The Vagrant

Berlin1930s

The Vagrant – WHB …  Pen & Sepia Wash

The Vagrant

Trapped in this
The world’s darkness
Imprisoned with the dead
Penned in this penitentiary
Another life I’ve led

A world unknown surrounds me
And never will unfold
For life exists without me
On such a slender thread I hold

Existence is my penance
My lot
The cross I wear
Nor health
Nor sickness please me
And who is there to care

Caged in perpetuity
Circumscribed by wire
Fettered by well meaning
Yet situation dire

Leave me here to rot
While no one waits my ending
No one guards my cradle
Situation pending

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A Politician’s Thirst For Power

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Members of the British Parliament  are currently throwing their hats into the ring in the hope of becoming the next Tory leader and prime minister. The earlier number of 13 hopeful candidates has now been reduced to eleven.  Perhaps there are more to come, or maybe others will think again and withdraw their names from the list.  The Conservative electorate awaits  .  .  .bar-yellow

 

A Politician’s Thirst For Power

Give me hope and lend me foresight,
I must not wait till it’s too late
Perhaps I might
Join the fight,
Grasp at chance and seal my fate

Please, tell me to refrain from trying, 
Tell me now to stop and think. 
Am I helping, 
Ego-crying, 
Will I take things to the brink? 

Is it time to reconsider, 
Time to stop, not interfere? 
Time to ponder, 
Time to wonder, 
Will my offer cost me dear? 

My party needs me like a headache, 
Yet another cross to bear. 
I’m a chancer, 
Fate enhancer. 
Should I do it, should I dare?

Better not, time’s not quite right, 
. . . To be or not to be?
Don’t take a bet, 
My time’s not yet . . . 
Wait a year or two and see. 

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Let’s Go A-cooarting – A Tykish Tale

Roseberry Topping

THINK TYKE

Risk assessment
Forward planning;
Think ahead
Where you’re ganning.

Trip the Dale
I fancy that.
Today’s assignment
Meet Chop Yat.

Ower the moors
Lyke Wake Walk;
Risks involved,
But let them gawp.

Along the runnel,
Beside the beck.
Could I care less?
What the ‘eck!

Meet up as
Our way we wend
Up Sparrow Lane
Yon far end.

Off to see my bobby dazzler,
Sweet lass o’ mine,
For now and aye
For thee I pine.

Out o’ t’way lad,
Let me pass
Ow do then,
Mi bonnie lass?

Nether nowt nor summat this,
‘Twere thee thissen wot seddit
But now, for real, what’s next is here,
Just lie back and let it.

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  • Tyke (dialect), an English dialect of Northern England spoken in the English county of Yorkshire  (Wikipedia)

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A Time For Laughing

Laughter

A  Time For  Laughing

 

Laughing lasses, Mirthful maids, 
Giggling girls and Merry misses.

    Life is long, Time for laughing,
    Merry moments, Chat and chaffing

 

Joyful jesters, Blissful belles, 
Fun figures and Fierce Friends.

    Life is here, but Time is passing,
    Let’s have fun, Let’s keep laughing.

 

Jolly japes for Blissful babes, 
Jocund jollies and Dizzy days.

    Let us sing and Let us dance, 
    Life is short, Let’s Time enhance. 

 

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Mobile Woes

mobile crossing

Recent Newspaper Image

Mobile Woes

Some people, they will never learn.
You see them there at every turn;
While eyes pop out and fingers burn,
For the next trendy phone they yearn.

Never to them the thought occurred
Just how silly, how absurd;
Shouting to make their voices heard,
Essence of the fervid nerd.

Mobile fastened to their ear,
Showing off their costly gear;
Heedless lemmings without fear,
Only YouTube can they hear.

Unaware of what they tread on,
Constant news is what they’re fed on
By Facebook’s Twitter they are led on
Towards approaching Armageddon.

More of them each passing day,
Keeping the real world at bay.
Intent to have their telling say,
Let the world around decay.

Perhaps it’s me who should be mocked,
As in that on-line world I’m locked. 
For, oh, just how my world is rocked, 
When my access to the net is blocked.

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The  Banksy Sweeper

Tivvy-Banksy

Photo: WHB – 2018    ..  .©

The  Banksy Sweeper

 

The stencilled maid
Had visited
Alley cleanup due;
Her presence felt
The message there
For all who cared to view.

Graffiti or
A work of Art?
Few could say or tell.
Quickly done
Soon be gone
Litter made to sell.

Well-chosen site
A tasty sight
For all to stop and stare;
Banksy signed –
Who really knows?
But many now will care.

 

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This image (above) appeared overnight on the wall of an alley in Tiverton,
Mid-Devon, England, sometime in late 2018.

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ATHENA

Poseidon&Athena-WHB

POSEIDON & ATHENA:  WHB … Pen & Ink, 2019

ATHENA

 

She
Born of male
Warrior Goddess
Meant not to fail

Faced fear
Lord of the Sea
Her major prize
Attica’s key

Poseidon’s trident
Challenged by
Athena’s spear
The stakes so high

But olive tree
Of course
Beat salt spring
And horse

The prize
The city
The winner
No pity

Athens the realm 
Athena’s gain
Poseidon’s loss
To him the pain

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Athena and Poseidon vied for control of Athens and its surrounding territory, Attica. … Poseidon struck the rock with his trident and produced a salt spring or a horse.  

Athena brought forth an olive tree from the ground by the touch of her spear and she was proclaimed the victor.

Cuddy Wifter

person s left hand

Photo by Victor Freitas on Pexels.com

Cuddy wifter

 I’m a southpaw,
But that’s alright;
Ambidextrous?
Well not quite.

Yes, cack-handed,
But I’m cautious;
Sinister, Gauche,
Ambilevous;

Left or right,
Up or down.
Does it worry,
Cause a frown?

I don’t worry
‘Cos I know
With my left hand
How far I throw

Yet some will tip
Their nose and sniff,
Just because
I’m cuddy wiff

 

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Cuddy wifter. A dialect or Old English term, most frequently used in the North East of England to refer to a left-handed person. 

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adult anger art black background

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The Wheel Bed

wheel bed

Tyring Platform or Wheel Bed

The Wheel Bed

The wood-burn tang remains,
purpose chosen
elm, oak and ash,
a pungent memory
burnt into my history;
childhood re-visited.

Metal rim fired,
it’s molten circle
beaten into flaky orange ring,
before,
from the flaming furnace, 
tongs at arms’ length, 
cast iron wrought and shaped, 
the new cart wheel
boldly borne
to the fitting-bed, 
its iron collar
to be burnt into place.

 
Then, 
ice cold water on fiery iron
sizzles, 
splash and spurt, 
heat relayed and remembered, 
felt and smelt, 
rooted in my molten memories.

Cold contracted, 
cooled into the tightest of fits, 
road ready, 
task worthy, 
winter prepared
and good to go. 

Another hole in the farmer’s pocket;
Another meal for the smith’s family;
Another tick of my life’s clock.

The vital wheels of forever – 
wood, iron, fire, water,
turning, as cogs
dependent each on each,
as carter, wheelwright, smith, farmer, 
primitive, elemental, 
part of my story
… and of me.

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Those who are familiar with my previous writing may recall my upbringing as the son of the village blacksmith. As such, I often watched my father, with hammer on anvil, create both large and small tyres of heated iron. I would look on in awe as, on a huge shaped ring of thick iron, the wheel-bed or platform, the iron tyre would be burned on to the wooden rim of a cartwheel, allowing the contraction of the iron on cooling to bind the wheel to the wood of the wheelwright’s frame.  Few such iron-wheeled carts remain in use.

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