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The Flip Side & The Funny Side


& the Funny Side

Poems by Pam Crane



Published by Shoestring at Shakespir

Copyright 2017 Pam Crane



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All people that on Earth do dwell

Have made themselves a living hell.

Hence the admission I must make:

Creating them was my mistake.

I made an error once before -

I bred the dreadful dinosaur;

I thought my dragons would be fun

With scales that glittered in the sun;

With mighty bodies, tiny brains

They fought and foraged on the plains

And some with feathers learned to fly

Through Gaia’s prehistoric sky.

But after millions of years

With nothing much between the ears

And only fit to be destroyed

I zapped them with an asteroid.


Began again. I made an Ape.

A bigger head, a better shape.

They seemed to know that I was there,

And soon were swarming everywhere.

“Come on!” I said, “Be more like me!

I’m hungry for your company!”

We painted caverns in Lascaux,

I breathed on Michelangelo;

Their voices overflowed with words

And music richer than the birds.

They made so many, many things,

They filled the sky with metal wings,

Their cities with expensive light

No longer wanting sleep at night.

They went from slates and scrolls and prayer

To sending pictures through the air,

From foot and horse and sailing ship

To travel by computer chip.

Now they are choking in their cars,

Their litter orbiting the stars.


Too late to save the forest trees,

Too late for fish and manatees,

Too late to stop the melting poles,

To re-establish gender roles,

Too late to stop them wanting more,

To halt inevitable war.


I visited … I will again,

Disguised as ordinary men.

But will they listen? Not a chance.

I won’t get a second glance

On local hustings, on TV;

No-one now believes in me -

Or even in the smart machines

That model on dramatic screens

The choices and their urgency

That now besiege humanity.

They hear the scientists’ advice

But carry on. And pay the price.


Yet, if they want to have their cake

And eat it, this is my mistake.

I said, ‘Go forth and multiply!’

Now half will freeze and half will fry,

These billions struggling to be

Immortal and a match for me.

Amid the greed, amid the waste,

My dereliction must be faced;

I let the species dominate

And sealed the lovely planet’s fate,

As rarely has it ever been

My policy to intervene.


Must this creation be no more,

Just like the hated dinosaur?

Shall I now let a meteor crash?

Or tomb them in volcanic ash?

Or drown them in the rising tide

Of filth that is their suicide?

Shall all their tears, and hope, and prayer,

And love, not get them anywhere?

I am the God to whom they turned

In vain when ancient cities burned -

But I am the God who tried to teach

Them grace of life and grace of speech.

What can I do? I made the rules

Kept by the wise, ignored by fools.

What can I do? It’s nearly time,

And still the temperatures climb.

What shall I do? I must not make

My third, and very worst, mistake.



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[]The Luck of the Irish


When luck came up for the cosmic draw

Ireland was left with the shortest straw -

The Paddies were saddled with Murphy’s Law.


Wondrous schemes that were set to fail,

Endless spills from the milking pail;

A sting in every romantic tale.


So when O’Shaunessy found the Grail

Hidden behind a harvest bale

It split as quick as a fingernail


And Father Flaherty at his door

Said, ‘What’s that dirty oul’ piss-pot for?

The glue’s not holding – yer’ll need some more.’


He showed his prize to a journalist

Who conned it off him when both were pissed

And wrote it onto an auction list.


Delaney bought it for half a pig

Then turned it over to hold his wig

Before a jaunt to the hills to dig.


His luck was in and he’d done the trig -

His Granda’s mattock was in the rig

For surely there would be Something Big.


His rainbow hung in the mountain mist;

He chased, and swore, and he shook his fist -

For all that glittered was mica schist.


Back in Blarney Delaney kissed

The Stone, and took an almighty swig

Of moonshine mixed with the local ale;

Summoned the pub accordionist

To set the mood with a fancy jig

And thrilled his pals with a bogus tale

Of holy relics and fairy ore.

He sold his luck to a hundred more -

Till time ran out on the bar-room floor …



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[]THE electric CHAIR


Old Mrs Husband wonders where

She can buy an electric chair.

Does she need help with rising, sitting?

Somewhere comfy to do her knitting?

Or does she need a seat on wheels

To whizz through Markses for bargain meals?


Old Mrs Husband laughs and answers,

‘I can swing with the Strictly dancers.

I can outpace the smartest feet

From top to bottom of Mostyn Street,

And lunch is at an hotel – my chief

Indulgence, fillet of rare black beef.’


Old Mrs Husband smiles and rises.

‘Life should be filled with nice surprises.

I like to party and love Design.

Friends are coming for cheese and wine;

I want to hear a delighted shout

As chairs light up when the lights go out!’


Old Mrs Husband winks and adds

‘What would really excite the lads

Would be a proper electric chair

To strap them in for a trendy dare.

But all the Gruesome Gerties had gone

When I went looking on Amazon!’


Old Mrs Husband’s evening Do’s

Are in the papers and on the News.

Her centrepiece is a heated couch,

A fit masseur in a posing pouch -

And oldies queueing from everywhere

For treatment in her electric chair!


(… Old Mrs Husband is still on-line

Implementing a dark design;

She keeps in touch with a Texas jail

Hoping they’ll have a chair for sale.

She has the cellar with mains supply,

And her life-long list of who must die …)



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Next to the gatepost, by the tree,

Messages wait for Sniffy and me -

Enemy poo or friendly pee?



Follow the perfume round a bend …

Out for adventure we find our friend,

Pleasure expressed at either end,



Off to the woods, beside the stream,

With bones to bury and dreams to dream,

Three escapees are the perfect team



Chasing tails in a badger hollow,

Marking trails for our friends to follow,

Who can resist a stinky wallow?



For lunch we find an exciting farm,

Chivvy the sheep but do no harm …?

Outrun the shouts of enraged alarm -



Rapt in splendour of wool and mud,

Only the tiniest hint of blood,

Sniffy is dancing respect to Spud

Whodunnit …


Down to the town for a scrumptious tea:

Soulful eyes on a human knee

And off with the plateful – it was we



Then into the square to greet the pack

Smiling to have their heroes back,

Eager for all the hunting craic;




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A lady in the dock today

Was charged with causing an affray,

Criminal damage, and assault –

But swore it was her victims fault.


The pensioner told our reporter

She was shopping with her daughter

When a fascia caught her eye:



‘Now, I was taught to spell,’ said she,

‘And handle the Apostrophe!

My parents didn’t fight the Hun

For all we built to be undone.


If we are to be civilised

Our English Grammar should be prized.

Staring upward, getting madder,

I said, “Susan, get a ladder.”


Flexing bi- and quadriceps

We stole a window-cleaner’s steps.

