Cries of a Crocodile

I yip and yap,
Yet brood all day,
And look for stupid
Things to say.
I spy and glare
And mutter too,
To find a little
Thing to do.
I do not help,
Just sit and judge
And when they call
I do not budge.
But when I need
A spot of aid
That’s when I see
My groundwork laid -
They sit and laugh
And roll their eyes
And rebut all
My earlier lies
They shrug and sigh
And tut and groan
For when I ask -
They all just moan!
And last I see
The fruit I raised
The rotten core –
All friendships razed.
For now they see
My colours true –
Oh dear God,
What to do?


It’s like a meandering path –
A constant wax and wane.
One day this blazing sun will laugh,
The next will shower pain.

Where soil is seeded
For want to grow
Nurture is needed
Yet droughts are woe.

You sing it song and music too
And books a-plenty –
Your job to do.

Yet life won’t grow
Without a pair
Who, stooping low
Lay joys to bare

And share their glee,
Their smiles so coy
As they see
This life – enjoy!

A sapling lies amongst the grass
And for their part, they do not pass
A thought or worry, no shred of doubt
For all the things that come about.

A drought-called sun that beat-eth down
The storm-clad clouds, their foreign frown,
Or winds that shear and shred and tear
And bring some misery, lay it bare.

No length of labour, or strength of will
Can ward this evil, deadly ill
That destiny can lay-eth bare – 
To survive such storms, now that’s just rare!

So ponder this and ponder loud
But don’t you dwell on every cloud
For most don’t bring a threat of rain
Embrace the toil, don’t fear some pain.

And for your part, remember this
That not all farming delivers bliss,
Or bounty, crop, just withered leaf – 
Such is life, quite the thief.

When you recall the sound of storm
Move to that which yet is warm –
The laughter, love and time well-shared
And that for which you once yet cared.

The Human Thing to Do

Sitting in this garden
I wonder each day anew,
In this world of anguish
The human thing to do.

On Monday morn I’ve shops to tour,
My cooking to pursue
But I see people steal and think of
The human thing to do.

I see their bones quite plainly,
Their eyes and sunken cheeks,
Their hands can move quite deftly,
Avoiding any peeks.

My shopping is all done now,
I wait outside to see
The shop-keep come a-chasing – 
That could have well been me!

I shout and motion over,
The kids now out of sight
And give him a few pounds now –
It gave him quite a fright.

‘But Miss, this is your money’,
And don’t I know it well!
Those kids need it more than I,
That much I can tell.

So off I trot to find them,
The man’s mouth still hung wide
I bring and offer gifts now,
Something to turn the tide.

This was a few years back now,
My instincts were quite true
And oft I think back now
Of that human thing I do.


‘O ye whited sepulchre,
Whose Rosary a mere adornment – 
A jewel, and not for prayer,
You cling to for frigid warmth.

Far more suited are ye
To dine at Pilate’s table
Than utter Jesus’ name
And bear unto him Pyrite,
Not Gold, at that holy stable.

You here, stand witness – 
The pious fraud
Sing hymns and prayers within
While your sins abound abroad.

And ever cherry-pick your apples,
Rather than sit for long and read,
And understand the sacred words,
Rather than your own thoughts heed.

The Meek Shall Inherit

Athena sings a siren's song
Her court above
A dying throng
The shout, the scream, the cry, the groan
The stab, the shear, their acts atone.

The earth a pock-marked,
Marred old drum
Where bodies fall
To Ares' thrum.

An old folk's jig,
They practice here,
Though old men shrink,
Cower. Fear.

The young are able,
Strong and bold
Though new-born ears
Want stories told

Of glory, fortune,
Fame and gold,
Of Sparta's conquests
New, then old

To add to weaver's
Work they seek
And bloodied hands
Foul havoc wreak.

To plant a sigil,
Mark their place
They march for death,
Fast cover space.

The call of void,
Is music sweet
To men who howl,
And cheer and eat

Who march for days
To battle's end
And hallowed gods
Their boons will lend

To fight for honour,
Country, home
They chance their fate - 
Their choice alone

And leave their
Widow wives behind
For fortune's wheel
Remains to grind

Their children's
Little bones to dust
So much for battle,
This death-kissed lust.

It's not the men
Who seek to die
That bare the brunt
Of old man's lie -

It's empty homes
And stalls and schools
Their empty streets
Their silence rules.

The old men spared
They walk these paths
And wheeze and gasp
Amidst their laughs

They dance a jig - 
Though this one's fine
They touch and toe
The sacred line.

They lie and plot
And seek to steal -
Here rolls out now
Old Fortune's wheel.

Fire-Storm Snowfall in Tokyo

The crunch of snow
Recalls me to a familiar scene,
That remind me of purring,
Wooden beams and pillars
Shattering beneath the columns of flame.

The snowflakes, falling, cosy up to wooden silhouettes of houses,
Gigantic housecats tumbling in snow-dune deserts.
They shine under the sun’s mischievous glare.
Pale contrast to the ash-snow that fell before.

That snow spawned black devil-cats
That danced around the wooden buildings.

Their fiery string spooling out into the long night,
Their scratching-post sparks igniting the sky.

These snowflakes bring a different kind of sting,
Biting as viciously as the hot sear of ash.

Unloading soggy clothes,
A watercolour catches my eyes.
The uneven blurred strokes conjure the yowls that poured out from the night.

Pockmark sparks dance behind closed eyelids,
The never-ending flash of white on black canvasses.
These images will never fade.
Burned-brand memories last
Like long-healing claw-mark scars,
The smell of blood not long forgotten.

I still recall the mechanical shrieks that sent the
Thatch-fur roofs into a frightened frenzy –
With so many fire-struck whiskers erupting into flames in the night.

Should Love Be Blind?

Grind my feeble bones to dust! 
My lover’s quarrel must be brought to heel, 
Love need not be born of lust. 
My affections are oft met with sneers of disgust, 
My clueless love I seek to steal. 
Grind my feeble bones to dust. 
Appearances are lauded, a handsome face a must, 
To receive good grace I pray and kneel, 
Love need not be born of lust. 
They ought to close their eyes and trust 
A personality is a far heartier meal, 
Grind my feeble bones to dust. 
My fiery passion and intent robust, 
I prepare myself and harden heart to steel. 
Love need not be born of lust. 
My blood boils and I am content with its ringing peal, 
But I cry out and long for my lover’s sweet, delighted squeal. 
Grind my feeble bones to dust. 
Love need not be born of lust. 

Why Does Granny Cry?

Every time the answer’s a sigh,
A forced smile, a roll of the eyes.
But once they appreciated her fabled pie,
Her stories, kind old heart, books and her time.

Now nobody has a dime to give,
Because they all have “lives to live”.
But Granny remembers even if she forgets
The way her heart swelled when she saw her cute “pets”.

But now her picture frame lies upside-down,
Visits forgotten, her shouts of ‘slow down’!
Have turned to stark silence, her house oh so still
They’d come if they could, she’s sure that they will!

But she is now bound to forget
Just where she has put, or where she last set
Her glasses, her slippers, her joy – 
Her emotions played around with like a damaged toy.

Her lonely abode,
Her family rushing straight past
Her mind bearing this load - 
Too fast for old Granny to catch.

She sits in her chair and weeps,
She tries to remember:
The dreams of past times still do upset her,
She remembers when her family still sent her a letter.
Oh, why did they all just HAVE to forget her?