THE ETERNAL OPTIMISTS

                                                                            
                                                                                 XXV

I always have liked growing things,
So now with more time on hand
I thought I'd take an allotment
And join the little band...

Of optimistic masochists
Who, in all weathers can be found
Trying to wrest a harvest
From the reluctant ground.

Either it's too cold and wet
So that the seeds all rot,
Or else your struggling seedings die
Because it is too hot.

But gardeners as a race
Are notoriously hard to please,
Some want it sunny for their strawberries
Some want it wet for their peas.

We have some fair weather gardeners
Who come out with the flowers of spring,
Plant their beans and tomatoes
And vanish when the swallows take wing.

For any allotment gardener
An optimistic nature is a must
To cope with slugs and codling moth,
Mildew -  mould and rust;

Snails - rabbits - caterpillars
And flies - green, black and white,
Birds - moles - foxes
And various types of blight.

You think you will save money
When you have a bumper crop,
Then as your yield increases
Shop prices start to drop.

But when you eat a ripe strawberry,
Warm from the sun's morning kiss,
You realise that in no supermarket
Can you buy flavour like this.


November 1994

I DON'T KNOW IF I'VE TOLD YOU .....

                                                                              XXIV

As the years go by I've developed
A tendency to repeat
Comments, ideas, annecdotes -
But I'm still discreet.

Even though a warning voice
Whispers in my ear
That my captive listener
Does not want to hear.....

The same old story from my past
That I've told her before,
I ignore the little voice
And go through it once more.

Even if she gently murmers:
"Oh yes, you did say ...."
I've started so I'll finish
Before she gets away.

I too have endured repetition,
So I know it can be a bore
Listening to a story
You've heard many times before.

So why do I still do it?
I just wish I knew;
But if I should ever
Repeat myself to you...

Tell me very firmly
You don't want to hear it again -
And when you repeat yourself
I will do the same!



July 1993

I BELONG TO TWO DIFFERENT COUNTRIES

                                                                              XXIII


People who move to another country
Often don't belong in either place.
|I am very fortunate because
For me the opposite is the case.

I left the land where I was born
When I was twenty-one.
The English and their weather seemed cold
Compared to India's warmth and sun.

But - after forty years
I appreciate English life
The many opportunities it offers
Without too much stress and strife.

The English, when you get to know them,
Are a kind and tolerant race ,
And I couldn't live anywhere else -
I love this green and pleasant place.

But, when I return to India -
Specially if I go on my own
I feel as if I've never left -
How fast the years have flown...

So I can call two countries 'home'
And in both I feel I belong -
Walking in a cool green woodland glade
Or through Bombay's bustling throng.

Written September 1994
revised 2004 and 2011

NO.1 CARDBOARD CITY

                                                                                XXII

As I lay on the sofa
Suffering from a heavy dose of  'flu,
Barbed wire seemed to line my throat
And my head ached too.

My cough was deep and chesty
And I felt so sorry for me
Until I thought of just how bad
Life could really be.

My bed is warm and dry
I can lie in it all day,
Unlike the shop-door sleepers
Who have to move away.

And if it should pour with rain
I've a roof over my head
Pavement sleepers must make do with
A plastic sheet above their bed.

I can have a hot bath -
Change my clothes whenever I like,
Keeping clean on the streets is a battle -
No wonder folk give up the fight.

I can get up at any time
To make a comforting hot drink,
The bath and toilet are close at hand
And I cannot help but think ...

Of cardboard city dwellers
With no heating, kettle or loo.
Life must be absolute hell for them
When they are stricken by the 'flu.

Some have no one to turn to
No one cares if they live or die,
So as |I wait for my aches and pains to go
Very very grateful am I.


Waterloo Station
November 1994

ENGLISH IS A LANGUAGE DESIGNED TWO CONFUSE

                                                                                XXI                                             


English is a language
Designed two confuse
And that is the reason why
We like too use
Different spellings four
The same sounding word
Even though that is sew
Obviously absurd.

Wee still hang on too
Our idiosyncrasies
And will never allow
Anyone two ease
The burden of spelling
On hapless foreign folk.
Inn fact we find there problem
Something of a joke.