As Susan footed, up I went,

And scrubbed until my breath was spent.


In tiny falling flakes of red

The rogue apostrophe was dead!

Too late the fryer and his queue

Ran to the doorway; I and Sue


Had quickly taken to our heels …

And then we heard the whoosh of wheels

Behind us. How could I resist

Copping a pavement cyclist?


My blood was up; now I would do

Something I always wanted to.

My bag of eggs and milk and butter

Toppled the blighter in the gutter.


What a fracas! What a scene!

After the police had been,

The paramedics, biker’s Mum,

While waiting for a brief to come,


I took the chance to really hammer

Home the need for proper grammar;

Someone had to take a stand

To get bad punctuation banned.


And as for cycles on the path …!

I vented years of bottled wrath

On PC Jones, who didn’t seem

To care, and simply let me scream.


And so I whacked him with my brolly.

Yes, I was a total wally.

Yes, I’ve had to pay the price -

Six months suspended isn’t nice.


But I shall keep a beady eye,

Young man, on your report of my

Crusade, and I shall tell the nation

If you botch your punctuation!’


Well, thats us told. Your Editor

From now on in will honour her

Grammatical authority,

And make it’s rules priority.



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What a boom!

Crack of doom -

Every room

Is quaking

And shaking

Things breaking


From the club

From the pub

Village hub

Running feet

People meet

In the street

As they stare

At the flare

In the air

Any light

In the night

Is too bright

To ignore

And they saw

More and more

In the sky

Flashing by

Very high –


Did a shock

Shatter rock

And unlock

Living light

Green & white

On the night?

Did a star

Fall too far

Leave a scar?

Or a craft?

Don’t be daft

They all laughed

Was the fire

In a gyre

Something’s pyre?



Sent the cream

Of their team

Men in suits

Shiny boots

In cahoots

With Whitehall

Had a ball

With it all -

What a joke!

Harried folk

Never spoke


In the drama

One farmer

Stayed calmer

Took a swig

Slew a pig

Cut a twig

From the boughs

That allows

You to dowse

(With a fork)

Took a walk

With the pork

In the night

To the site

Of the fright


By an orch-

ard his torch

Hit a scorch

And he found

Something round

In the ground

On the hill

Farmer Bill

Lit a grill


Oh the smell

On the fell

Worked well -

Only then

Nine or ten

Tiny men

With noses

Like hoses

On roses

Guts grumbling

Feet stumbling

Came tumbling

To feast

On the Beast


Bill’s bacon

Was taken



He set

His net

For a bet

Purple eyes

Silver thighs

Were the prize


But the farmer

Sans armour

Had karma -

Raw meat

Was a treat


Razor jaw

Silver claw

Simply tore

At the mesh

And the fresh

Human flesh


How he bled

As they fed

On his head

Not a stain

Of his brain

Would remain

Not a hair

Of him there

Anywhere …


The police

Found a piece

Of his fleece

It was day-

Light so they

Got away


No-one knows

What still goes

On in those

Silent fells

No-one yells

No-one tells

But each year

People here




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Spawned in a constellation

Deep in the heart of space

A wayward alien nation

Grew to a master race.


Trapped on a wasted planet,

Damned by a raging star,

They built their craft; but to man it

Took them a step too far.


They picked all the politicians,

The cream of the world’s elite,

Great scientists, skilled clinicians -

But nobody off the street.


They left the poor and the sickly

With barely a month’s supplies

And left for the stars too quickly

To see the shock in their eyes.


Silence came to the planet.

A billion souls had died.

Gone were the fools who ran it;

Now the survivors tried.


Gentle with plant and creature,

Braving the Polar sun,

They followed an ancient teacher

In treating all life as one.


Rain came back to the furrow,

Fruit returned to the tree;

New eyes blinked in the burrow,

New fins flashed in the sea.


The star in its violent cycle

Moved on to a blissful calm,

Promising men like Michael

Hope for a struggling farm.


Communities met and traded

And centuries had gone by.

Even the folklore faded

Of the great escape to the sky.


Heading for home one twilight

After his flocks were fed

Michael’s thoughts were of firelight,

A welcoming wife, and bed.


Nothing prepared him for drama,

The scream of metal in air,

And searing the eyes of the farmer

A light no human could bear.


Something the size of a nightmare

Exploded through field and grain;

Michael lay shaking in fright there,

His soul and body all pain.


How could he know what landed

Was full of women and men

Who, hopeless, lonely and stranded

In space, had come home again?


Time had warped on the voyage;

The ship crashed into an Earth

Struggling into the new age

Bringing itself to birth.


How could he know the wonders

That under the hull were sealed?

The plans, the dreams and the blunders

That ended in Michael’s field?


How could he hear the crying

Or know that before his eyes

The last of his kind were dying

Who conquered the earth and skies? …


Their final act of destruction

The crater that was his farm,

Its years of scanty production

Aborted with all its charm.


After the conflagration

Villagers came to stare

At the grave of an ancient nation

That nobody knew was there.


In time they gathered the metal

Strewn over Michael’s soil,

Learned how to work and fettle

For tool and girder and coil.


And metal became a token,

Contending came with the skill.

Ambition and fear were woken.

Their future awaits them still …



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I wandered, lonely as a cloud

Of smoke outside a cancer ward

Where cigarettes are not allowed,

And wondered where the drugs were stored.

Inside that safe? Behind this door?

I’d never cased the joint before.


I sauntered through the coffee shop,

Down disinfected corridors,

On past the sluices, man with mop

(I wonder if he ever scores)

Averted gaze from turning heads

In rows of most un-private beds.


At last I found the pharmacy.

“Hallo my love!” the lady smiled.

“Who is it that you’ve come to see?

Your Mum? Your Dad? Another child?”

Behind her, stacked on every shelf

The stash I needed for myself -


Barbiturates, and methadone,

And other stuff that I could sell.

(I couldn’t pull this job alone;

I’d have to bring a mate as well.)

I would impress her. I’m no fool!

“I’m learning medicine at school.


I’ve done the body, done the brain;

I’ve started on prescribing now.

I really need your help to train -

Miss said the doctors would allow

Me in your store to make a list

So I can be a specialist.”


I don’t know why she rang the bell

Or why the docs and coppers came.

My spiel was going really well

Until she asked me for my name.

At dawn they raided my old crowd…

I wander lonely in my cloud.



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( a metaphysickal sonet)


Whereas two appels sittynge on a gait

Do mounch eache othere, and do slyly mait,

Do I oft wyshe thatt wee more often coulde;

And synce wee cannot, I am verry wood.

