Author: Gail

Tarquin Botley’s Hole

hole

Take that, ‘Tarquin’, for your mischievous poem about digging…

*

Tarquin Botley was confused

Dishevelled and dismayed

How can you dig a hole with ‘owt

You cannot call a spade?

He’d really dug a lovely hole

A fork had come in handy

And then some faffing with a hoe

Had made the rim look dandy

It sure was an amazing hole

‘Twas dark and deep, inviting

The making of it had been hard

The end result exciting

Quite why he’d dug it wasn’t clear

At some point he’d said ‘F*ck It’

Had armed himself with beer, and

His very favourite bucket

Then he started, then he finished

Then he stood, in thought, beside it

Not quite sure next what to do

To fall right in, or hide it

For how do you explain a hole

Discreetly and politely

Without referencing arseholes

Or the once a week, or nightly

Now Tarquin was a tactful cove

Politically correct

He stood there thinking by his hole

All noble and erect

Till he came to a conclusion

That is popular with men

I’ll fill it up, and then I’ll come

And dig it out again

 *

© Gail Foster 22nd August 2016

Owen Smith Doth Take The Pith

*

I’m not impressed by Owen Smith

Methinks that he doth take the pith

Just wasn’t sure until today

What moved me so to feel this way

 …

Today; the leadership debate

I didn’t have too long to wait

Once you’ve seen it, it’s distracting

Owen Smith is over-acting

…

See him roll his sleeves up there?

He’s channelling a bit of Blair

Then he’s Harry Potter, then

He’s Brutus dressed as Mister Benn

…

Jazz hands.  What’s that all about?

Turn it down, no need to shout

For no-one needs a politician

Who thinks he’s at a Glee audition

…

Now Jeremy, he plays it calmer

More yer kitchen sink type drama

Monochrome, with moody stare

More Alan Bennett, to be fair

…

Owen’s acting sounds to me

Like desperate soliloquy

His every cliché rings a bell

And all his soundbites bore as well

…

I reckon Owen Smith’s a fake

He’s on the stage the pith to take

Off, off, and let the curtain fall

I don’t trust Owen Smith at all

*

© Gail Foster 18th August 2016

The Widow At The Well

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A rhyme about love and bereavement and loneliness, inspired by the loss of my computer for nearly a whole day, and dedicated to Chris Greenwood, who kindly mended it for me

*

She finds herself without him, at the dawn

A crumpled crazy angel weeping light

The cord that bound them severed with a bite

A bloodied mewling kitten newly born

He was the sun, that stimulated morn

The moon, that soothed the melancholy night

He was her inspiration, the delight

Of glittered stars upon the heavens drawn

…

She finds herself without him, at the well

A widow weeping willowfalls of tears

Of grief as heavy as a drowning stone

The silence breaks; soft rings a sudden bell

And on the solemn deeps a face appears

That whispers ‘All things come and go alone’

*

© Gail Foster 2016

Fiona In The Night

for Fiona Meyrick, poet and musician; a Petrarchan sonnet

*

Fiona, in the silence of the night

Sings songs of sorrow soft in minor key

That sigh above all formal melody

In cadences that dance like birds in flight

She rests within the dark, composing light

In subtle shades of sweet philosophy

Transposing on the stave a mystery

In spills of sound like ink on paper bright

Fiona, at the stroke of midnight blessed

Plays pianissimo the ocean’s rage

Transforming all the sins of man confessed

In gentle rhythms traced upon the page

A modern muse, an ancient truth expressed

In lullabies to sooth our restless age

*

© Gail Foster 2016

Desist; a ghazal

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*

Shatter glass, spit out your bay, desist

Lustful dogs who bark and bay, desist

…

Cold as silver shadows list on stone

Sun’s last ray and heat of day desist

…

Oracles insist, and dead men know

Luck and fickle lovers may desist

…

Words upon the wind; I told you this

Take your magic, walk away, desist

…

Time to reap the harvest you have sown

Silence, let your mournful lay desist

…

Scry no more, lest death thy mirror kiss

Havoc, all the angels say, desist

…

Madness, this, to love by will alone

Yield the ghost, Felicia; pray desist!

