War in Heaven

"Hark!" the herald angels trill,

"This Jesus stuff gives us a thrill."

"Hark!" unruly angels call,

"We've settled on a Second Fall."

"Hark!" archangels start to yell,

"We've lots of dogmas here to sell."

"Hark!" more dissident angels squeak,

"Orthodoxy's up the creek."

"Hark!" His loyal angels shout,

"Jehovah one; Dionysus nowt."

"Hark!" some unionized angels croon,

"A new religion's coming soon."

"Hark!" god-fearing angels gloat,

"Believe Him, or we'll cut your throat."

"Hark!" more rebel angels blurt,

"We’ve set up idols in a yurt."

"Hark!" a cunning angel clacks,

"Shove itching powder down their backs."

"Hark!" the itchy angels squawk,

"What eejit's taken us for a walk?"

"Hark!" triumphant angels hoot,

"One more word and you're down the chute."

"Oy!" mouthed God with a baleful hiss,

"It's time I put a stop to this,"

stretched out His Hand and gave a tug,

"That's all creation down the plug."

 

Haiku by Seasons

 

The budding iris
a nip of wind through poplar
I tell you it’s here 

Ducks crash on the lake
widening water-trails glitter
shatter the hot sun

Red gold on the tree
brittle brown on the wood’s floor
Who notes their going?

White flakes on pine boughs
snowdrops draw green to each leaf
shoot through all frail falls

No-Saints’ Night

         
          

          ...And in the blue sky, and in the mind of man:

A motion and a spirit that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still…

                                                    from 'Tintern Abbey' by William Wordsworth

 

You’ve set me here, and no doubt find me frail

because I cannot reach the heights. I’m less than

perfect in your eyes. So be it. I can

do no more; don’t comprehend the scale

on which you work. That vast light blinds; you veil

yourself. Let mystics, then, unclothe you and span

eternity. Do what you will. I’ll scan

the slight horizons here that tell the tale -

those stars, the details of that master plan,

and in the blue sky, and in the mind of man

those normal bits of bright - the lives that wait

for death once they are born. A long night swells

around them as they shoot and fall, excels

the lesser seas that drown them here. It’s fate,

I hear? Oh, really? You’re no fool! Debate

that with yourself, then tell me what compels

you to lie so artfully. It’s what repels

me; we’re trapped by it, but you create

as freely as you will while in you dwells

a motion and a spirit that impels

you forward. Why not us? Wrapped in this caul

of flesh, we are still sparks of you. You taught

us that. These limits you impose are fraught

with hopes and freedom’s dreams, and so I call

you cruel, not paradoxical, to stall

us. What makes you do it? You said you’d brought

an ark with you, but leaving us distraught

and shipwrecked on all shores, you’re off to trawl

for gold. Then finding only that you’ve caught

all thinking things, all objects of all thought,

in those great nets, you play some more, then claim,

my child-God, that you have such goodwill

when catching fish. Not so! As those heaps fill

your hollow holds they heave and thrash. Proclaim

it how you will, they drown in air. One aim

is clear: pain doesn’t trouble you; you kill

because you can, as we do here. You chill

my thoughts, but fully expect that I’ll acclaim

your majesty, the never-peaceful will

that rolls through all things. Therefore am I still.

Cue Triolets

I didn't want to write this thing,

have never written one before.

How do you make it dance and sing?

I didn't want to write this thing,

but it insists. Please, let me wring

its neck. Oh well! You say try more?

I didn't want to write this thing;

have never written one before.

I think I'll write a series now.

You're sure you want some more like this?

O.K. You’ll need to tell me how,

I think. I'll write a few more now

if I can find my wits, then bow

to those who do it well - and hiss!

I think I'll write a series now.

You're sure you want some more like this?

I've just dreamed up another one.

Oh look! You see how good I've got

(and kid on I'm no dimwit Hun).

I've just dreamed up another one

(but will they fall for such a ton

of shite? No way, the poem's rot).

I've just dreamed up another one.

Oh look! You see how good I've got.

Right now, I'm getting very bored

and tap this pencil on my chin.

This rhyme-scheme hasn't struck a chord

right now. I'm getting very bored.

This bloody metre’s got me bloody floored

and all I want's a bloody gin.

Righ' now, 'm gerrin' ver-he bored

n' chap thish penshul on m' shin.

So who dragged up this stupid form?

Its ends keep going round and round

and buzz like bees about to swarm.

So who dragged up this stupid form?

My God! It causes such a storm

a bard could wish it lost, not found.

So who dragged up this stupid form?

Its ends keep going round and round.

 

I’m pooped. I've had enough of these;

am quickly running out of steam

and sick of swatting all those bees.

I’m pooped. I've had enough of these

unsubtle lines; I’m on my knees.

So - lemme out! I wanna scream!

I’m pooped. I've had enough of these,

am quickly running out of steam.

That's it! I've done my time. I'm through,

and won't be writing triolets;

I’ll turn my back on those who do.

That's it! I've done my time. I'm through,

I'm off; am driving down to Kew.

You'll find me eyeing violets.

That's it! I've done my time. I'm through

and won't be writing triolets.

 

Translation

Grey dawn now and the light

still burns by the bed.

Its brightness dies on the wall

while the sun rises behind me,

flared square on the carpet

in its progress across the room.

Sounds from the kitchen absolve me

from making a meal

as your otherwise silence carries

beyond the morning’s murmur

of news and music. The doors

are open. Air translates

the distance between us. Rooms

will divide all day

in the house when sunbeams trail

their slant through dust. The hours

will share their warmth with our work

and tonight the lamp will burn by the bed.