Red Squirrels
Image:
Paul Whippey, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
Beauty of rarity. Scampering
down the trunk of a fir
felled by storm Arwen,
attracted by feeders
on a Northumberland common.
Dull red, perhaps,
but red beyond doubt.
We crept up behind
a lone snapper
who had probably
been there for hours.
Dogs caused their usual
commotion, birds fussed
about. A robin tried
to attract our attention.
We shared merry glances.
Moment of fulfilment
in the woods, quest ended.
A last redoubt, patch of flame
still burning in the far north
of England. Scattered by
destruction and grey interlopers,
indigenous fugitives
hiding out in the borderlands.
Greg Freeman
Poetry corner: Why-aiku
Haiku is a short form of poetry, originally from Japan, which has become more widely recognised and appreciated in recent times.
Traditionally haiku consisted of three phrases or lines comprising seventeen phonetic units or syllables in a five, seven, five sequence. They would also traditionally contain a seasonal reference and a "cutting word" and I have been told that in the pure form there should not be a verb.
However, in the modern era it has become common for such rules to be bent or ignored completely and a more liberal, and dare I suggest even a playful, approach has prevailed (see some examples below).
Milburn Supermac Stephenson whistled Shearer and Andy Carroll Rocket had made a packet Dressed up to the nines* Raised his self-esteem Wor Brendan Foster Once Alan Hull died Might never have lost a race Lindisfarne were all at sea Had he ran faster Nicely out of quay Was Bobby Thompson Who else could they be The little zero-waster In all probability Ahead of his time But the Likely Lads * Generally taken to mean ‘well-dressed’, the term also means ‘of the highest quality’.
Paul Thompson
A poem for the festive season: Mother Christmas
Thanks, I just needed someone to talk to.
It still catches me out, me of all people! Those bloody adverts, earlier every year.
It’s the same for everyone?
You haven't a clue, my dear, of the pressure in our house, the stress, the fear.
No polite hand-written Dear Santa letters these days: now it’s facebook, whatsapp and bloody gimme.com.
And guess who's left with all the admin.... getting the picture?
Of course, he's never around from October, working late, weekends, flat-out. Make it while you can in seasonal work he reckons.
And when he is home, he's no use. To the outside world - the epitome of bonhomie. Domestically - Mr Grumpy, Mr Ratty, Mr Snappy.
Our kids?
No time, this famous father for his own. Others' sleepy brats more likely to catch a glimpse.
Me?
Run ragged ! Would you believe Santa's wife rushing for last minute presents? Outwith the contract, he says, fewer perks these days.
And us?
Oh, he's too tired for late-night gifts for me: less ho, ho, ho; more no, no, no.
And as the big day looms that old green-eyed one worms into my head, winter whispers play with my mind: my other-half in others’ hearths (and hearts?). Bearing gifts, sherry-warmed, into their homes.... all those single-mums!
But who'd look at him now?
I see your point. But younger and in my eyes still, he was golden. A real ladies man, had all the patter, he has it still: "come sit on my knee!"
Our Christmas Day?
Oh, a total wash-out, a write-off every year, an anti-climax.
Stuffed and boozed, all appetites sated, he snores through it all.
Leaving me and the subordinate Clauses counting the days until normality returns
Then he's back...
Driving his van...
For Iceland.
Thanks for listening.
Paul Thompson
Bugger It!
"It ain't for sissies" Bette Davis said
In warning us off ageing.
She was spot-on, I write as one
Who's spent the past months raging.
It strikes from nowhere, overnight.
One day lithe and supple.
As if by magic, cruel and tragic,
Nature bursts our bubble.
Getting-up and getting-down,
Gasps and exclamations.
Creaks and groans, aches and moans,
Pain and constipation.
"Best keep moving, don't sit still"
Brisk medics warn and preach.
I'd kick these blues, put-on those shoes,
If I could bloody reach.
A good hot bath, co-codamol,
A whisky (three or four).
The duvet's soft, I'm drifting-off,
I'm sixty-six once more.
Paul Thompson