In Romantic Town
Everyone’s true.
In Romantic Town
It’s easy saying I Love You.
In Romantic Town
Everyone marries.
In Romantic Town
There are flowers and trees.
In Romantic Town
Nothing ends.
In Romantic Town
You don’t split up or stay friends.
In Romantic Town
You have kids.
In Romantic Town
Lullabies close eyelids.
In Romantic Town
You have a soul mate.
In Romantic Town
There’s no hate.
In Romantic Town
Everyone wants to live.
In Romantic Town
What you wouldn’t give.
When, as an offspring,
You watched Zebedee bounce in,
Your Adam’s apple used to be a yo-yo
Laughing along to The Basil Brush Show.
Now, there’s a generation gap between
What you are and what you’ve been.
Although, as an adult,
You still take aim with your child’s catapult;
When, for example, office bullies in their company ties
Pick on you, having nicknamed you four-eyes,
Wearing your plastic pair of rose-tinted specs
With lenses made of playground perspex.
Getting told off for being a daydreamer
It’s only that you’re a wishful thinker.
So, you call it a day; Time for bed!.
As that early gogglebox killjoy habitually said.
The chrisom is placed around my head.
The midwife to charm me. The pastor to bless our family bed.
Has the wheel turned in my favour?
Is happiness foretold by the fortune-teller?
My Catholic fingers in font-water.
Ale in the alehouse makes better my humours.
Poachers and apothecaries rest in the tavern.
Drinking, adversities are briefly forgotten.
Move the moon towards my sad rosary.
Will the harvest heed us? How ought i to see?
Providence and promises haunt our village church.
Spectre-eyed priests, in the pulpit, watch.
Does the lantern, tonight, mourn our loss?
As merry as Mary by the cross.
Otherwise, there are street-acts to sorcer
With contentment, almost, in the tricks of the conjurer.
My lonely desires are as lonely as me.
Merchants, elsewhere, mundanely make money.
Mournful Hamlet phones the Samaritans.
Have i my horoscope? Is this my talisman?
I am a peasant with peasant blood.
My simple plough for prosperous earth.
Drink a keg to life-long love.
Then scatter my ashes in the pub.
“Next to mine own shippe I do most love
That old “shippe” in Exon, a tavern in St. Martin’s Lane.” (Francis Drake, 1587)
Sir Francis Drake supped
With sixteenth century swank
As his naval ship-mates tottered with rum-tots
On oaken floor-boards, walking the plank.
I wonder whether he boozed harder
As his Elizabethan world view blurred;
Head spinning, he spun the one about the Armada,
Slurring the Spanish as his English words slurred.
A Very Important Pirate, he autographed beer-mats
For West Country folk, his Exeter fans
As in his favourite watering hole, he happily spat
Making merry in Merry England.
Meanwhile, having had no success with the weaker vessel,
His crew poured out of the tap-bar, lamenting Hello me Hearty!
Having had their melancholic fill
They set off to drown their Tudor sorrows at sea.
Hunchbacks give hunchback rides
round la fontana dei matti
as round the cloisters st francis goes batty
talking to birds of the feathered variety.
You can easily vanish off the face of the earth
where you’re lucky to be born with your date of birth;
godfearers in umbria in unforeseen trouble
get gobbled up by earthquake rubble.
Gargoyles at the churchside
come a poor second in the village’s annual gurning contest
to your neighbours, gap-toothed and goyaesque,
pulling faces that knock spots off the rest.
From their hovel next door you hear one of them sneeze
as rats race round forcing the working population to its knees;
the whole continent in sepia, and a plague painting each town red
you hang on to your dear ones, and bring out your dead.
tomorrow morning you’ll get;
an e-mail in your mail-box a pigeon at your sill
a letter through your letter-box a fax on your fax
a memo on your desk an arrow to your tree
an SMS on your mobile a brick through your window
flowers at your door as overhead you’ll see
a private plane with a banner trailing
all with the same message;
was our losing touch written in the stars?
Cheeriness and depths of doom cavort
In the same tavern.
Brains distil any thought
That heads might turn.
If I really have to live my life alone
I’d rather not see anyone.
They can all come out to pay their respects
Just seconds before the referee blows another 90 minutes.
Darkness is very black
with eyes open or closed.
100 years after an attack
where dead men marching wearily dozed.
You’re going to have to take that back
or else there’ll be hell to pay!
You’re going to have to take that back!
It misfires and could blow your head off one day!
Ah, sod this for a game of soldiers. Let’s turn back!
Let’s shine up our buttons for a parade
and line up for the final push or massive big button whack!
Kids, learn history by heart ‘cos memories fade.
Illustration;
My blog with original poems, illustrations and songs was put in at number 16 of Top 100 Poetry Blogs at https://blog.feedspot.com/poetry_blogs/ in December 2019.
Why? Feedspot explain;
“Feedspot editorial team extensively searched on Google and social media websites to find the best Poetry blogs and ranked them based on several factors such as.
And if you keep posting quality content regularly and get more shares on social sites, your rank will improve with time for sure.”
Will do. Very proud to know my work is appreciated.
