I love this site with its variety and talent. I enjoy historical sagas, nonsense rhyme and hate injustice. I have one song! at: Authored Our Little Green Book of Children's Verse, Edinburgh Fringe 2010 and Buxton Fringe 2011 and occ. published poems but mainly non-poet author. Usually to be found in a field.
APPLE POWER. Swathes of ripening grass and corn Yellow in summers’ shiny sun, Where thicket-thick thighs ache Across crow- flocked meadows. Tramping over salt-skinned ditches, Feet swollen like buds to bursting, Horizons map the long trail. Dry lips park the parched tongue, The stomach churns, Hot hunger thins the day. No apples. Lone ash and chestnut boldly dot the fields, Hedgerows dash thin the boundaries, Like road markings…. And on the distant motorway the blue signs Signal water and bridges. Cars speed past down ribbon rivers, Where cherry trees stack the central reservation, Dropping cherries through the sun roofs. Men At Work are planting orchards, Pylons producing pears. No apples. Yet. Tired feet plod into toasted town Where plastic pictures of burgers and chips Blister the windows. Pavements crack like grooved bark In nuclear sun. Glass glinting eyes squint at coppiced signs, As blighted trees along the verge. Fences and walls limp with privet along the walkways. The seared, shrivelled mouth contracts desperately Like an empty purse. No apples. At the pelican crossing the green man flashes, But the pushed button drips blackcurrant. Belisha berries direct the flow Of grapes half - trodden at kerbside From bus-stop heavy vines. The traffic lights flash Gooseberry- Orange- Apple; And on the roundabout the walker sprawls With garnered satellite dish - Of apples! Clear apple juice flows down cracked lips, Perfumes the sultry air, As teeth mash the plump white pulp For exhausted frame. Apple Power! THE DUCK- HOUSE PARLIAMENT Background: Oliver Cromwell was born in Cambridgeshire, a country farmer who became a MP and a successful military commander in the English Civil War in which the Roundheads, Parliamentarians, fought the Royalists, supporters of King Charles1st. A religious puritan who championed the common people against autocracy (at that time the Pope, established church and monarchy) he eventually created a British Republic with himself as Lord Protector and oversaw the execution of Charles 1st. He famously evicted the Rump Parliament from Westminster in 1653 stating that the place was defiled by “the members’ practice of every vice”, calling them “a pack of mercenary wretches,” and stating that “Gold is your God”. He referred to the mace as a bauble. On his death in 1658 he was buried in Westminster Abbey but when Charles 2nd was made king he was exhumed, his corpse hung and beheaded. One daughter, Elizabeth, however is still buried in Westminster Abbey. The events of the duck-house parliament of May 2009, overseeing Britain’s monetary collapse due to corporate greed, followed by the scandal of excessive expenses by MP’s( including a claim for a £1600 duck house and the practice of flipping first and second homes to maximize expenses) with the resignation of the Speaker of the House of Commons for the first time since 1695 has stirred Cromwell………. e-sites: Westminster Abbey History: the britishcivilwars.co.uk: wikipedia Cromwell; the Daily Telegraph. THE DUCK HOUSE PARLIAMENT The farmers are sowing their barley and wheat Re-ditching the fields of Cambridgeshire’s fens. Wide-shouldered strong men, rough faced and weather- eyed, Men who saddle their horses with Cromwell. He rides by the celestial Herdsman’s glow, Down country track and hawthorn white road, Like Orion’s belt London’s night lights shine Cromwell gallops to Westminster Hall. “You lily-livered duck-house on the Thames , Corrupters of the Commonwealth, You baubled moat, Gold is your God!” he cries “Man is imperfect – all history blood and regret.” Dismounting he runs across Parliament Square And forces the doors of the Abbey. Royal bones creak fitfully in their tombs As he strides to the grave of his daughter. The princes of the Tower weep together, His was not the only regicide, He prises the lid on her coffin And carries her from Westminster Abbey. He had rejoiced when exhumed from the Abbey, Hung at Tyburn, his head displayed, Reunited with the common earth- His honest Common Wealth. No more to witness greed and power He rode with her from London. The pale robed woman and black Iron Sides Returned to their country land. The locals saw them resting beneath a great church yew Waiting for the kiss of the dawn And blackbirds’ early morning call, Before fading into the soil. QUEEN MARY’S ROSE GARDEN (Regents Park) It was the heavy scent of red roses That flowed through the auditorium first- The audience quieted in anticipation, The scene was set. Up rose the curtain, the white clouds flew And summer’s sun shone like stage-light, Then they were on. Twirling, swirling masses of pink skirts Displaying limbs, with grace the ballerinas danced. The audience clapped in appreciation- And gasped When the orange, gaily- dressed flamenco dancers Emerged from the wings. They lifted their frilly dresses and shook their feet, Stomped and postured with Steady Latino beat. It was too much for the men Who leapt forward in dazzling blue. Slim straight silhouettes beating the tattoo The stepped between each girl, The Salsa was on. The audience was on its feet now, Close to the stage, cheering, arms raised Dancing betweens the rows Bravo! They entwined and parted Met and sweat, nectar dripped to the ground. Breathlessly exciting we watched Queen Mary’s rose garden Dance with passion.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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