I looke upp att the Moone; shee ful wel knowes,

Thy beauteous forme to mee shee sholde disclose,

And I sholde drynke the honey of thyne eyen,

And lie wyth thee, and mak thee wholly myne;

But synce the dayes must Tortoys-lyk crawle bye,

And nott lyk swyfte swallowës y-flye,

Onn theyre harde bak moste paciount I must ryde,

My wyngës clipt, my povre tong y-tyed;

And wyth the swallowes sende my litel verse,

And numbely wate for thee upon myne erse.



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Though I can be nobody else but me,

If I were not myself, how would it be?…

Myself would serve the soul of someone other -

Not me – and I myself would rule another!


Yet if I occupied this other I,

I still would wonder how and where and why

This other person lived who wasn’t me …

And so run on in circles endlessly!


There is some consolation in the thought

That someone somewhere equally is fraught

With puzzlement – since he alone is he,

Then how on earth can someone else be me???



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Does he think?

Too small to be real, bearing

A marked resemblance to the trousered rabbit;

Apparently knitted,

The only clear distinction between him and the thing

With which he holds communion


The cap of golden fuzz over the ears

And definitely fingers.


Rabbit is an artifact, however.

Verily knitted.

Rabbit, flung, sprawls


Rabbit chewed

Is mercifully bloodless;


Inspected and abused, deserves

A medal for patience.


As for the other

Small cuniculomorph,

Agent of these ritual indignities

And muttered spells,

There is more behind the

Blue-bead eyes than bears question,

Far more than old nylon stockings and foam chips,

There is (and wonder at it)


Unto itself and still enough to spare

Of magic mind

Wherewith to gaze life into his woollen ally

So I could swear

The beast reciprocates the stare.

- And does he think??



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[]Head of TV Drama’s New Year Sonnet


To The Editor

Radio Times

80, Wood Lane


W12 0TT

November 16th 1996


I promise to announce the start

At the beginning, and not part-

Way through the hour’s dramatic art.


I promise not to wreck the plot,

Parading its climactic shot

For weeks in every trailer slot.


I promise not to fray the nerves

Of those the Corporation serves

By throwing fancy camera curves.


I promise not to over-run,

Delaying what should have begun,

Spoiling the nation’s video fun;


And promise – after the Star’s Wardrobe and Stunts -

To credit the catchy theme music for once!


[_ (2017, 20+ years on, and nothing has changed. _]

Surprise, surprise.)



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My husband had to come to see

How Pendle was – but minus me -

And here acquired the pleasant habit

Of sucking a Sarsaparilla Tablet.


A friendly, enterprising chap,

He dropped two packets in my lap

On his return, and watched my face

For signs of pleasure or grimace.


To cut a happy story short,

We soon were through the few he bought.

It will be miles and months before

We come back North and buy some more!


So, could you post to us in Kent

Enough to meet the cheque I’ve sent?…

To last till Pendle calls again?

Yours sincerely,

Pamela Crane.



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Cradled in the Mayor’s Arms

So many happy years,

We knew our Dulux Weathershield

(Affordable – we’re not well-heeled!)

Would last; but now the paint has peeled

As the Millennium nears.


It held the Hurricane at bay,

It shimmered through the Drought,

But lorries pounding through the night

Shake wall and window, southern light

Has bleached the blue and aged the white

And cracks are opening out.


Friends and strangers come to share

A sanctuary here;

Their welcome needs a shining door,

Bright windows to the bedrooms four

Whatever storms we have in store,

To shelter and to cheer!



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Obsessed and upset by the inexplicable fact,

We live – a yellow sun between two darknesses

That shadow and touch it with something infinite there,

An Always inescapable where something precious is;

But hidden under Time.


Oppressed and beset by the inner splitting of fact

We give a narrow – unforeseen though hardness is -

And shadowy muchness of nothing definite there,

An all-ways inextricable and clumsy preciousness

That isn’t worth a dime.


( A bit of fun to rhyme!)



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Shouting between islands

How Are You

Signalling from peak to higher peak

I Love You – whensoever the mist may clear -

Shaking hands

with a fellow briefly in a passing plane

Able to speak

to you

on several wavebands

Happy Birthday Dear

Taking a turn as compère of the week

I say again


I wish you happiness in your sea-girt


wiping guano and turtle-dirt

away from Beethoven and Vera Lynn

with plenty

of reasonably clean

sand to bury

your head in


I hope you enjoy

your cave

No doubt you will employ

a great deal of native ingenuity

in making the most of such an opportunity

to Save


Have fun

among the birds, up in the Seventh Heaven

and give my regards

to Angels Eleven

You won’t fall down;

the fuels you will need are only words

and a front seat in the Sun -

Hot Air

will keep you there


Safe out of real touch real sight real sound

Tucked away in a high womb

you deeply care

for the lack of loving-room

responsibly and gratefully aware

of Us who wave and wonder from the ground

with whom you share



over the air


We love you

Yes we listen

avidly to Number One for his Opinion

amid the static …


Bones wither away under the skin

a soul begins to


The cold and comes down out of the attic

to make up on the missing

Joie de Vivre Hot Pants Passion


communiqués press handouts Lone Yachtsman kissing

Miss Erotic Plastic


fell flat

we walk straight through

you we never notice you we know you

were never real

Visiting gods are inconceivable

and in Spring

hermits are out of fashion



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The day the moon fell

Music screamed up a nerve in the world

The robins crowed like cockerels

And the wind blew all the air away


The day the moon fell

Ice cracked the face of the sun

There were blue strawberries

And a rampant worm bit a sparrow in half


The day the moon fell

Love and hate collided and blew up

The last Pope ran for Parliament

And God met the funny side of hell



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O come to the shade

Of the cool colonnade -

Don’t bother with vestimenta!

What use is a tunic

To Roman or Punic?

This is the community centre!


Vel Gallic, vel Grecian

Your friend Diocletian

Invites you to bathe at your leisure.

It’s such fun to swim in

(As well as the women!)

The scenery promises pleasure


Diverting to play with;

And you have a way with

The ladies that seems to amuse them.

So let’s make a foursome.

Ointment? I’d adore some!

But never mind clothes – we don’t use them.



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… to breathe this element of muted sound

and think only the things that fishes do …!


… I, squat on the parapet, look down.

My mind, lapped in that weed-lucent brown

Mapping the mossy under-arch with light

hereunder shimmering … lean over! Look!

See? Touch it! (Not too far. Don’t fall.

Not yet.) Trickery, you see. The bright

thing, like all wind-spun happiness, shook

and left you to the darkness … yea my mind

moves to the slap and the sway of it.


… shall I be feeding the fishes, now?

