The UK Chancellor of the Exchequer has just pronounced on the future of the country in times when the majority of the population find themselves in considerably strained financial circumstances . Perhaps a few thoughts occasioned by a reading which I quote from from: ‘The Funny Side – 101 Humorous Poems’ – edited with an introduction by Wendy Cope, will strike a chord with many of us . . .
It is from the American poet, Richard Willard Armour (July 15, 1906 – February 28, 1989)
That money talks
I won’t deny.
I heard it once,
It said, “Goodbye”.
Richard Armour also once wrote: . . . “Politics, it seems to me, for years, or all too long, has been concerned with right or left instead of right or wrong.“
The fireworks and bonfires just serve to remind me
Of bombs and incendiaries, of the carnage to see,
Of the fear and the doubts, but the knowledge of duty
To do what they must to perpetuate beauty.
The beauty of freedom, of lives without limits,
Not theirs for the taking, nor lasting but minutes,
But those back at home who are counting on honour
To see the boys through, until they’re a goner.
Some came home broken, wounded and battered,
Wondering if everything was worth it or mattered.
Too quickly their country forgot what they did,
No support for de-briefing, no reward, God forbid!
They did it for duty, for love of their country,
For the King (or the Queen) to put it quite bluntly,
For a future of peace, tranquillity and love,
But the future of them was in heaven above.
Their light was snuffed out on the earth down below
But their life we shall honour as the stars above glow
They shall live in our hearts and our minds here on earth
As November comes round to provide a new birth.
I don’t hate November; I hate that it hurts me.
They gave up their lives for our freedom you see,
But my hurt is as nothing compared to their war.
My heart’s full of love, for the young men, who gave all.
This poem was composed by, and published with the permission of, Caroline Miller-Tate, whilst contemplating the significance of our memories engendered during this year’s Remembrance weekend period . . . “At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them”
I have a book, passed down to my wife from her father and his father before him, with the title of ‘ILLUSTRATED ANECDOTES and PITHY PIECES’. It was published in 1874 and which, of course, contains just what the title describes – well, the Victorian idea of such things!
I am reproducing a scanned image of one of the entries which plays with words in rhyming couplets, as I often like to do in my own verses. (Not sure about the attempt to rhyme ‘faith’ with ‘death’ though!). Amusing and educational aphorisms, life-enhancing even, and very PITHY !!!
Street in a Surrey, England . . . Photo – WHB 2017
A SIGN TOO FAR
I was walking down the road the other day When they met me coming up the other way
I knew not what to do Not an inkling, not a clue
Should I walk on and ignore them Should I beg them and implore them
Not to shriek at me so loudly Not to chastise me so soundly
Just to get out of my way Let me get on with my day
I really do not wish to buy I was only passing by
# # #
Nor do I feel the urge to hire A sander or electric fire
Nor will I get an instant thrill If I just hire a power drill
I surely do not need a sign To advertise what’s still is mine
I’ve already got more than a few So they will really have to do
Nor do I need to learn to drive I’d rather walk and stay alive
I’ll not describe the fine details But I don’t need polish for my nails
I reckon I’m a beauty too Stick your cosmetics down the loo
My laundry is for private use I don’t subject it to abuse
And as for washing all my smalls I’d rather use Niagara Falls
My house is not for sale just yet Say any more – I’ll get upset
And as for gas, my need’s not great My house is all electric, mate
# # #
To be attacked by signs is bad It leaves me feeling very sad That my main street has reached the stage When just to earn a living wage These shops must now our street deface By planting signs in every place Leaving me so little space I think I’m in an obstacle race
Suicide on a whim is not unheard of but few such perpetrators live to tell the tale
one such rescued from his indecision by the Gardai lived through his trauma sweet Liffey run softly while I tell the story
distraught by his gambling debts and the drinking his only way to a conclusion seemed to him to be voluntary self-inflicted euthanasia yes he thought that he wanted to die half-determined part irresolute
in a single moment of wavering he had jumped just fell perhaps but the fear and the cold water soon hit him hit harder than the twenty foot drop
an instinctive cry escaped him you could call it a change of mind his cry for help was a second thought an unintended consequence of his half-hearted conviction
and now he was held grasped in a rescue bid
but did he wish to be salvaged to be pleaded with would that bring him the closure he craved attention unwanted
but secured attention secured but unwanted
and still he could not let go the ladder his passport to life a life he did not desire could he bear to go there yet again to continue victim to more pain to yet more anguish
but temporary chagrin is no killer his cri de coeur answered his indecision thwarted
is it heads or tails is it stay or go is life’s hurt greater than death’s pain is future shame worse than eternity’s opprobrium
we will never know the prognosis I suspect he is still amongst us ever indecisive a suitor for attention defaulting on his debts not stopping at three pints one of life’s protean chancers
“ . . . A Robin Redbreast in a Cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage. A dove house fill’d with doves and pigeons Shudders Hell thro’ all its regions. A Dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate Predicts the ruin of the State. A Horse misus’d upon the Road Calls to Heaven for Human blood. Each outcry of the hunted Hare A fiber from the Brain does tear . . . ”
Roland's Ragbag 