Without are awkward spelling
They wood learn English even faster,
For ours is an easy language two learn
But an impossible won to master.

To K.M.
Written October 1994

THE EURO PITCHER PLANT

                                                                       XX

The euro monetary system
Is like a pitcher plant,
It can be easy to get in, but
When you want to leave - you can't.

The advantages are clearly shown -
Think of nectar on the flower lip;
Problems only reveal themselves
As down you gently slip.

Like an  insect trapped in a flower,
Once you're in you can't get out,
No matter how you struggle,
Complain - protest - shout.

Some leaders thought the Euro zone
Would give them more authority.
Some countries even voted for
The death of their own currency.

It's fine in the good years,
But when economies crash
The authorities in Brussels decide
Which budgets you must slash.

When financial systems fail and flounder -
As drowning insects fight and flap -
Do countries wish their leaders
Had avoided the honeyed Euro trap?


February 2011

TO MY MEMORY - COME BACK ALL IS FORGIVEN.

                                                                            XIX
I don't mind getting older
But what I most regret
Is the difficulty I have in remembering
And the ease with which I forget.

I once had a wonderful memory,
Could remember where we'd been
What we'd done, who we'd met
And all that we had seen.

Now I go upstairs to fetch something
Then stand in the middle of the floor
Because I cannot remember
What I've come up for.

And if I am talking about
A person - or a place,
The name I need suddenly
Disappears in space.

Sometimes I work around the name
Hoping my listener won't realise
That all this elegant eloquence
Is but a cunning disguise.

I go through the alphabet
To find the word's first letter
Or pounce upon it suddenly -
That doesn't work any better.

It hovers on the outskirts of my mind
J-u-s-t out of reach.
Impervious to curses, cajolery
Or the techniques that memory experts teach.

If I ignore the elusive word
I very often find
That at some unexpected moment
It pops back into my mind.

I meant to end this poem
On a profound and helpful tack,
But the final verse has fled my mind
And refuses to come back.......

August 1997

PICASSO'S PRACTICAL JOKE

                                                                              XVIII

Picasso was a very good artist
When he was in his prime,
But found that proper painting
Took up too much time.

So he discarded accuracy
And found to his surprise
That it really didn't matter
Where he put his model's eyes.
.   .   .   .   .   (He invented bio-morphic rearrangement
.   .   .   .   .     of human parts)
                                                                                                                                                            
Then he cut back on detail
And limited his colours as well,
But the simpler that his art became
The better it did sell.
-   .   .   .   .    (He was an expert in schematic expression.)                

Now Picasso was no fool,
He acted with restraint
He didn't flood the market -
It saved him money on paint.

He left his easel in a corner
And whenever he'd nothing to do
He'd pick up his brush or palette knife
And add a squiggle or two.
.   .   .   .   .(His plastic inventions also extended to sculpture)

Only the title tells you are
If you are meant to see
A model  -  scenery or a still life
There are so many things that it could be.
.   .   .   .   .(Picasso destroyed the philosophy that representation
.   .   .   .   .is a pre-condition of picture making.)

The experts took Picasso seriously
They didn't know his pictures were a prank
While Pablo laughed uproariously
All the way to his bank.
.   .   .   .   . (They called him an avant garde innovator
.   .   .   .   .  and extrovert proselytizer)

I'm sure all this is libellous,
Scurrilous and possibly untrue
But this is still a free country
And I'm entitled to my view.

1991

THE YELLOW RAPE OF THE COUNTRYSIDE

                                                                                 XVII

What is this crop that's spreading
Across our countryside -
Burying our green and pleasant land
Beneath a yellow tide.

Our landscape is soothing and gentle
And greenly refined,
Acres of aggressive yellow
Aggravate the mind.

A few splashes of colour
Brighten up the scene,
Mile after mile of strident lemon
Makes your senses reel.

But - when summer weather
Is dismal, drear and chill
It's a patch of captured sunshine
On a distant hill.

Written 25.5.88
(M1 - return from Cosford Air Museum)

TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR, HOW I WONDER WHAT YOU ARE.

                                                                    XVI

With modern telescopes
We need wonder no more,
As massive new refractors
The heavens now explore.