Or will the fishes give me

to eat corals, rocksand, sunlight filtering,

turtleshell, chilled fringes of moon;

weed-broth from the crab’s mouth

and mud sifted in silver,

seasoned with seed-pearls,

served in a mussel-shell

with a spoon?


Come come, itty-bitty man!

Come come! The fishes sing.

One for Mummy,

one for Daddy,

eat your nice pudding!


Ha! The blue waves. New and drinkable sky.

Out there where the rainbow lives

and soon shall I.

The men who poison the rainbow

poison the mind of me

with an ill wind, and a sick rain,

and they drive me to the sea;

and the sun lies in a crooked way,

and gods die as people pray,

and fear spreads fungous through decay.

But I shall soon be free …


… soon in the sun-silk water I shall drop away,

leaving my clothes behind, for there is blight on them.

Soon I am ready. Are you coming with me?

… leaving your clothes behind, for there is blight on them.

Why don’t you take them off? Take off your clothes, I say!

Your soul is rotting with it – I can see the mark,

mark of a madman. Stay behind and save the world!

I shall be under the bridges that you burn

crowned with a crown of swimming sticklebacks

to keep the twisted thorns out of my hair.

Washed in the running radiance of pearls

I’ll have sweet skin, and I shall laugh! as stern

Nemesis chokes you in your deadly air.



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[]Hiawatha & the Midges


By the shores of Gichi Gumi

Rising from the Big Sea Water

See the cloud of tiny midges

Hear them singing in the sunshine

Happy to be free and flying

Happy to be near the forest

Near the tents and near the tipis

Hear them singing to the horses

Pawing in the summer forest

See them settle on Nokomis

Stitching hides and flapping wildly

See them cover Minnehaha

Running to the cooling water

See them follow Hiawatha

Running after Minnehaha

Flying in their ears and noses

Lodging in the braid and buckskin

Up the skirt and in the breechcloth

In the moccasins and leggings

Feasting on their legs and faces


Then said mighty Hiawatha

I will make a fire of pine wood

Offer to the Great White Spirit

To the great Gichi Manitou

Many prayers and supplications

Ask Him how to stop the itching

How to send away the midges

Then he rescued Minnehaha

From the shining Big Sea Water

Sent her off to look for firewood

And he sent Nokomis with her

Itching, scratching as they foraged

Still pursued by hymning midges


Then the mighty Hiawatha

In the whining of the midges

In the cries of Minnehaha

Heard Gichi Manitou speaking

Heard Him ask for many branches

Set in heaps around the tipis

Burning in a sacred circle

Sending up their smoke to Heaven

And he said to old Nokomis

This will chase away the midges

This will stop their biting, biting

Their infuriating singing

Go and make a paste of honey,

Cedar, salt and burning garlic

This will stop the bites from itching

On your wrinkled face and fingers

On my hero’s breast and belly

Then with all the balm remaining

I will massage Minnehaha

As the smoke ascends to Heaven

And she smiles in my embraces


See the cloud of angry midges

Rising from the tents and tipis

Out of wampum bag and wigwam

Rising angry through the forest

In the smoke that bears them upward

Smoke of sly Gichi Manitou

Chasing from the sacred circle

From the skin of Minnehaha

From the skin of old Nokomis

From the skin of Hiawatha

From their cradle by the Water

All the midges of the forest


Then the sly Gichi Manitou

Called upon great Animikii,

Called the Thunderer to aid him

Save His people from their torment

For the Thunderbird is mighty

Mightier than Hiawatha

And his wings eclipse the Heavens

And his winds are like a bellows

Blowing life and death before him

See him sweep the clouds of midges

From the forest to the mountain

From the mountain to the ocean

From one ocean to another

New and shining Big Sea Water

Till the wings of Animikii

Let them fall on distant forests

Let them fall in glens and corries

Fall among the peat and heather

And the people with pale faces

And the cows with orange fringes


See the cloud of happy midges

Dancing, dancing in the sunshine

Happy to be free and flying

Happy to be near the forest

Near the farm and near the shieling

In the land of Merry Dancers

Hear them singing to the farmers

Flying up their kilts to bite them

Hear them singing to the soldiers

Feasting on their angry faces


There is no Gichi Manitou

Listening to their petitions

To their curses, imprecations

As the sword, the mighty claymore

Winner of a thousand battles

Swings in vain against the midges

Now the lords of loch and mountain

Drinking deep at every ceilidh

Setting Dubh and Bride reeling

Setting old Cruatha jigging

Hear the wailing of the midges

Hear the wailing of the pibroch

Scotland rants and Scotland dances



<><><>Forward to Index<><><>



[]Seven Ages Of TEETH

From Cradle to Grave



Toothypegs icumen in,

Proudly say Goo-goo!

Chew the swede

And spew the feed

And bawl till you are blue -

Say Goo-goo!


Molar breaketh through the gum,

Tooth after tooth comes through;

Baby champs

And clings to Gramps,

And sendeth us cuckoo -

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

We long for sleep,

Worn out by *bleep*





Yum diddle Lidl Lidl Yum diddle I

Yum diddle Lidl Lidl Yum diddle I …


My mother couldn’t make me eat

- and me a growing lass -

I hated milk and spud and meat

And cabbage gave me gas.

But then I found a magic snack

That saved my appetite

And got my Mum’s approval back,

My peggies strong and white! …


Oh! SuperCalciFractElasticExtraChunky CheezWhiz -

Even tho’ the taste of it

Superlatively pleases,

If you chomp it hard enough

Your fillings fall to pieces,

SuperCalciFractElasticExtraChunky CheezWhiz!




If you can keep your teeth when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on genes;

If you can brush and floss when dentists doubt you,

(But make allowance for their slender means);

If you can brace, not be put off by bracing,

But being smiled at, dazzle with your smiles,

And being picky don’t need teeth replacing,

And still keep walking tall, despite your piles;


If you can talk with crowns and keep your diction,

And tweet and Skype and blog to keep in touch,

If you would keep your teeth free of affliction

And savings count with you – but not too much -

If you can fill the Application Form out

For BUPA dental care from year to year,

Yours is the Mouth and nothing will be worn out,

And what is more – you’ll have a Plan, my dear!




“Is there anybody there?” asked the Sufferer,

Knocking on the lamplit door;

And his car in the silence spewed exhaust

On the city’s dirty floor;

And a bat flew out of the gutter,

Above the Sufferer’s head:

And he banged on the door a second time;

“Is there anybody there?” he said.

But no one came down to the Sufferer;

No head from the soot-stained sill

Leaned over and looked into his pained eyes,

Where he stood distressed and still.

But only a host of phantom dentists

That drilled in the clinic then

Stood listening in the quiet lamp-light

To that cry from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint dust-beams on the dark stair,

That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air shaken (not stirred …)

By the weary Sufferer’s call.

