#28 - Song of a Baker

(Russell J Turner)

 ...inspired by the Small Faces song...

I sing like a baker

and welcome the hour

to harvest the acre

An appetite breaker

who follows the plougher

I sing like a baker

The song of a maker

that bends all their power

to harvest the acre

No lonely forsaker

but love for a dower

I sing like a baker

Then as a dream waker

at field, stream and bower

to harvest the acre

This mover and shaker

of water and flour

I sing like a baker

to harvest the acre

RJT

#27 - Impressed by George

Fay Roberts delivers (at last) a précis of Lord Byron’s maiden speech at the House of Lords in defence of the Luddites:

The fresh, young Lord pleads for silence,
claims his constituents framed
for well-intentioned violence;

scorning the wicked reliance
on machines which they’ve defamed,
the fresh, young Lord pleads for silence.

At length he lauds their defiance
with all the fervour for which he’s famed
(and well-intentioned violence).

Others might dismiss this poetic license -
the ones whose greed he’s roundly declaimed -
the fresh, young Lord pleads for silence

while bewailing the march of science,
regretting that society seems chained
to well-intentioned violence.

And yet, without a certain reliance
on presses, his words might never have been saved;
the fresh, young Lord pleads for silence
for well-intentioned violence.

Machine-breakers; image from the James Fell (he of Sweary History fame) article about Luddites

#26 - The Medium

I saw a woman talking to the dead,

performing séances in bus stop queues. 

She told me all my troubles lay ahead:

that every fund in black would soon be red,

and every win would soon become a lose. 

I saw a woman talking to the dead.

Her twisting hand alighted on my head, 

her palm pressed hard enough to leave a bruise. 

She told me all my troubles lay ahead

that every ray of hope would shift to dread,

all hospitality would be abused. 

I saw a woman talking to the dead.

I did not wish to follow where she led; 

her bleak catastrophising was a ruse. 

She told me all my troubles lay ahead. 

The tarot cards, decisive in their spread: 

she loved to be the bearer of bad news. 

I saw a woman talking to the dead; 

she told me all my troubles lay ahead. 

LM 

Listen to the poem here

Image via unsplash.com 

#25 - disturbing windows – heady brew

 

a trip for decrypting this spirit of mine

reluctant to write and retainer to rhyme

whisky is water and water is wine.

 

decanted dishevelled or done by design

in tune with the room or complicit in crime

a trip for decrypting this spirit of mine

 

a spring with a spark that can shiver your spine

embracing defacing your grunge and your grime

whisky is water and water is wine.

 

a whimsical wanderer, dense and divine

alighting on luck looking slick and sublime

a trip for decrypting this spirit of mine

 

provider of profligate pearls before swine

or mendicant supplicant dancing on dimes

whisky is water and water is wine.

 

amusing recusal entwined on the vine

a chemical chaser, chastening chime

a trip for decrypting this spirit of mine

whisky is water and water is wine.

AWB

Poetry and AI Art. Gods help us.

 

#24 - Leeds City Station

...I recently spent several happy hours on Leeds station as every train in Yorkshire was delayed or cancelled as a result of Storm Otto...

I sometimes think my train will never come ‒

a metaphor for how this life proceeds ‒

but staring at the lights is just such fun

An infinite and slow convergent sum

that telescopes a trail of hopes and needs ‒

I sometimes think my train will never come

Interminable, the hours have begun

to grind the joy that optimism breeds

but staring at the lights is just such fun

The tracks roll on, the credits run and run ‒

a hamster’s wheel of drama and misdeeds ‒

I sometimes think my train will never come

The numbers whirl into a constant hum

as once again my terminus recedes

but staring at the lights is just such fun

Departure boards that dazzle like the sun

illuminate those fading hours in Leeds ‒

I sometimes think my train will never come

but staring at the lights is just such fun

RJT

#23 - Politeness of Princes

HOW VERY DARE anyone suggest that Fay Roberts forgot that ze was supposed to be doing one of these until 1:30am the day after. Outrageous calumny!

Some might just call me cynical
to limit myself thus;
on this day I wax lyrical

I try to be empirical,
the method is a plus;
some might just call me cynical

While others are satirical,
or like to sometimes cuss
On this day I wax lyrical

It’s like a shitty miracle;
I feel like I’m concussed.
(Some might just call me cynical.)

Rhymezone suggests “spagyrical”,
while this is much less fuss;
On this day I wax lyrical,

O, poem panegyrical,
this structure looks quite sus...
Some might just call me cynical
On this day I wax lyrical

#22 - I packed my suitcase, and in it I put

a sword, a cushion, and a disco ball –

protection for a wide-eyed dancing queen. 

The confidence to get up, when I fall.

A mirror, shadowed, standing in the hall; 

my soapy coriander-tasting gene;

a sword, a cushion, and a disco ball.

The bracelet that I got when I was small;

a love for words that borders on obscene;

the confidence to get up, when I fall;

the purple dress I wore to Leavers’ Ball;

the man who touched me, when I was thirteen;

a sword, a cushion, and a disco ball.

And every morning text and late-night call;

the panic when the pills mix with caffeine; 

the confidence to get up, when I fall;

the scent of cigarettes and alcohol;

the sour sting of tears, that harsh saline; 

a sword, a cushion, and a disco ball;

the confidence to get up, when I fall.

LM 

Listen to the poem here

Image via unsplash.com