You could be a pulsar,
Giant red or dwarf white,
An exploding supernova -
The astrologers' delight.

Perhaps you are a binary -
A comet from afar;
Or one of our own planets,
An ancient wandering star.

Could you be an asteroid
Or a distant sun?
Neutron star or nebula?
You could be any one.

Things were so much simpler
Centuries ago,
When a star was just a twinkling light
After the sunset glow.

Written February 1990

THE EASTER PARADE

                                                                                XV

In olden days a few holy men
Would mortify their flesh in various ways
In modern, sinful England everybody does it -
It's called The Easter Holidays.

The penitents are up before the sunrise
Some don't even stop to break their fast,
Then spend hours immobile on the motorway,
It's a form of penance  unsurpassed.

When finally they reach their destination,
Tired and hungry - full of woe,
Every parking place has been taken,
There really is nowhere they can go.

After the flesh has been tormented
With chilly winds and frequent freezing rain,
The homeward journey still awaits the sinner -
The modern version of the whip and chain.

The Almighty must have a sense of humour,
For, after weeks of warmth and sun
He switches back to winter over Easter,
To give the masochists some extra fun.

Those who have been really sinful
Have to take their holidays abroad.
Hours of painful suffering await them,
But they know it is their just reward.

Sometimes an airport is fog-bound
Or foreign air controllers are on strike,
Exhausted children whine and fret and grizzle
As boring day turns into boring night.

At last the nation's sins are fully purged
And everyone is back at work again,
By the time Easter comes round once more
We'll have forgotton all this stress and strain.


Written 15.4.1990
(One of my favourites)

MIRROR, MIRROR ON THE WALL

                                                                       XIV


One thing you must get rid of
As you get more mature
Is that full length mirror
Inside your bathroom door.

We are now dependent on

The girdle maker's skill,
For once you get past fifty
Everything that can droop - will.

If you must have a bathroom mirror
Don't look at yourself in the nude.
Avert your gaze - look elsewhere
It doesn't mean you're a prude.

Your body still looks youthful
When viewed from the top,
But when it's seen in profile
You notice signs of drop.

I'm talking about average women
Not those who are bone and skin.
In the war between muscle and gravity
You know that the latter will win.

If you are a masochist
And a quick look you cannot resist,
Be patient - try to wait until
Your mirror's steamed over with mist.

If the mirror still draws your eye
Take this advice from me:
Raise your arms above your head
And a much slimmer view you will see!

Written December 1987

I FEEL SO SORRY FOR MEN

                                                                               XIII

You can't help feeling sorry for men
In these female liberated days,
Their lives have changed considerably
In so many different ways.

Their children disagree with them
And what is more
No longer are they patriarchs
Whose every word is law.

Victorian men believed a woman
Was a simple little soul -
A well looked after husband
Was her major goal.

How men must long for the Good Old days
When women knew their place
As suppliers of domestic comfort -
A lower serving race.

Written in October 1990

NATURE RULES OUR PLANET

                                                                                 XII

We humans like to think that we
Control our destiny,
We dam our mighty rivers -
And reclaim land from the sea.

We tamper with genetics
And change the DNA
We think that mankind benefits
So that is quite o.k.

Our scientists are brilliant -
By manipulating genes
We've plants that poison insects
And brightly glowing greens.

Nature views our efforts
With a smile upon her face
And when she thinks we've gone too far
She puts us in her place.

When she wants to let us know
Just what she can do
She flicks her little finger
And violent quakes ensue.

A gentle sigh from her
And gales and cyclones blow -
And when she weeps at Mankind's ways
Foaming torrents flow.

So though we like to think that we
Control our destiny,
Our planet's rulers really are
The rivers, the sky and the sea.


Written July 1990

THE SECRET LIFE OF THE SOCK

                                                                         XI

Is there some place, somewhere
That old socks go to die -
A celestial hosiery heaven,
Or the sock drawer in the sky?

The widowed partner will now lead
A solitary life
For odd socks seldom find another
Husband or wife.

Sometimes a sock will vanish
And I won't see it for years,
But if I throw its mate away
It promptly re-appears.

