I am not sure whether it was The burnt banana bread Or the under-spiced Over-baked biscuits That did it But I am thoroughly Sick-as-a-dog Fed up to the back teeth And beyond With the schoolyard B*llsh*t bakesale Not just the politics The cut and thrust Of who gets to bake And who gets to buy At the thrice termly Repeating misery That is the fundraiser Conspicuous, competitive, Consumption For a school committee With more money Than common sense Soliciting donations: Baked goods; sweets; Good-as-new toys; Dictating requirements: Own clothes; costumes; Odd shoes; socks; Random coloured shirts; Hair ribbons; headgear; We all pay for a day Out of uniform Or suffer culinary torture Face it, ladies I can actually cook But my kitchen will never be One hundred percent Gluten or nut-free I don’t want to poison Anyone (by accident) And I resent the waste Of good ingredients This charade entails Let’s just forget it The whole in-crowd Phenomenon What are we, twelve? Phooey to the PTA! Us working mums have Bigger problems Than dusting off a dirndl To play at housewife On a weekday afternoon Though what you choose To do with your own time Is none of my business. And that was my Considered, rational, Personal perspective Before we ate the Glitter-encrusted Muffin of doom That somehow gave The entire family Galloping gut rot (Even the cat) Don’t ask me how I no longer care We have run out of Buckets, bog roll, And fresh underwear Seriously, Screw the whole thing! I am switching to Online donations At least they don’t Require that I provide Correct change Nor that I invest my Hard earned paycheck In industrial quantities Of bathroom bleach And antacids Only to be sneered at By the clique of Suzie home-maker And sycophants Holding court At the school gate Judging me and mine For our contribution To the latest cause
Competition
Ice cream van
Dinosaur wellies
Stomping the park puddles
Familiar green shapes
Immortalised in
Rubberised plastic
Formed from crude oil
As if forged from the
Fossilized bones of
Long dead ancestors
Reincarnated
As protectors of
Juvenile feet
Roaming freely
Through marshy ground
Wild as once before
Roaring early displeasure
At competition for
Territory
A chance to slide
Through mud
Young pitted against young
Tooth and claw
Fighting to be first
To feed
A Race
Fleet of foot, we rose up on new legs
And crawled from the ocean,
Found caves by the shore more secure,
But ambitious, precocious, we wanted more.
Overtaking the bones of dinosaurs
Forging weapons of our bodies
We set out to outsmart competition
Surpass them with strength and speed.
It was not easy. Some fell early
To malnutrition; attrition rate high,
But we were stubborn, focused;
Too intent on growth to die.
Hurdled germs on our own terms
Through the darker ages, lettered pages
To illuminate and illustrate
Our superior ways, our mind, our fate.
When prayer for days fell out of fashion,
Revolution wrought new passion
Choosing sides and burning towns:
Spoils to victors, death to clowns.
Bloodied our hands in War and Peace
With the drawing of borders and global police
Such inventive solutions to building new homes
That we thought we were Gods, not flesh and bones.
And now we have entered a digital age
We find new forms of life engaged
In fights for supremacy, violent rage
Evolved to the glare of a flickering page.
But we haven’t forgotten our primitive roots
For one, in anger, aims and shoots
To rid this world of other tribes
Ensuring only “ours” survives.
A Rotten Rochester
Well f**k me, he thinks he’s the Earl of sedition
Possibly drinking and whoring enough
To qualify for such exalted position
Aloof and unkempt as he pinches at snuff
Unsure of a welcome in company cultured
So scoffing at those that profess to know Art
He tells us we’re dreaming, unknowing and tortured
But drunkenness little will set him apart
Together we poets forego other fortunes
To settle our diff’rences, savour each line
Uncalled-for comparisons, low blows and falling
He’s here in our cups with his fancies, divine
Reviewing each mouthful with plentiful clamour
To coax of this company swallows and gall
His hopes never plainer, to blind us with glamour
The manner unfortunate, no less, the fall.
The Future
One day it creeps up
With its laser-bright tech
Androids, iPads and iPods
And it’s me, me, me, next!
Me, first in the queue
For my bells and my whistles
Buying new, full price too
Grab an upgrade that sizzles
The older and wiser
Are left far behind
While the eager, hard-driver
Is blowing his mind
On fragile collectables
Soon out of date
But oh, so delectable
He just can’t wait
Get one home from the shop
And undress it with care
See your mates’ faces drop
Blank with envious stare
Why take the insurance
Of tested, tried, true
When flashy performance
Is shiny and new?
It’s progress, yeah baby!
You know that it’s fun
The future is selling
A new app to run
All manner of items
Are bought on the net
If you’ve never tried iPhones
You haven’t lived yet
Every inch of existence
Is broadcast in space
Yet we must be persistent
So we’re easy to trace
In the hope that new planets
Want to ‘friend’ us online
Drop a tweet on our twitter
To invite us to dine
At their favourite pit-stop
En-route through to Mars
Where the quaint little bipeds
Zoom ’round in their cars
Taking a back seat
Racist grannies on the bus
Tut and stare – it’s them v. us
Martin Luther was their King
But did his words mean anything?
Instead of peace from A to B
Oneupmanship is all they see
A trade in slaves they scowl and claim
No other story merits blame
How then may one girl best explain
Two thousand years of Jewish pain?
Our ancestors have suffered too
But my pale face meets hostile view
No white devil yet understands
The misery of foreign lands
Of being torn from all you know
And sold for servitude, although
If we had time enough to show
So many tales of mankind’s woe
Are written, spoken, danced and sung
To exorcise this bitter crumb
As painful history lays bare
How little pity all do spare
For those they see as lesser folk
The truth is plain, a racist joke
Les Oiseaux
Les femmes sont comme les oiseaux.
On a certaines grandes specimens –
Celles aux chevelures tres compliquées
Colorées, parfumées, coudues jusqu’aux oreilles
Pour les faire sourire,
Et d’autres qui presque se cachent
Afin de se meler aux murs,
Se protéger dans une forêt
D’humanité grise et passive,
Et ne jamais se faire remarquer
Par celles qui les mangeraient,
Chance donnée.
Lost in The City
When all alone and lost at sea
Amidst the suited scowling fray
I picture fields with peace for me
And trees to keep them all at bay.
I pass them by, these blinkered hordes
And wonder at them as I go
Who register a life, of course,
But have no wish to watch it grow.
Their view of man disturbs me so
That I confess myself amazed.
They barely see me as I go
And hurry in their daily daze.
If I were dressed as prince, or king,
Rather than humble pauper here
They’d scramble fast to kiss my ring
Instead, they wish I’d disappear.
I don’t fit in here, never could.
Nor see I why I should or would
Be wishing such a life for me
As suited, booted, clonedly
They all appear to want to lead.
And barely living, stumble forth,
Motivation: only greed
And what the Joneses have, of course.
Katherine Shirley 