And he sensed in his gut their strangeness,

Their muteness meeting his cry,

While his car moved – he’d left the handbrake off -

‘Neath the starless and murky sky;

So he suddenly hammered the door, even

Harder, and shook his head:—

“Tell them I came, and no one answered,

I kept my appointment,” he said.

Not the least stir made their receptionists,

Though every word he spoke

Fell echoing through the shadowy rooms of the clinic

From this single desperate bloke:

Oh, they heard him put his foot down,

And the grind of tyres on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,

When the racing wheels were gone.




O Dentist! my Dentist! our fearful job’s not done;

The lips must weather every crack, the prize we seek be won;

The lamp is near, the drill I fear, assistants all preparing,

While follow eyes the steady hand, the visage grim and glaring:

But O teeth! teeth! teeth!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the bib my fillings lie,

My face and tongue quite dead.


O Dentist! my Dentist! rise up and hear the bell;

Rise up – for you the phone has rung – for you appointments swell;

For you bookings and urgencies, the waiting-room


For you they call; the patients mass, their aching faces shrouding;

Revolve, O doors! and ring, O bells!

But I, with thankful tread,

Walk mended from the surgery …

My face and tongue quite dead.




Who has seen my teeth? …

Neither I nor you.

So when my lips hang trembling

No food is passing through.


Who has seen my teeth? …

Neither you nor I.

So when my friends avert their heads

Old Gummy’s passing by.




An old hippie optimist was standing one day

With a drink from his favourite jar.

He gazed at the optic as he tumbled and lay

In the light of the Tap Room and Bar.

Away in the Ladies sat combing her hair

His dear hippie potty old mate;

While she was retiring her chap was expiring

From bugs that bred under his plate.


Teeth, teeth, carious teeth -

Nothing could stop them

From rotting beneath.

So follow him follow,

He’s booked for tomorrow;

Inter him with sorrow

And carious teeth.



<><><>Forward to Index<><><>



[]Happy 15th Birthday

to my Favourite Magazine!


In February Ninety-Eight

The Twelfth was an important date -

ComputerActive on the stands,

And, even better, in my hands!


For fifteen years from Issue One,

Concise, informative and fun,

This magazine has stretched my mind,

And now I’m never left behind.


At seventy, because of you,

I help my friends and husband too

(Most of whom are even older!)

To get the hang of file and folder,


Choose computers, keep them clean,

(You never know where files have been

That friends love forwarding!) and learn

When disappointed, where to turn.


My darling husband takes to bed

The articles that I have read

So he can learn to deal with spam

And spot the latest nasty scam.


He now has confidence to try

New software; and we often buy

From your reviews the finest kit -

You help us make the most of it.


Our children all live overseas,

But we can keep in touch with these

We love, because you showed us how

With email, Skype and Facebook now.


And how we love the Letters page!

It shows we can be any age

And keep our faculties intact if

We remain ComputerActive!



<><><>Forward to Index<><><>





I don’t want a lorry,

I don’t want a car,

I don’t want a taxi

’Cause it isn’t very far.

I don’t want a bicycle,

I don’t want a fuss,

I just want an ordinary

Double-decker bus.


I would like some sympathy,

I would like a lift;

I would like a warmer place

To stand and stamp and shift!

I’d like to be a person,

But I feel anonymous

As I wait for that ordinary

Double-decker bus.


We’re not in a blizzard, and

We’re not in a storm;

We’re just in November and

It isn’t very warm!

The roads have been gritted, and

The fog has gone from us -

So what can be holding up

My Double-decker bus?


There may be an accident.

There may be a queue.

There may be a sea of cones

For him to battle through…


…A smile of explanation

Would be less injurious

Than your scowl when I fall on board

Your Double-decker bus.



<><><>Forward to Index<><><>





Oh it’s fun to be a little hypochondriac!

Oh it’s fine to want to lie around in bed!

It’s delightful to be lazy lying on your back,

To be comforted and cosseted and fed,

When the dictionary says you should be dead!


Oh it’s fine to be a little hypochondriac.

It’s fun to have a cupboard full of pills,

Of Calamine and Liver salts and Ipecac

And medicines for fevers and for chills,

And forms for cutting people out of wills!


Oh it’s nice to be a little hypochondriac.

I love hotties and thermometers and soup!

I know all about a dickey sacro-iliac,

Rubella, Yellow Fever, and the croup,

And I share it all on Friday at the Group.


Oh it’s wise to be a little hypochondriac.

You never know when bugs are set to bite!

Accumulating therapeutic bric a brac

Is an amateur pathologist’s delight -

And a different diagnosis every night!


And it pays to be a little hypochondriac,

Holding pricey Consultations every day!

This way I get my self-esteem and money back

For the bargain-basement bottles on display,

The prescriptions that I never throw away!



<><><>Forward to Index<><><>





“Just a Minute on ‘Silver Lining’;

Sixty seconds, and starting now!”

“On showery days when the sun is shining,

A thunder cloud with a beetle brow


Muscles in front of the golden glory

Threatening day with inky night -

But Sol is stronger than Jove is, surely,

Lining the cloud with silver light…”


“Repetition of ‘cloud’!” “For forty

Seconds ‘Silver Lining’ is yours.”

“A chap was tarring the roads; for sport he

Tried white-lining them on all fours …”


“Deviation! That’s white, not silver!”

“I haven’t finished!” “Well, carry on.”

“The moon came up, and a gleaming river

Of light … illumined the lines he’d done,


Turning them all to silver … Then he

Recollected an old technique …

Um …” “Hesitation!” “And far too many!

Twenty seconds are left to speak.”


“I was seven; my first magician

Filling the stage with flags and doves

Flourished in keeping with his tradition

The silver lining of cape and gloves.


How it shimmered! The act enchanted

This small boy; and that cloak means still

Every gift that I always wanted -

To mystify, to amaze, to thrill!”


“Congratulations! We have a winner;

You still spoke as the whistle went!”

