A Pretty Kettle of Poetry

More stupid ideas than a brain drain,
there’s a massive mind the gap side of the brain
that turns into a brain-dead blob
with a boasting mouth bigger than a gob.

Thick as a plank on four legs
and a pinball brain rattling inside a wooden skull,
each one of them beggars belief begs,
sleeping like a log brainwave dull.

A tree clearly more than ‘just a tree.’
but their splintered little eyes couldn’t see
beyond their Pinocchio noses full of little sap lies
with one chopping the other one down with mindless alibis.

Nature regenerates like annual rings and there’s hope
something good will come out of such a rootless human act.
But for now, this poem ends with a big compassionate nope:
Would love the judge to become a hanging one and hang them from ‘just a tree’.

Yep, nope, that’s not the jury member or even human being I aspire to be
and I’m the first to say sorry
if I’ve cracked.
That sycamore gap tree is obviously much bigger than I could ever be.

Garden birds are dying out. So, get out while you can.
Because, one day, wood pigeons and the like will be gone.
Those mornings when you woke up to a dawn chorus.
Those small hours when you rolled home flapping and dying of thirst.

You live for poetry and music and art
but you can’t rhyme or sing or paint for toffee.
It hardly crosses my mind how long we’ve been apart
but there’s hardly a day when I don’t think about you and me.

So, this is the message of this poem or song or painting.
Know you’re going to die when the birds won’t sing.
Make the most of a nightingale or sparrow or thrush.
‘Cos once they’re gone, there’s a dark silent rush.

Meak, weak, sleek, antique, chic voice.
Rebellious, zealous, jealous, go on tell us voice.
Gruff, rough, tough, huff huff, enough voice.
Singing, bringing, swinging, winging it, clinging voice.

Sensitive, last breath to live, all to give, memory like a sieve voice.
Loud, proud, shroud, howled, cowed, bowed, wowed voice.
Cold, bold, sold, doled, goaled, coaled, moled, grassy knolled, being told, holed voice.
Silent, pent up, sent off, off we went, spent, lent voice.

Up ended, fended, tended, never ended, mended voice.
Exuberant, jubilant, giant, tyrant, infant voice.
Who’s who, chew crew, melted, pelted, belted voice.
Orgasmic, psychic, psychiatric, give it a kick, looking at a brick, tick tick tick voice.

Taking, waking, faking, shaking, breaking voice.
Milking it, lilting, wilting voice.
Fading, jading, cascading, stayed in, cut-blading, masquerading, raiding, intimating voice.
Forgetful, hateful, hopeful, wonderful voice.

I’ve been looking at
smoke and mirrors around me.
How the shadow of death marches
towards a front in its folly
as ghosts of the gone cry.

One-eyed war monger mongrels
bay for blood and an eye for an eye
ripping open flesh and bone shells
under a torrent of bullet tears that cry.

It’s late and dark and not long to go.
Sniper kids with toy rifles at the window.
Adults running for their lives in a perpetual circle.
Gagged hostages vow vengeance and hum a battle cry.

I wait for my world to go round
after ages being flat.
With people far away, nature has a field day.
Seagulls raid empty squares vying with rubbish-rummaging rats.

I wonder if the after-world will catch
my last words.
Whether seeing ‘They’re after you’ being graffitied on my four walls
is a sign of paranoia or just a tendency to talk to birds.

Auspicious stars meeting on Orange Grove
prove a self-fulfilling prophesy mum right.
Everything falls into place shattering and unearthing a treasure trove
as records soar and lovers string each along with relationship kites.

If they steal it from you, it must have been worth stealing.
On Orange Grove, your bells are peeling.
How many times did you play dumb
and wake up wrecked to good Sunday morning weekend wisdom?

So, there you go again saying you want your freedom
plays on your turntable tongue.
Get the words wrong as much as you like as you rove
but make sure they make sense back on Orange Grove.

Gargoyle-tantrum quarrellers
square up as teeny-weeny warriors;
Bawl, bawl, bawl
The tears won’t work.

Dumped, and left to rot on the sofa
by the biggest dumpster your love could muster;
Blubber, blubber, blubber
The tears won’t work.

So, you didn’t get promoted
bursting with hurt pride and eyes bloated;
Snivel, snivel, snivel
The tears won’t work.

Whiling away a while in your drawing-pin head
not cut out for scissor pain in your ward bed;
Wail, wail, wail
The tears won’t work.

Proud parents smile overlooking
their children singing back lyrics learnt by heart.
Got past mistakes set up for the future selling out and overbooking
as kids sign the dotted line to a recording contract that will make them falling rising stars.

After a few spills’n’thrills
the game ended goalless
with flickering frozen action stills
of baggy-shorted 19th century defenders parking the omnibus.

No one but her gets it.
No one but her knows what I mean, really.
No one but her would laugh in fits.
No one but her would I even tell it to, see?

Got something special together
as the world upside down goes on spinning its bad vibes.
Keep ourselves raining in bad weather.
Keep ourselves keeping it nasty to jeering jibes.

No one but her knows her minimum
No one but her knows a white rabbit.
No one but her knows why ‘That joke isn’t funny anymore” is a song to be sung.
No one but her meant every whispered word just a little bit.