If socks won't stay together
Until they're both worn through,
I have thought of something
Else that I can do.

I will buy a dozen pairs
Exactly the same;
A flourishing sock commune
Is my eventual aim.

If my breeding programme
Goes as I have planned,
Every year another clutch
Of socks should come to hand.

And if their life is happy
Beneath the skirts and frocks
I hope I'll never need to buy
Another pair of socks.

June 1990

WISH YOU WERE HERE

                                                                               X

Exotic foreign holidays
Are great to look back on
When your life's returned to normal
And your dysentery has gone.

Getting there is stressful
You just cannot relax
With overbooking problems
And the excess baggage tax.

At journey's end you're faced with
Dirt, disease and flies,
As scenes of abject poverty
Assault your sheltered eyes.

Though you are on holiday
Your problems never end:
How much money should you keep?
How much should you spend?

Your journey home again
Is also very fraught
As you try to fit in
The unwanted gifts you've bought.

But when you view your pictures,
Or your slides upon the screen
You really do appreciate
The places that you've seen.

So instead of going on holiday
How much simpler it would be
To hire some travel videos
And watch them on TV.

March 1990

PACKAGE PEOPLE

                                                                       IX

The people for whom they make
The modern aircraft seat
Must be thin, with narrow hips,
Short legs and little feet.

Supple shoulders are a must
So that one can eat
And still avoid the passenger
In the neighbouring seat.

The charming girl suggest that we
"Sit back - enjoy the flight."
But that isn't easy when
Your seat is bolt upright.

Every seat designer
Should be made to fly
Around the world (Economy Class)
To give his seats a try.

Written on a London to Sydney flight
December 1989

DAWN

                                                         VIII

I  love going out at first light
When everything is still
And the roads are lined with sleeping cars
In the early morning chill.

The windows are all frosted
With an icy opaque glaze
As the waking sun struggles through
Veils of misty haze.

Spiders' webs are picked out
With beads of diamond dew
And the eastern sky's a-blush with
An embarrassed rosy hue.

On the lawn are scattered
Glistening rainbow-bright gems;
Now sapphire, now emerald, now ruby
They tremble on slim grassy stems.

As dawn is such a lovely time
I do wish I knew why
I seldom seem to get outside
'Till the sun is fairly high.

April 1988

THE EXTENSION OF ENGLISH

                                                VII

We say "ab-so-lut-ely"
When what we mean is "yes"
Four syllables have more emphasis
Than a single one - I guess.

And instead of  "now" we say
"At this moment in time"
Padding out a sentence
Is not a grammatical crime.

"I myself am of the opinion ..."
What's wrong with "I think"
Its meaning is the same -
It's short - and it's succinct.

"There you go..." - "I mean to say" -
"You know what I mean"
All common pointless phrases
That dot the vocal scene.

English can be a concise language
But in recent years there's been a trend
To use six words where one would do
And every sentence extend.

Are these meaningless words used
Because we are so vexed
By the savage abbreviations
Of the world of text?

May 2007

DO WHAT WE TELL YOU - NOT WHAT WE DO.

                                                         VI
Everything must now be "green"
It is the new buzz word
That on newspapers and TV screens
Is constantly seen and heard.

But it is ordinary folk
Who have to bear the strain,
For we are told to walk, cycle
Or go by bus and train.

"Use public transport all the time"
Is what environmentalists say.
Have they ever tried to carry
A week's shopping this way?

To ensure their security
MPs need gas-guzzlers large;
Some drive around in one jag
With a spare one in the garage.

To save on fuel we are told
We shouldn't fly or drive,
So is it only Ministers
Who will use Terminal Five?

Written August 2007

THE THINGS WE TAKE FOR GRANTED

                                                    v

When I was fit and young
Perfect vision had I -
Could read signs at a distance
Spot a bird soaring high in the sky.

Of course I took it for granted
Never once did I think or say:
Isn't it great - I'm so lucky,
I can see so well today.

Maturity gradually took its toll,
My sight was not quite so keen,
But I could still see everything
That needed to be seen.

When I reached my fifties
I was surprised to discover
That writing got smaller and fainter
On every packet and cover.

