Friday 29 April 2016

The idle prince



Officialphotographs of Prince William and his family skiing fuelled growing criticismin the British press on Tuesday (March 8) of the "workshy" royal,driven by frustration at his perceived reluctance for a life in the public eye.


With the brave heart of a lion
He watches the sky or scratches his behind
An English Sunday: the smell of roasting venison
Wafts across the solarium
His wife is trying on her new hat
She is part clothes horse part fashion plate
Sometimes the strain of expectation
Shows on her perfect face
One day a Tweet will come
The old man will be gone
The garden looks rather unruly
Should he fly the helicopter?
And the next holiday. Barbados or Monserrat

Do not suppose that it is not a huge burden
To pretend to have a job and to embody luxury
While appearing to be ordinary
Someone must feed the peacocks
And programme the fountains
One day, he’ll have to mow the Home Counties
To say that he, William, is work shy
The understudy to an elderly heir
How unfair! It is no mean thing
To wear the Polo shirt of state
Please do not accuse him of indolence!
It’s a tough job being a prince.
His sole purpose is to wait
 

Saturday 16 April 2016

Must try harder

It peered warily through the fence
like a stranger at the fair.
As pale as a slum child
it was too weak to climb the stairs.
It displayed itself reluctantly
when it turned up at all.
It needed prompting constantly
and there was no curtain call.
Like an argument that lacked rigour
it was tentative. It drew back.
In short, there was a want of vigour
there was no strength in its attack.
We need to put the food in the larder.
Next year, the sun must try harder.

Tuesday 12 April 2016

My father's clothes (part two)

Why do I dislike so much to dress smartly
Could it be, perhaps, to piss you off?
You barely noticed me anyway
My big days, it seems, were not big enough

Carefully, you avoided the foreground
There was no sense of occasion for you
And yet, often, when I am slopping around
With no shame, splattered with paint and glue

I am touched by our strange similarity
Waiting in the wardrobe, you are still here
I can breathe you in, step into your shadows
Your slowness, the language we did not share

Our arguments have faded into history
You would not have noticed the irony
Of my reluctance to wear smart clothes
You only had one suit, dad. So do I.

I can hear your slow, patient voice
And remember what you showed me
When I am touching a piece of wood
Your clothes and books, boxed up for charity

Saturday 2 April 2016

The Age of the Unpleasnt

What hell is this, from whence came these towers?
Who toppled them? A poisoned land is ours

The neutered Lion prowls his rusty cage
Aroused by blood, the horrors of our Age

A rising tide of pestilence and war
Sniffing blood he makes a muted roar

The puffed up chump displays synthetic hair
The riled Eagle strokes the angry Bear

Defend our Sacred Land, the idiot calls
Draw the shutters down, raise up the walls

Give up your life, for it is Nature’s law
the weak must pay the price; the rich need more

Unleashed the pumped up chump spouts sloganry
Rousing the mob with spray tan tyranny

He'll trade in death, unsheath an iron claw
Who will defend the stateless and the poor?

This tyrant rules a cruel menagerie
His toxic dream, reversing history