So when you, my father

So when you, my father

So when you, my father,
come next to pass us by,
ask again if I
would rather find you standing
strong, as once you did
to my childish eye,
with a voice that made me tremble
in both love and fear of failing you.

Or find now forgiveness
in your frailty,
your hard lines softened
by confusion, the indignity
of dependence offered
as absolution
for your judgement of
my different song.

In this there is no choosing.
The exercise of love
exorcises all
but the fear of losing love.
Ask again and you will
find me answerless,
unable to explain
the journey from your public
wrath to your private pain.
Categorized as Poems

Prince in Blue Genes

Prince in Blue Genes

"Prince Charles Fears Genetic Disaster"
(Daily Mail, 17th May 2000)

We read in the paper Prince Charles is dismayed
by science and scientists wrecking the place.
"A bloomin' international disgrace"
he said, then knelt down and prayed.

It's something to do with the way that genetics
are tinkered with, reproducing some freak
reproduction whose nature and chin are too weak
to understand human aesthetics.

One look at his family's history's enough
to tell that a simple genetic disaster
occurred when Queen Vic was spliced by her master,
Prince Albert, all proud, in the buff.

And thus Charlie's mum and Philip the Greek
are both blood relations of Vicky and Bert,
whose seed is widespread among the inert
royal families of Europe's shit creek.

Poor Charles, self deluded, sounds almost ironic
as he preaches on genes and how they morphose.
He is, in his pomp, like a king with no clothes.
We'd cry if it wasn't so comic.

Insane Sonnets

Second Hand Shoes 

After I've sat and mused awhile 
on things I might have seen or missed 
or places that I might have been 
or those I could or not resist, 
I slowly bend to pull the laces 
intertwining with my shoes, 
that have not and have been places 
on some ambling country cruise. 

At times I've caught myself amused 
to think they, sometime in the past, 
clung to someone else's feet 
treading down a distant street. 
And, knowing I'll not be the last, 
take care to see they're not abused. 

It's Not Unknown 

It's not unknown for one to see 
a deer stopped in it's tracks 
or sight a gasping bumble bee 
making sneak attacks 
on brightly coloured pantaloons 
drying in the breeze 
on hot and sunny afternoons 
just right for outdoor teas. 

And it is quite astonishing 
to what lengths we will go 
to shoot the deer and swat the bee 
and raze the pastures low. 
We say the urging comes from lust 
to equalise this dust, with dust.
Categorized as Poems