The Minute Waltz; and we go to dinner,

Silver Service and David Brent …



<><><>Forward to Index<><><>




A Macaronic


Breakfast by the Sacre-Coeur

Baguette with a lot of beurre

Lunch will be a Petit Pain

Tea will be Baguette again


Mais à la Boulangerie

There is grande variety

So voici un little list

Of the Pain you may have missed


Pain au Froment – total wheat

Ne pas permetté to cheat

S’il n’est pas completely blé

They will take your marque away


There are gens qui run a mile

At the thought of Pain à l’Ail

Mais la grippe will never win

Once you get some garlic in


Walnut comme un petit brain

Est prisée from Tarn to Seine

Daily snacks of Pain aux Noix

Are one’s academic choix


Pain Nordique ou Pain Polaire

Open sandwich en plain air

Or the pretty Pain Tressé

Comfort food for coeurs blessés


Pain Bâtard? The artisan

Toujours bakes the best he can

Save for quelques-uns très bons qui

Come out of the oven wonky


Si vous cherchez Matzo bread

Ask for Pain Azymes instead

Pain Juif, Pain sans Levain

Once it’s Passover again


Pain Cramique with raisins in

Furtive dietary sin

Pain d’Épices trop chic to eat

Fancy, gingery and sweet


Two old favourites of mine

Pain Maison, Pain de Campagne

Made with n’importe quelle farine

Fresh beside the soup tureen


Forgeron and Fougassette

Niche Provençale assiette

Plein d’olives et zeste d’orange

Toute unique and great to mange


Tous les petits déjeuners

Avec coffee come Beignets

Yummy doughnuts nous can dunk

Adding inches to le trunk


Sandwiches a.k.a. Tartines

Feasts of salad or sardines

Ham or chicken or fromages

Perfect fare pour nos voyages


Pain de Seigle, Noir ou Son

Lovely with goats butter on

Déjeunette or Pain Ficelle

Little sticks taste just as well


Blanc ou Bis or Boule de Pain

Brioché and Campagrain

Pain de Mie et Pain Complet

Même Potage sous son Beret


Tous enfin sont Pain Rassis

Fit for toast avec confits

Or to keep the skinny you

Chaque Dimanche le Pain Perdu



<><><>Forward to Index<><><>



[]When I’m Cleaning Windows !


July 29th is a Wednesday

In 2015: Windows 10’s day.

There’ll be no 11 -

I’m sticking with 7

Despite what the Microsoft men say!


I’ve scuppered the Updates – so there!

I’m no longer tearing my hair.

I’ve started from scratch,

Not a worm, not a patch …

But a lot of security-ware!!!


I’ve even gone in for a Mac;

I’m giving my PC the sack.

In VirtualBox

Windows 7 just docks

When I’m done. I may never go back.



<><><>Forward to Index<><><>



[]1The Ballad of Binky Pocock


Byron Ingram Kingsley Pocock –

Binky to his titled friends –

Drills into ancestral bedrock

As the media pack descends …


Binky Pocock is a charmer

But he has a fatal flaw -

Maybe it is in his karma

He is posh but awfully poor.


Binky lives in faded glory

In a mansion with a park;

Pater’s Pater, goes the story,

Liked to party after dark …


Centuries of land and money

Went on women, dice and booze.

Fleeing debt and wife and son, he

Vanished on a winter cruise.


Binky should have gone to Eton,

Got himself a good Degree -

All his aspirations beaten

By the grandsire lost at sea.


Years of fêtes and jumbles later

Binky’s Pater passed away,

Leaving him alone with Mater

And a heap of bills to pay.


There was only one thing for it -

He must market Pocock Hall;

Too expensive to restore it

Now they had no staff at all.


Nor were daughters of the gentry

Queuing up to rescue him;

In Debrett’s the Pocock entry

Made his marriage chances slim!


Binky haunted all the places

He might find a wealthy wife -

Only disappointed faces

Met the story of his life.


Other impecunious cousins

Of the Queen had petting zoos,

Opened rooms to daily dozens -

Scores – of plebs in gawping queues;


In this way they scraped together

Just enough to make ends meet.

Thus the Upper Classes weather

Times that tax the Family Seat.


Not, alas, benighted Binky.

Every bank refused a loan;

Mater wrapped him round her pinkie;

Park and paths were overgrown …


… Single malt and Pater’s pistol

Shone beside the dying fire;

Binky’s mind was clear as crystal:

He would join the angel choir.


As he bit the deadly barrel

Did he hear a distant bell?…

Stumbling out in night apparel

To the hall, he all but fell.


“Francis Egan from Cuadrilla,”

Said the stranger on the line.

“I delayed this call until a

Friend suggested you would sign.


Pocock Hall is built on strata

Rich in gas. I understand

You and your disabled mater

Need to profit from your land?”


“Yes! Oh yes! Oh yes!” cried Binky

Egan then explained the drill.

“Locals may kick up a stink,” he

Said, “But watch your coffers fill!”


Byron Ingram Kingsley Pocock –

Binky to his titled friends –

Drills into ancestral bedrock

As the media pack descends …


“Stop the Fracking!” scream the headlines

And the women from the town.

Press are over-running deadlines,

Getting all the gossip down.


Paparazzi flash and scramble

Over bushes, walls and gates;

Binky takes a massive gamble,

Alienating all his mates.


Waving an impressive banner

In the centre of the crowd,

Mistress of the nearest manor

Rosy Moseley, blonde and loud


Shouts, “I always loved you Pocock,

But you never looked my way.

All you wanted out of wedlock

Was a cash cow who would pay.


Now I absolutely hate you,

Bringing ruin to the shire!

Yes, you’ll get some girls to date you -

All the ones for public hire.


I am also on my uppers,

But I utterly disdain

Any popinjay who scuppers

Love and happiness for gain.”


Rosy Moseley! Who’d have thought it?

Binky stares at Pocock Hall;

Ever since Cuadrilla bought it

He has had no peace at all.


Fracking drills, and fracking Mater,

Fracking builders, fracking din …

Thinks again of joining Pater;

Let his adversaries win.


Binky turns to the protesters,

Grabs a banner from the crowd;

Clearly Rosy’s hatred festers

But he may still make her proud.


“Come on Rosy! Come on people!

We’ve had more than we can stand!

Ring the bells from every steeple.

We are taking back our land.


Please forgive me. I am sorry,

So ashamed of selling out.

Hijack every fracking lorry!

Block the village roundabout!”


Could his future still be Rosy?

Could he make himself content,

Married somewhere small and cosy,

Furnished for a modest rent?


Binky finds the Fracking contract,

Stands among Cuadrilla’s foes;

“The environmental impact

Means this piece of paper goes.


Can we cancel lifetime leases?

I shall take the legal blows!”

Binky Pocock flings the pieces

Like confetti over Rose.



<><><>Forward to Index<><><>





Now, Wilhelmina Pomeroy’s

Obsession was for Little Boys.

It wasn’t that she … that … ahem! …

She simply liked to look at them.

So she, whene’er she found one rather

Docile, took him home to Father.

She stood them neatly in a row

And gazed at them with eyes aglow.

She soon had forty-two or so.


And when it came to fifty-three,

A few showed signs of jealousy!

At length – un coup inattendu -

A comely youth of twenty-two

Whose name we will forbear to mention,

Keyed to a pitch of nervous tension,

Struck the lady as she passed!


