Alex Lascelles had a twinkle in her eye and one of the most powerful reading voices I have ever heard; her funeral is being held this Friday, at the church of St. John the Baptist in Devizes, at 2.45pm. Rest in peace, lady.
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When Alex Lascelles
Did the readings at church
Her deep ancient voice
Like a dignified drum
Sounded like God
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by Gail
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The All Blacks, man, are they for real?
They’re faster than the speed of light
Don’t blink, you’ll miss them, they’re surreal
I’m awake, not dreaming, right?
They just left the French for dead
They’re faster than the speed of sound
Eyes in the back of every head
Feet that fly above the ground
What power, what fitness, what on earth
Possesses men to be that fine
What strange goddess gave them birth
What discipline keeps them in line
I sit here gobsmacked, oh my days
I understand now, here’s the crack;
The All Blacks move in mysterious ways
Dark Gods of rugby blessed, in black
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by Gail
We have said farewell to David
How we wish he had been there
To see how much we loved the s*d
And how we did our hair
He would have loved the eulogy
In which he got a mention
For David always loved to be
The centre of attention
He would have liked the humour
Had a hanky for the tears
Been astounded at the love he had
To show for all his years
He would have wept to see us weeping
Would have made a funny joke
Not one much for nonsense
A ‘geezer’ sort of bloke
A man who worked with chemistry
Who painted and played chess
Who liked music and black humour
And admired a pretty dress
Two different lives, three families
So many made the trip
From different worlds, from far away
His blood, his fellowship
He would have loved the readings
Would have looked well to this day
And nodded at Corinthians
In a wise and knowing way
He would have said “Look after Margaret”
And run after Michelle
Then winked at Dick and hugged his son
And others he knew well
I thought I saw him in the corner
Saw him sitting in a chair
Serenity personified
For just a moment there
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He really loved ‘Jerusalem’
We sang that b*gger loud
My God, we scrubbed up bl**dy well
And did the b*gger proud
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by Gail
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I drink because I am depressed
Mate, pour yourself this thought to think
And sip on it throughout the day
Did daylight always turn to grey
Is joy within an ice cube chink
Since when was love so far away
So near the edge of some dark brink
Your tears wet your quivered lip
It’s your life, who am I to say
That grief is in that glass you sip
So wet with tears you’ve lost your grip
Stop weeping for the missing link
And look at it a different way
I’ll pour you this thought, if I may
Could it be, Mate, do you think
That you’re depressed
Because you drink?
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by Gail
I wrote this poem for Hayley, a homeless girl who apprehended a villain who viciously mugged an old lady in my home town. There is a link to the newspaper article beneath the poem
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The word on the street is that Hayley done good
A considerable feat for the girl from the wood
She caught him, she taught him, that crime doesn’t pay
She sought him, she fought him, he got put away
There are good folk and bad folk, it’s not always clear
Some folk have a toke, and drink buckets of beer
But at mugging and stabbing, this girl draws a line
She witnessed the grabbing, gave chase, and done fine
So think twice when you say that someone is a zero
Today, doff your hat, because Hayley’s a hero
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by Gail
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The following rhyme contains sexual references
It was written in response to a provocative post in an online writers’ group
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You took a break from masturbation
To indulge in provocation
Badly judged, son, what bad luck
For most of us don’t give a f*ck
Now that you’ve expressed your issues
Best clean up with man sized tissues
We’re writers, kid, we’re hard as nails
Pointless posts and epic fails
Provide our mills with grist to write
For we make gold dust out of sh*te
So thanks for your ejaculate
If you were hoping for some hate
You’ll get some now, so good for you
You’ll get some love and humour too
And feedback and some cyber hugging
…
Have you logged off now?
Bet you’re tugging…
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by Gail
for Ian Diddams, and my Dad
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So what’s the crack with rugby?
My father used to play
He’d come home with an injury
Every other day
My mother used to worry
He was quite deaf to her fears
Her futile protestations fell
On cauliflower ears
Oh so many broken bones
As trophies he would wear
Those would be the only times
I heard my mother swear
My father didn’t drink much
He didn’t do the pub
But he’d sink some with the other lads
In the rugby club
He had a book of rugby songs
Some of them were crude
Dinah, Dinah, show us yer leg
And other ones more rude
A weird way to learn about
Sex and funny stuff
Sex ed in the seventies
Was really pretty rough
Now I watch a rugby game
And find the blokes quite hot
Got to love a massive thigh
And firmly muscled bott
Oh how they thunder up the pitch
And grunt and sweat and shout
Got to love testosterone
It’s what it’s all about
Never mind the odd shaped ball
Shape doesn’t make me frown
It’s how they chuck the thing that counts
And how they smack it down
The scrum’s a thing to marvel at
A tad homo erotic
What if someone breaks their neck
Not sport for the neurotic
And then there is the line dancing
And shouting things in code
Like massive noisy warriors
With faces streaked with woad
Not partial to the gumshields
I suppose they save the grief
Of ruining a toothpaste smile
And choking on the teeth
The thing I don’t quite understand
Is how they pass the ball
What’s the crack with backwards?
I don’t get that at all
I’m a girl who loves a tryer
It’s hardly a perversion
It just don’t get more exciting
Than a finely placed conversion
Snorting mist like horses
Hot blokes running free
Imagine the baths afterwards
Oh it’s all too much for me
I have memories of autumn
Fields all churned up with mud
My Dad and Son played rugby
There’s some rugby in my blood
So, here’s my final word on this
Rugby’s hot, but makes me sad
For when I think of rugby
It reminds me of my Dad
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Love you, Dad
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by Gail
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strange poets never cease but to amaze
with words describing things we had forgot
or never knew to start with; who knows what
may move another poet’s muse to phrase
the simply indescribable in rhyme
within a string of sentences enshrine
the essence of complexity sublime
with every word a jewel within a line
strange poets see things hidden in the light
and force the formless mist within to matter
express the indefinable and flatter
dead love to life and nothingness to sight;
by use of sense and symbol and the will
they stir to movement that which once was still
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by Gail
for him
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wafts of smoke and apples
custard, autumn, damp, decay
forgotten roses over blown
black berries blet away
rubber hot on tarmac
methane, lactose, chips and fires
smears of leaves of shedding trees
made ghosts beneath his tyres
the thrust, the thrill, the shuddering
sensation of vibration
illegal speed, adrenaline
such dangerous elation
accelerating recklessness
in swerve, in weave, in chase
catching breath and missing beats
defying time and space
the fear of death, of love, of life
a shadow’s blink, a distant call
my lover has a nose for speed
and I am in my lover’s thrall
what madness is this motorbike
this dark and risky wild delight
unworldly joy, insanity
mortality in flight
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by Gail
Obscuring the moon
A veil of rose and ashes
Fades and overwhelms
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Memory of light
Lost imprint of blossom bloom
Imperceptible
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Through black spaces move
Things unearthly and unseen
Stirring the shadows
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Earth falls to silence
Darkness comprehending not
What may yet become
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by Gail
gailfromdevizes 