I knew I needed glasses
When I found myself in a trap:
I was driving in London one evening
And I couldn't read the map.

My glasses have slowly got stronger
And now I've reached the stage
When without them I cannot see
What is printed on the page.

If I tread this earth again,
Will I remember to be
Grateful for youthful good health
And being able to hear and see?

Probably not!

THE I.T. REVOLUTION

                                IV

Humans have always been
Keen to communicate;
Cave paintings and pictograms -
Cuneiform - chalk on slate.

When Caxton started printing books
For ordinary folk to read
Did he know that he'd planted
A revolutionary IT seed?

And as we embark upon
The 21st century
Supersonic speed is reached
In Information Technology.

Broadband is de rigeur
For a modern machine
And tera-bytes will soon be here
For the really keen.

Google - Skype - web-cam -
It's great when they're o.k.
But even a sophisticated computer
Can have an odd off-day.

When it just will not work
You very soon reach a stage -
(Past annoyance and anger)
Of all-consuming rage.

The same statement appears again
And again - no less - no more,
Until you could smash it up
Or throw it on the floor.

I thump the keys and curse it -
It remains passive, but unbowed.
Computers are superior beings
And they're not easily cowed.

I threaten to get rid of it,
To throw it out and then
Return to the stress-free calm
Of parchment and quill pen!

(Of course I don't really mean it)

To Helen (with many thanks)

HEATHROW AND SNOW

                                                    IV

Why is a modern airport
Like London's Heathrow
Reduced to abject helplessness
By a couple of inches of snow?

We send probes to Jupiter and Saturn
To study their moons and rings
But a slight snowfall at Heathrow
Absolute and utter chaos brings,

I sympathise with would-be passengers
Trapped in the terminal cage
Emotions very soon go past
The resigned and tolerant stage.

                                     *  *  *  *  * 

But ...  the air was pure and clear -
Not a contrail in sight,
All was calm and peaceful
The birds sang with delight.

The local people could enjoy
A good night's sleep - uninterrupted
They haven't had such a quiet night
Since Iceland's volcano erupted.

                     *  *  *  *  *

We knew that Saint Andrew
Had answered the passengers' cry
When his flag - crossed white contrails -
Appeared in a clear blue sky.

January 2011

THE KITCHEN

                                                                    III
I walked into my kitchen
That I'd cleaned the day before
And, as I looked around
A nasty shock was in store.

The work surfaces were grimy,
There were smudges on the door
The window frames were grubby
There were breadcrumbs on the floor.

I wondered how I'd missed the dirt
How the grime had not been seen
Then I took my glasses off
And my kitchen was pristine!

March 2011

COOKERY BOOKS VS READY-MADE

                                                                    II

  

Modern bookshops and libraries 
Have miles of cookery books
Written by a wide variety
Of well known celebrity cooks.

The background information is great
The pictures - mouthwatering - sublime
But to acquire the exotic ingredients
Is expensive - in money and time.

Spices should be used sparingly -
A pinch - a few threads - a grate;
Then they move to the back of the cupboard
'Till they well past their sell by date

It all looked so simple on TV
But I am forced to confess
It wasn't worth all the effort
And the kitchen's a terrible mess.

In spite of the programmes and books
It really is no surprise
That the sale of ready-made meals
Continues to rise.

The electronic age

THE ELECTRONIC AGE

Computers are wonderful
When they're working well,
But when they crash and die
It's a frustrating hell.

We are drawn in gradually
Stage by gentle stage
Until we are stuck fast
In the electronic age.

I buy my food on line
Christmas presents too,
Book holidays - print tickets
It's so easy to do.

I email all my friends
Go on Facebook - and Tweet
Will on-line dating find
The perfect man I've yet to meet?

I check my page constantly
The lure I cannot resist,
Without input from hundreds of friends
I fear I may cease to exist.

If my computer crashes
I'm distraught - I'm bereft -
I'm incommunicado,
Of my life there's nothing left.

I cannot Tweet on Twitter
Or check my Facebook page
I haven't heard from friends
For hours - for me that is an age.

When the electronic era started
I never would have predicted
That I could be completely hooked,
So hopelessly addicted.