‘What does music mean?’ I asked
The day you demanded to know
Which bands I liked,
What songs I knew by heart
What right I had to hold you?
The darker tones you rationed me
Those reserved for seduction
Sent delicious spinal shivers
As you so righteously accused
Me of musical treachery.
Standing in the rain by the bus stop
People looking us up and down
We stood like strangers, past-less
Wild hair blowing across your glasses
Peering into my face to try to
See how I might fit into your
Careful constructed fantasy
Defiant in your metal tee and boots
I smiled at your adherence to these
Uptight social conventions.
Unblinking, I considered my response
As if there were a wrong answer
Forming on my tongue.
I knew your little lover’s heart
Was restless, wanting to trade bedfellows
You were so obvious, waiting
For my careless chosen gift
Lovingly bestowed by
Another doting devotee of
Bad boys in black jeans;
A perfect excuse for you
To end whatever strange
Fantasy we were living.
I could see the angry words
Taking final form in your
Deep brown eyes, watch you
Later, sat in the comfort
Of your local haunt, The Bush
Surrounded by bandmates
And potential conquests
Younger and dumber than I.
‘She just didn’t get me, man’
You would say, accompanied by
An obligatory eye-roll,
Well-rehearsed, and all
Would sympathise
Pouring cheap words and
Libations. ‘Drink of us’
While First Year Goths
Bat heavy lashes and
Casually bounce off the beat,
Showing their interest.
Alas, the musician’s daughter saw
All this and still felt minded to foil
Your planned escape with a trick.
Ignoring her eidetic recall
You didn’t know how to respond
To cry or to laugh
As I sang all your favourite tunes
Word-perfect, as always.
Cheating
The Dragoness
Tongue tied in the face of such total denial
Unsure what to say as she squirms to fit in
Contorting the truth ’til it matches desire
She wriggles and struggles to conquer our whim
The pile ever growing, her hoard has been threatened
Not ev’ry dear item surviving the cull
Our backs strained and suffered, this one is the seventh
We’ve moved her rag fact’ry from Burnley to Hull
We stand here, an army of moral supporters
Poke holes in each argument, watering wails
That presage the tantrum still bubbling under
With glimpses of brimstone and manicured nails
I’ve gathered my forces, reluctant acceptance
Complying with wishes, she feigns every mood
And snatches at fav’rites we’d bagged, boxed and bundled
But left unattended while loading the boot
Do unto others…
I did to another what he did to me
But revenge tasted bitter – not my cup of tea.
My regret was so great for the wrong I had done
That I gave him the option to hurt me again.
A circle I started, one vicious and sad.
I waltzed him around – yes, the ending was bad
For greater mistakes I made far more than he
In repeating the woes they returned back times three.
Such discord I sowed as I tried to break free
That our dance was a picture without harmony.
For no balance may rest where love cannot be found,
Thus twisting and painful, we fell to the ground.
Take notice, my dear, of the lesson I learnt:
Jump away from the fire when you have been burnt,
For returning to fuel it, again and again
Will bring you but blisters and plenty more pain.
Socially Satirical Poem
Three little businessmen, ran to catch a train.
The salesman got there first, but strangely turned around again.
The lawyer shouted ‘stop!’ then ran on as the others paused.
The politician huffed and puffed, but there was no applause.
On entering the carriage, all the passengers aghast;
The salesman barged straight up the aisle, the lawyer then pushed past,
The politician coughed a spell then mopped his weary brow,
I sat there in a corner, watching, wondering, what now?
The salesman made a tired mum give up her seat and move,
The lawyer rudely staked a claim by crafty elbow’s shove,
The quiet politician, without a word sat down,
Then unpacked papers from his bag, enough to fill a town!
Three little businessmen, settled in to ride.
The salesman got straight on the phone, my word, but he was snide!
The lawyer chose to read a while, then unpacked not just book,
but torch and pen and bookmark to make sure we all would look.
The politician next to me had work to do, it seemed,
Yet as he sifted papers, I watched and thought I dreamed.
No laws was he a-reading, no bills, naught penned of State,
But letters to the editor, the Daily Mail of late.
Three little businessmen, caught the four-eighteen.
‘Tis truth, that which I tell you, though it may seem obscene.
The best-dressed in the carriage, the least well did behave,
As one by one they all did start to rant and then to rave.
The salesman’s telephones after a while had ceased to work.
He chose to vent his spleen at all and sundry, what a jerk!
The lawyer found their ticket was not quite the one they claimed –
Not valid on this service, nor even in their name!
The canny politician, avoided all the fuss,
By nipping to the lavatory when the inspector passed.
But such was his frustration, on coming back to find,
The trolley passed already, that his manners slipped his mind.
Three little businessmen, had a rotten trip.
The salesman made a fool of himself trying to act so slick –
He loved his voice so dearly that, despite his useless ‘phone,
He pitched his product to a youth – alas, if he’d but known!
The student studied chemistry, was quite a whizz in fact.
He knew about the product, and what’s more, that it was crap.
He told the salesman nicely, just why it didn’t help.
Oh my, was that poor salesman shocked by this young whelp!
The lawyer tried to argue with the manager of the train
To let her off her fare as she would not pay it again.
‘Though arguments may be your job’, the train attendant cried,
‘You’ll pay like all the rest of t’mob!’ – she did, for all her pride.
The politician also, took a rather nasty fall –
For farting in a public train is hardly shame at all,
But blaming what you did upon another who did not,
Is like to get a politician in an awkward spot.
Three little businessmen, pride before a fall,
Might have learnt a lesson, but I fear have not at all,
For daily do I see them, each one on my train,
Try the same tricks over, and fail at them again.
(Based on actual events, any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely beside the point – you all ought to know better at your ages!)
Katherine Shirley 