The chosen band looked on, aghast;

(Miss Pomeroy, I must confess,

Was put out by his forwardness)

And then with cries of “Insurrection!”

“This is done in self-protection!”

“Down with revolutionaries!”

“Equality is threatened! Where is

Social equilibrium,

Upset by antisocial scum?”

With yells and threats and kicks and shouts

They fell on him, unruly louts

And bea him up, and then they hurled

Him out into the lonely world.


They pinned a notice in the hall

Enforcing Equal Rights For All.

It was only fair and right

That she should kiss them all goodnight,

Said Wilhelmina, for she knew

That everyone would want her to.

So if she gave an extra squeeze

To one, her duty was to please

The others likewise – what is worse than

To feel you are a displaced person?

She little guessed there could be boys

Who do not like Miss Pomeroys …

One evening she was halfway down

The line, with kisses duly blown

And planted with a dose of passion,

When … TwentySix refused his ration!!!

Exasperated by the way

She gloated over them all day

He bravely pushed her face away!


He shared his predecessor’s fate.


And then they saw him pass the gate

One day, with a delightful girl -

Not plain and Pomeroid; a pearl!

She was no means to easy wealth

But simply loved him for himself,

And (which the idle are empty of)

She gave him manliness and love.

No bribery could stay them then!

None but the silliest of men

Could fail to see what they were missing,

Hindered by Wilhelmina’s kissing.


… Broken glass lay on the floor.

They had been gone an hour or more.

They’d even jammed the wretched door.

So now, alas, although she saw

What she had been forsaken for,

She couldn’t try to understand.

Ah! Bitter the revenge she planned!

With fury trembling, she took

Her blunderbuss from off its hook

And saw her face distorted in

Its surface to a horrid grin.

The muzzle cold upon her breast,

Her arms strained to the butt, she pressed

The trigger…

… Wrecked beyond repair

They found her – but they didn’t care.



<><><>Forward to Index<><><>



[]Winners and Losers

(with apologies to Nelly The Elephant’s original

lyricists, Ralph Butler & Peter Hart)


U. S. A:

The regular caucus came.

They chose an intelligent President -

Obama was his name.

One dark night

He had to leave again;

Two terms were spent and off he went

Never to serve again.


Barack Obama has packed his trunk

And said goodbye to the White House,

Making way for the Donald the Trump,

Trump, Trump, Trump.

Hillary Clinton has packed her trunk

And left by car for Chicago -

Off she’s sent by the Donald the Trump

Trump, Trump, Trump.


The end of the road was calling;

Soon came the day

When parties fight in the TV light

And the world can only pray.

So … Barack Obama has packed his trunk;

But who says Hi to the White House?

Cruz? Or Sanders? Or Clinton? Or Trump?

Trump! Trump! Trump!


Night by night

They wooed the divided land

With Hillary leading the poll parade

But Trump so loud and grand.

No more tricks

Could Hillary perform;

He’s forced her now to take her bow

Amid the media storm.


Many a Democrat packed his trunk

And said goodbye to the caucus -

Off the back of the Donald the Trump,

Trump, Trump, Trump.

Every Republican packed his trunk

And said Hallo to the Congress;

In he went with the Donald the Trump,

Trump, Trump, Trump.


The rest of the world appalling,

Trump won the day!

His latest bride at his bloated side,

And the pressmen kept at bay.

Desert is spreading and ice has shrunk,

We wave goodbye to the jungle;

Life has lost when the winner is Trump.


Trump. ..




<><><>Forward to Index<><><>





Uncle George was very smelly,

Bright of eye and vast of belly,

Moving like a mighty jelly

Through the sea of our surprise.


Rolling on to pass a hundred,

‘Why is he alive?’ we wondered,

Wincing as his bowels thundered,

Covering our furtive eyes.


Was he ever pink and tiny?

Helped to paddle in the briny?

School-excited, birthday-shiny?

How did Uncle George begin?


The baker’s wife, a trifle tipsy,

Broke her vows and jumped a gipsy.

Weathered finger to his lips, he

Sowed a secret in her skin.


Forty weeks of floaty dressing

Hid the sin at last confessing.

If it were a curse or blessing

Not an angel came to tell!


Daisy’s brat was strange and skinny,

Lost behind his mother’s pinny.

When he sang, his tone was tinny

Like a tiny cracking bell.


He could make the horses whinny,

Fondle foxes in the spinney;

All the furry things and finny

Knew the baby, knew the boy.


Coaxing some bewildered creature

Into school to meet his teacher,

Up to church to hear the preacher,

Was his mission and his joy.


All the local dogs adored him -

Ran to him and smiled and pawed him.

Human children really bored him.

He was of another kind.


Many mocked him, found him frightening,

Palms and fingers full of lightning!

Tongues were wagging, knuckles whitening -

What help could a mother find?


Down the street there lived a lady

(House and reputation shady)

Known to all as Psychic Sadie.

George and Daisy went along.


Moons and stars hung from her ceiling.

Sadie said, “You should be healing!”

Told him that the fizzy feeling

Meant that there was something wrong,


Somebody in pain or sorrow

Needing urgently to borrow

George’s vital Chi. Tomorrow

Nobody would laugh at him.


This was quite a shock for Daisy

As her grasp of Chi was hazy.

Through her mind ran all the ways he

Might go haywire. This was grim!


George however was ecstatic;

Now his life would be dramatic.

Fasting in a rented attic

He prepared for God’s demands.


Word went out. At first a trickle

Came, of people in a pickle,

Throwing him their notes and nickel

For the magic in his hands.


Then the flood of people fighting

For a glimpse of this exciting

Youth; the cameras, the writing

In the red-tops, on the wall …


Dicky backs and laryngitis,

Measles, migraine and phlebitis,

Scrapie, glanders and arthritis -

George took on and beat them all.


Farm and zoo had found a hero,

Infestations down to zero.

Local ponds and streams ran clear – oh,

Blessings rained on George’s Chi!


He could banish coughs and sneezes

And all kinds of weird diseases.

Some believed that George was Jesus.

He was a celebrity!


George’s soul was brightly burning;

Everything he touched was turning

To pure gold. But was he learning

Vital lessons? Would he fall?


Daisy watched him at a meeting.

She could see he wasn’t eating,

And the attic had no heating.

No, he wasn’t well at all.


All the healing, touring, courses

Took their toll on his resources.

“Puddings, sausages and sauces,”

Daisy thought, “build up a man.


But how to coax him home to feed him?

Steal him from the folk who need him?

Save my boy from those who bleed him?”

She devised a little plan.


