and the sickle, a symbol of the state

It expresses the oppression of a hating, hateful state.

It expresses how the people are hammered into place,

Or scythed off at the knees if they dare discontent’s face.

 

The hammer and the sickle, the goose-stepping  jackboot

Should be consigned to history for freedom to take root.

Parody on the Gilbert and Sullivan nightmare song

 

when you're sitting all night

and do nothing but write

and conclusions don't fit all your findings

you are wracked with the strain

try again and again

not to wrench each book out of its bindings

and you finally fall

through no fault at all

into a strange fugue state of dreaming

where the books which are there

take, like birds, to the air

and across your tired vision are streaming

and you reach for your pen

to begin it again

to fill in the last little notion

but you can't stay awake

and you really must take

some coffee or some stronger potion

and the words fly around

you're surrounded by sound

of their whispers and strange sussuration

until they appear

falling out of each ear

in a most dizzying operation

and you finally weep

and collapse in a heap

and wonder if you  even will  survive

but you get it all down

with a headache and frown

and at last! it is done and you're alive!

 

[apologies to Mr. W.S. Gilbert]

 

Defenestration blues

 Something which occurred to me. Imagine a blues tune to it. Warning; it's coarse.

Defenestration blues

 

Oligarchs of Russian Federation

Got a bad case of Defenestration

If they don’t love Putin and lick his balls

They’re just gonna make some longish falls

 

Ch.

Gotta love Putin, it’s compulsory

Whether you’re a mobik or mercenary

Whether you’re babushka or the top brass

Gotta love Tsar Putin as he fucks your arse

 

It’s not a war, it’s just a special operation

If you forget, another defenestration

The tsar and his propagandists will not blink

When they gonna tell you just what to think

 

 

Ch,

 

Putin says he only wants what’s due his nation

But if you disagree, Defenestration

With the Church of Russia and old Saint Kyrill

Who works for the tsar as his biggest shill

 

Ch.

 

But they won’t stop until exanguination

Of all Ukraine has destroyed the nation

They hate the meaning of the name ‘Cossack’

Freedom is a dirty word to any ork