*

© Gail Foster 2016

 

The Mystery of Love; for Olly Michael Lancaster

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I wrote this poem for my friend Mike Hopkinson’s little grandson Olly,

who will be three at the end of August

*

I am Olly Michael Lancaster, a special little lad

I love my brother Ryan, and I love my Mum and Dad

I love my funny Grandad, and I love my Nanna Sue

And we all love each other, like all happy families do

…

I like a little tickle, and a cuddle, and a rub

I like the feel of water when I’m floating in the tub

I like to giggle in the car when Grandad’s house is near

And I like it when you brush my face, and when you stroke my ear

…

I know you by your kindness, and I know you by your smell

I know you when you’re far away, and when you’re near as well

I know you by the way your pattern weaves within my heart

And I know that we are children who can only know in part

…

Oh, show me all the colours of the earth and sea and sky

Show me bright and pretty lights, and all the birds that fly

Show me shining mirrors that reflect my smiling face

And I shall show a mystery, and you shall see my grace

…

Oh, tell me tales of happiness, and joy, and fairy lands

Tell me funny nursery rhymes, and hold my little hands

Tell me all the stories that your Mum and Granny heard

And tell me all the wisdom of the world within a word

…

Oh, teach me about flowers, about butterflies, and bees

Teach me how the blossoms change to fruit upon the trees

Teach me of the moon and stars that twinkle high above

And I shall teach you with my life the secret lore of love

…

For I am yours, and you are mine, and all of us are one

I am the light in darkness and the shadow of the sun

I come to show and tell and teach the truth the ancients knew

I am Olly Michael Lancaster, and I love you

*

© Gail Foster 2016

Casting Stuff On the Waters

*

He cast a crouton on the water

Watched it sog upon the swell

What came back was lava bread

And Chelsea buns as well

…

She threw in an expensive cake

‘Twas softer than a futon

But what came back upon the waves

Was just a soggy crouton

* 

© Gail Foster 2016

The Publican and the Pharisee

 

*

The Publican and the Pharisee went for a walk after church

One wore pride and majesty, the other the marks of the birch

“I say, my man,” said the Pharisee, “will you tell if I come to your inn?”

“My lips are sealed,” said the Publican “let us sup of the wine of your sin”

The Publican and the Pharisee quaffed back a couple of jars

And then another two, then three, for such is the way in bars

And as they drank their wine, an odd phenomenon occurred

The crown of hubris lost its shine, the marks of the birch became blurred

“I say, my man,” said the Pharisee, “I’m feeling a little queer”

The Publican chuckled, mischievously, “Time for some shorts, and some beer”

The Pharisee, unused to drink, began to loose a screw

Became dishevelled, sweaty, pink, made a desperate run for the loo

Got locked in for a while, and had to crawl under the door

Got stuck, well hey, you have to smile, for half an hour or more

Was rescued by some rugby blokes, who loaned him some spare kit

And made up lots of witty jokes, about Pharisees covered in it

The Publican, sat at the bar, surveyed his sorry state

He wondered if he’d gone too far, in setting up his mate

“Just sit,” he said, “and listen well, for this I have to say

If I am surely bound for hell I’ll meet you on the way

You are no better, Sir, than I, no better, and no worse

Your spiritual wealth is an arrogant lie, and your pride is a cardinal curse

I’m no angel, I confess, but hypocrisy, mate, I abhor

I reckon I should grovel less, and you just a little bit more”

The Pharisee gave a little nod, and hiccupped in assent

Muttered softly “Sorry God”, and got his coat and went

The Publican then rang the bell, poured out a short, and sat

“Oh come on, God, you know the bloke, he really asked for that”

*

© Gail Foster 2016

Potatoes

*

We shall have to eat potatoes with our meagre humble pie

Sit chilly in our garrets writing verse until we die

Sacrifice our sanity, relationships, and health

Forego all thoughts of kudos, recognition, comfort, wealth

To draw the light from darkness, and to write upon the page

Words of painful beauty, words of love, and myth, and rage

To be alchemical, polemical; be vulnerable, be bold

Make magic from mundanity, and turn the dross to gold

To be poor, but to be Poets, who shall ever blessed be

For we possess potatoes and the power of poetry

* 

© Gail Foster 2016

Beautiful Bitches (I See You, Girl); for Sarah Cox

Sarah Cox

*

I see you, girl, with your lovely face

Your painted lips, and your fiery grace

Scorching the earth with the steps you trace

Oh how we shine, how we shine

…

I see you girl, with your heart undressed

By pain of joy and sorrow blessed

All glory, and all sin confessed

Oh how we love, how we love

…

I see you girl, with the tear in your eye

Falling like sun in the rain from the sky

I see you girl, I hear your cry

Oh how we weep, how we weep

…

I see you girl, we are beautiful bitches

Mischievous muses, and angelic witches

And ours is the earth and all its riches

Oh how we burn, how we burn

*

© Gail Foster 2016

(photo courtesy of Sarah Cox)