September’s Promise: Two Haiku

September tells me
As its green  leaves turn to gold
Spring will come again

 

The greens of Summer
Give way to Autumn’s bright golds
Promising the Spring

 

 

PROUD PROW

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

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

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.’

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

 

Trump – On Being Honest

TRUMP – ON BEING HONEST 

I am the genie of your lamp
Beloved of the twitterati,
Saviour of the western world
And the Republican Party.

My daily newscast you may not cherish
But someday soon you will
For I’m a genius born to last
A deep down thinker – for good or ill

So please believe my apophthegms,
All that I have to you told,
But you will remember if you’re wise.
All that’s twittered is not gold.

Three Condensed Fairy Tales

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD

Never visit your dear old nan
Without a brave wood-cutting man,
For when she smiles and shows her teeth
You’ll find that sly old wolf beneath;
But your woodcutter he’ll protect you,
He’ll tear that mask off and will axe him,
He will not pause to even ask ‘im
What he’s doing in your nan’s nightie;
Transvestite wolves are most unsightly.

 

 

GOLDILOCKS AND THE THREE BEARS

 Goldie trespassed in the Three Bear’s house,
Thinking “I’ll be quiet as a meadow mouse.”
She sampled all the porridge she found,
Then had a quiet snoop around.
Three chairs, three beds, she sampled all;
Soon fell asleep, curled up so small.
The bears returned, the baby bawled,
At all the damage they were appalled.
Goldie awoke, she screamed in pain,
And never saw those bears again.

 

 

RUMPELSTILTSKIN

Her father boasted to the king,
His daughter was so gifted
That she could spin the meanest straw
To make gold unassisted.

But this she clearly could not do,
Until a dwarf agreed
To help her if she’d give her word
Her baby to him to concede.

This she woefully had to do
To keep her father’s word.
So sad she was and out of sorts,
As the love within her stirred.

The only way to recover her child,
The dwarf then to her said,
Was to find out what his true name was,
Thus stem the tears she shed.

She travelled far, she travelled wide,
Seeking his name to find,
But every name she tried was wrong,
No one could ease her mind.

Until she heard a voice one night
Within a woodland glade.
“Rumplestiltskin, that I am”,
It sang while music played.

Indeed it was her little man,
Rejoicing in his glory,
To think that he had won his prize
And thus would end this story.

But he’d been rumbled in his pride;
Of justice – no miscarriage,
For she had got her baby back,
And the King’s rich hand in marriage.

Illustrations: By WHB . . . Pen & Ink – January 2018   ©