WILL  I  DO?

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WILL  I  DO?

 

‘Single man with toilet paper seeks woman with hand sanitizer for good clean fun.’

I have paper for the loo
Hand sanitiser too
Now I’m looking for a mate, Will I do?

I have headache pills galore
You will never need for more
Now I’m looking for a mate, Will I do?

I am well stocked up with food,
And I’m always in the mood,
Now I’m looking for a mate, Will I do?

I have wads and wads of money
I’d give you all you need, my honey,
Now I’m looking for a mate, Will I do?

I have the newest mobile phones
All the latest fads and clones
Now I’m looking for a mate, Will I do?

I’ve a sumptuous country mansion
And I’m craving for expansion,
Now I’m looking for a mate, Will I do?

So if you too are looking,
And especially good at cooking
Then I’m your man, yes I’m your man, Will I do?

 

©  …..  WHB

 

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Prufrock On Lockdown

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Prufrock On Lockdown

Today drags its pale length
as does the serpent
slow, stately, watchful
a day like any other
the day that follows yesterday
always preceding tomorrow
like a tedious argument

Unplanned
both shy of work
and play bereft
hot-desking
and agile-working
not working for me
my day now
structured by eating
measured by meals
by  medication
by those forever coffee spoons

Nothing planned
so nothing to regret
meaningless moments
with nothing arranged
only possibilities are exciting
the five o’clock briefing
another dose of dead antiques
another bargain hunted down
one more home under the hammer
another escape to the country
to the chateau or the sun
but from my armchair
escape is no longer an option
glimpsed desires unfulfilled
and not a matter of money

The seaside too
still  eludes me
retaining its magnetism
but with the pull of the tide
unable to reach me
The Lakes a mirage in my memory
a Prelude taught to feel,
perhaps too much,
the self-sufficing power of solitude
but this solitude no longer blissful

It now descends
the yellow fog
obscuring the future
taking with it the meaning of my days
rubbing its back against the window panes
of this my settled cell
licking it’s tongue
into the corners
of my every uneventful evening.

my every desultory day

So please release me
let me go
I’m being driven potty
Let me
disturb the universe
please do beam me up Scotty

Not quite yet insane
please let me live again

 

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NOTE:  Readers may recognise certain phrases repeated
 from the poetic works of Wordsworth and T.S.Eliot, plus an echo from ‘Star Trek’.

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Are your dreams like my dreams?

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Are your dreams like my dreams?

 

Are your dreams like my dreams, elusive,
With never a clear-cut start;
Are your dreams like mine, inconclusive,
At the end do they just fall apart?

Are your dreams like my dreams, so vague,
Do they mix up the people you know;
Are your dreams like my dreams, opaque,
Are the sites so unclear where you go?

Are you ever en route to a party,
One where you’re desperate to be,
But one that you never can get to,
A permanent absentee?

Are you anxious to find you way home,
Lost and looking for aid,
Or unable to find a companion,
Delayed, dismayed, and afraid?

For me, dreams are never a pathway
To content, to pleasure and bliss;
They never do end in contentment,
Never that satisfied kiss.

 

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PROUD  PROW

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‘Thames canal boat’ …..     Photo – WHB  2019   ©

PROUD  PROW

Not quite
the chair she sat in
the burnished gold
Of its throne
proud prow

so prominent

promising power
and privilege
but
nevertheless
a statement
burned on the water
of its thames-side berth

a metaphor
proudly protesting
the humility of
being ordinary
of being old
yet proud with
the magnificence of age
the decadence of time
the innocence of resurrection

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NOTE:   T.S.Eliot, in his poem, ‘The Waste Land’ (Lines 77-79:  Part II. A Game of Chess) quotes Enorbarbus, who, inAct II, Scene 2 of Shakespeare’s tragedy ‘Antony and Cleopatra’ describes Cleopatra’s royal barge as it appeared when she first pursued Marc Antony:’The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, Burned in the water. The poop was beaten gold.’

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‘Thames canal boat’ …..     Photo – WHB  2019   ©

 

The Cough With A Rattle

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The Cough With A Rattle

An old hooker who lived in Seattle
Developed a cough with a rattle;
Yes, she had caught a chill
And began feeling ill,
And felt she was losing the battle.

So she took herself off to the docs,
Who gave her the worst of all shocks.
When he said to her, “Dear,
it would seem to appear,
You’ve contracted a dose of the pox.

If you don’t want soon to be dead,
I suggest you spend less time in bed.
It’s all much too risky,
So when you feel frisky,
Take one of these tablets Instead.

 

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Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Pastiche #3

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Each day this week I am publishing a short 4-line verse, each one commencing with a well-known line, sometimes adapted to suit the context, from a renowned published poem.  The general theme is that of Isolation.

 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Pastiche #3

( ‘The Ancient Mariner’ by Samuel Taylor Coleridge )

 

Alone, alone, all all alone

Alone in my tiny room

When, oh when, I ask myself

Will normal life resume?

 

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T. S. Eliot: Pastiche #2

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Each day this week I am publishing a short 4-line verse, each one commencing with a well-known line, sometimes adapted to suit the context, from a renowned published poem.  The general theme is that of Isolation.

( ‘April is the cruelest month’ From ‘The Waste Land by T.S.Eliot )

On T. S. Eliot: Pastiche #2

 

April is the cruellest month

But I’m glad that I’m alive.

I tell myself I’m fit and fine,

You’d never guess I’m eighty-five.

 

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A – G – M

photo of elderly man walking on pavement

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A – G – M

I met a dear old friend
Whose time I knew was fleeting;

He looked so frail and wan,
I asked how he was keeping.

He said he was ‘A-G-M‘,
A strange and quirky word,
In fact I thought it odd
And really quite absurd.

I asked him what he meant.
He said “Because I’m old,
And glad to be alive
I think you should be told …”

That I am still quite fit,
Not ready yet for disposal,
Still stepping out and free,
Above the Ground and Mobile.’

 

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ANOTHER  YEAR

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‘Icarus’ … Pen & Wash – WHB – 2020   ©

ANOTHER  YEAR

Another year older
and
against time’s odds
deeper in love –
with life
with living
with a fervid
lust for existence

I want to feel
feel fast
feel free
to fly above my waning world
to feel what Adam felt
when first
he faltered
and fell
feel that Icarus moment
that experienced joy
that knowledge gain
that original lesson
singed
tinged
with both
joy and regret

I fear
I am led
to disregard
inhibitions shackles
and give hedonism
its brazen head

Desire
becomes the imperative
Desire
given to us
to ensure our continued existence
Desire
without which
no history would exist
and all would be
the futility
of Dreamland

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Coffin of Iron

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Photo:  WHB – Somerset, 2019   ©

COFFIN  OF IRON

He had died of his wrinkles
Liver spots and age lines
Gnarled and creviced skin
Dusted and singed
By his Lifetime’s fevered furnace
His lungs smoke-charred
Legacy of a thousand undoused fires

As old as the hills he trod
As the bubbling beck he bled
I see six stalwart pall bearers
Hard as ancient twisted nails
Arise from their bed of iron
Raise the dead-weight anvil
His final ferrous coffin
To shoulder height
Begin a steady passage
Through the leaden winter streets
Beneath those snow-clad Northern Hills
Their shrouded clouded sky
Seemingly forever draped
Atop the silent iron tomb

Carried through the dark gate
To its final resting place
Fitting memorial to a smith’s life
Gifted again to the ironstone earth

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In memoriam: Harold Booth, Yorkshire blacksmith & farrier; 1909 – 1987

From a son to his father

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