Nostalgia

with love to dad, a present from the Rhine

from the last trip that you were allowed on

found in the attic, a cracked old stein

a relic of your youthful rebellion

it is the prerogative of youth to rage

how we laugh at our parents’ tacky crap

I did. I was a hippy at that age –

there were musicals before there was rap

we offend our children, they will theirs

we call upon the young to show decorum

they call us nerds, or straights, or squares

do not go out like that, we implore them

we leave our past, but then, it comes back

nostalgia is in. Grey is the new black

Nunhead cemetery open day

There’s headless Harry or at least his ghost

The street that was blitzed by an air raid

The boy VC who died, too soon, at his post

They are runners up in life’s parade

Inscriptions plead for a future life

Upstairs but, then, there is downstairs as well

Dear, x, a devoted husband, or wife

Deserves to be in heaven .... not hell

Like primed fuses in the burial ground

It is in nettle and white campion

Not the graves that eternity is found

Life, not death, is time’s true champion
There is no heaven or hell, only now

See it is breaking through each neat row

Fanatics

With leather jacket and sneering lip
They dictate to us in articles and lists
What is uncool this week and what is hip
They are merely cultural narcissists
They see the world through a cracked prism
Probably they were bullied at school
Their dogma is based upon solipsism
Don’t jab your stained finger at me you fool
You tattoed hairy men and inky scribes
It doesn’t make me inferior, or ‘gay’
Just because I don’t rave about your tribes
I do not like (insert name here) OK!
Take your lists and nail them to a church door
Like Martin Luther did, you total bore


It's about a fellow called Tony Parsons but somehow the subject morphed into Martin Luther (left). Weird. I think that all fanaticism is essentially the same and it is almost always masculine. Not that I don't have my own fanaticisms but I don't mind if people don't share them

Elevenses

To the memory of my dear mother, pastry ace










A feigned illness was all that it took
On most mornings to get me off school
With a vague tummy ache, I watched you cook
And licked the sweet mixture from the bowl
Carefully, you rolled out each hour
The world had contracted to just us
Your practised hands melded butter and flour
To fulfilment – perfect happiness
Surely, it is an act of faith to bake
A lesson in travelling hopefully
But the mixture tastes better than the cake
You would observe, ironically
For our elevenses, we were two
Wrapped in a circle of light, me and you