Three strong lads in her employment

In her debt for past enjoyment

Would abduct him. For her boy meant

Utterly the world to her.


So poor shrivelled George was taken

In the wee small hours, to waken

In his old room – very shaken,

With a soaring temperature.


(You may ask, “Where’s Mr. Daisy?”

He was dull and frankly lazy;

Drove his wife and children crazy.

Waste of time and waste of space.


Once he had the ovens roaring

Any thought of work was boring.

Customers could hear him snoring

Through the hanky on his face.)


“Right,” said Daisy, “Now I’ve got you

I shall be in charge of what you

Eat. You’re running far too hot. You

Need to cool it, simmer down.


Now the Press know you adore them,

They will pester. Just ignore them.

They will see there’s nothing for them,

Find some other media clown.”


What a shock to George’s ego!

Most of us unwind when we go

Convalescing – how could he go

As The Greatest Healer, sick?


Daisy locked him in, protesting.

Thirty years she kept him resting,

Systematically divesting

George of all that made him tick.


Week by week his mother’s baking,

Buns and crumpets she was making,

Gorgeous cakes and pies, were taking

Captive George to supersize.


Garlic raw with every supper,

Drops of Rescue in his cuppa,

Guaranteed to balance up a

Life devoid of exercise.


Nothing now could harm the Healer.

Daisy died, but George could feel her

Close – and then she sent him Sheila

Who would let him out again.


So many years had passed! A giant

George, both nervous and compliant

Asked if he might see a client,

Help a person in their pain.


From the ether in a vision

Daisy whispered her permission;

Strictly on the one condition -

That it must be clandestine.


Every night as owls were flying

Once again the sick and dying

Came in secret, far from prying

Eyes and ears, and stood in line


Waiting for the magic fingers,

Murmuring the words that bring us

Still the holiness that lingers.

Yards away, they caught the smell ..


Ancient garlic sent them reeling;

Some would flee, but others feeling

Bold enough for George’s healing

Held their breath, and then were well.


And so was he. The Chi he gave them

Came from Paradise to save them.

Cameras? He ceased to crave them.

His reward was not to die


For twelve decades – enormous, smelly

Superstar without a telly.

Now the Bakery’s a Deli;

George a secret in the sky.



<><><>Forward to Index<><><>





One day which never existed,


in solitary rage surprised Himself with a Thought

so unsustainable in the here-to-fore

He cracked the unflawed sheer shimmer

of Monad in Equilibrium,

He broke Mind

mirrored in all directions,

He shivered Infinity

and the incorporeal mighty Hand that held it,

thus beginning seven days of Bad Luck

as Time was born in the vortex.


Being God,

Resourceful, He stretched forth His other hand

upon the vortex, with an opposite charge -

And Said: LET THERE BE LIGHT, and There Was Light

flashing from splinter to splinter, aeon to age;

suns of a shattered hand blinked fire into and out of a myriad million dizzy reflections

glinting Godhead back,

curled time-shards

reduplicating spin-drift, inkblot, starclot and coalsack -

by which light a God could see His scattered parts


And Being

God, He Said:


Asunder upon the wind of

My unparalleled Imagination, 

LET THEM SEED where a 

plus-minus meets in the heart of light

a microcosmic god in the anti-mind, for this

is Matter of Moment; let there be Life, therefore,

so let there be Soul – let there be male, and female

warring and mating; let there be holes for light to penetrate,

dramatic poles, north and south in collision, upwards, down -

as in My excess I find

sorrow I cannot drown

in the necessity

for light to

mend Me by,

so will my Self,


twin of Me and


be lover of that Light,

his flesh a bandage for My fractured dignity

for a seven-night.


Till then,

Let every action have its equal and opposite reaction.

Let there be

Polarity, pendulum, fractal, parabola

And parity.


Thus Spake God …


… One Day that suddenly existed, as

a myriad million fragments of Forever

took their first lesson in strife and alchemy;

towards which sex, war, succour, science and sainthood,

the long, vain struggle to tie the strings of symphonies

between grass and the galaxy, Caligula and Christ -

So many poles of puzzlement, poor man-thing! -

making itself slowly in God’s other image,

feet on a star, head in the coalsack.


God forgot

to make men like snails. Here it is Sunday lunch

And still we have not mapped our route for the last afternoon

of our life; the future winks only briefly at us

out of the healing mirrors.

Some are struggling

To put their eyes out on stalks and see around corners

of the inconceivable before the last trump

is played, the last supper indigested and

the disbelievable unMichaelangelic Hand

reach forth to converge the silver trails

of the slow, vulnerable, visionary sun

housing the soul in helix.

Here they come,

a few at a time,

the unrejected cells;

a Miracle is made.

The Wound



Thy Hand, O God

may close the eyes of Time – but it is built of us!…

We who have put out the cat may be most unwilling to

put out the stars the cat and we have hunted our dreams by,

may be discontent;


may fidget with the smoothed fabric of Space,

finger the substance of the Maker’s Dream,

flex the muscles of a new idea -


Spring a surprise.





The Mistake

The Luck of the Irish

The Electric Chair


Ma’s Mission

The Visitors


Visiting Time

A Lover’s Passyonatte Replye

Ever-Decreasing Circles

Rediscovering Rabbit Week

Head of TV Drama’s New Year Sonnet






Romanus Romano

On The Brink

Hiawatha and the Midges

Seven Ages of Teeth (7 parodies)

Happy Fifteenth Birthday …

My Double-Decker Bus

Virgo Rising

Sixty Seconds

Pain (a macaronic)

When I’m Cleaning Windows!

The Ballad of Binky Pocock

The Ballad of Wilhelmina Pomeroy

Winners and Losers

The Ballad of Uncle George

Big Bang



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Pam has been a poet since she was seven years old; it was only when she joined her local Writers’ Club that she found she could also write short stories.

She has been a Christian astrologer for most of her life, is well known in that community, and is the author of two books plus many articles in the Astrological Association Journal (for which she compiles the regular Cryptic Crossword.)

You can find her website at http://revpamcrane.weebly.com.


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The Flip Side & The Funny Side

'The Flip Side & The Funny Side' is a collection of Pam Crane's wittiest poems, a mix of scathing social and political commentary, clever parody, pure fantasy and gentle humour, including three long, imaginative ballads which are complete stories in verse. In these colourful, beautifully crafted stanzas nothing and no-one is immune - God, USA, humanity, government, age, dogs, spelling, ambition, aliens, transport, media, medicine and famous poets.

  • ISBN: 9781370354771
  • Author: Pam Crane
  • Published: 2017-05-22 13:50:10
  • Words: 10048
The Flip Side & The Funny Side The Flip Side & The Funny Side