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Composed upon several October mornings
Oh Barcelona you old rogue,
Teasing us with your autumn glow.
Shielding us from the incoming winter um…well.., no,
Not snow...
For soon in our own houses we will all freeze,
With ice-cold hands and four-layer-socked-feet.
As here, not one single window is double-glazed,
What is with that, by the way?
Oh October, you alone,
Can take me from my thoughts of home!
Gayley I wander through clean-swept streets,
Absent autumn leaves under my newly booted feet,
Overhearing raised, frustrated voices,
Raging over weather-inappropriate fashion choices.
Heads keenly thrust through still-open bays,
“Oh God! Should I wear a scarf today?!”
Oh October, you treacherous hound!
Take me, lead me by the hand.
Free my mind of summer's heat,
And sweating while I brush my teeth!
Show me autumn’s charms, bold and brass,
Food, food and more food! Red wine guzzled by the glass.
Taste buds’ desires search for something hearty,
Swap summer-terrace beers for late-night dinner parties.
Oh October! How you take your hold!
Twixt September grey, and November cold.
Why can’t you carry me away?
Swaddle me safely, in your gentle days.
Leave behind fireworks, shows and concerts,
And all that general, sleep depriving nonsense.
For now I can finally ignore,
The rowdy teenagers outside my door.
Oh Barcelona! Barcelona! Where I found my heart,
If I ever do from you depart,
Whether morning, evening or in time for tea,
In October it will never be.
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Catatastrophe
Catalunya, my adopted home, Is travelling down a dangerous road. A journey of facets so complex, Forgive me, if there are parts that I forget… The backdrop, a long and tumultuous history, Conflict that runs deep, in loss and victory. A people, who found themselves repressed, By war, dictatorship, fear of arrest. A culture, a language, a way of life, Defended and rebuilt with bloody sacrifice. The central government grasps for control, But instead, slowly digs itself into holes. The eyes of the world saw their brutality*, Young and old, beaten with impunity. The EU “powerless to step in and help”, Apparently, just looking after themselves. “It’s simply an internal matter for Spain”, Meanwhile, democracy circles the drain. Our popular mayor, collected and calm, By no means inciting any call to arms, Just collaboration, discourse, peace and negotiation, Some disagree, others share her frustration. “independentistas”* collecting their share of blame, Catalunya, for them, just is not Spain. But with Brexit-esque* levels of propaganda and lies, They plot, unwittingly, their own demise. Politicians (all parties), spinning their spin, People’s patience wearing dangerously thin. Corruption, quickly, under rug swept*, While focus, carefully, on Catalunya is kept. Then, la gent(e)*, at the centre of it all, “Tots als carrers” their only battle-call. “All to the streets” venting their wrath, Torn by coloured pieces of cloth. Broken, divided, confused and lost, At their windows, at night, banging their pots*. So then, really, all you have left, Are the foreigners, the strangers, the dispossessed. Wondering where their futures will lie, Impotent, voteless, just standing by. The squat pen*, now our only voice, Silenced, affected, unburdened of choice. So here we must sit, on the side of history, Our hands, raised in quiet solemnity. Mis/information circles our heads, A thousand eager words left, deliberately unsaid.
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Sidelines
I'm at my desk when the news begins to spread,
A creeping sensation runs up our spines. Doubts and denials tick through our heads, “Don’t worry, you’ll see, it’ll be just fine”.
Then, as the long minutes tick by, 1 person, 2 people, reported to have died.
Sirens wail, our doubts laid away, Helicopters circle, grimly overhead. Calls to friends and family are made, Hoping they are safe at home instead.
Then the news starts to break back home, Calls, texts, messages, test my dying phone.
Forced to walk (public transport was a mess), I absorb everything, my courage on loan, Empty streets, shops closed, as I progress, Police, in numbers I have never known.
Home safe at last, to watch events unfold, “Barcelona’s heart is broken”, the newsreader said. Nightmares of horrors rage in our souls, When finally, exhausted, we make it to bed.
……….
Thousands gather, to resist and to morn, Just where it happened, less than a day before. Without fear, without hate, without a second thought, To scream in the face of the carnage that was wrought. Bravely, loudly, until our lungs are sore, United, grieving, with a mighty furore, Proudly. Clearly. "NO TINC POR”.
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Hobby-hoarse
Oh, woe! Woe is me!
Why, oh why?! Can’t I find a hobby?
Gardening, hockey, the cello and violin,
All quickly wore inevitably thin.
.
“I like reading” sounds kind of lame,
Under “interests” on your curriculum vitae.
"Cooking while pissed" could be included?
I say, quite aware that I'm clearly deluded.
.
Ah, fuck it...
I’ll stick to my introvert life,
Ignore the protestations of my wife.
Enjoy all the things that make existence fine,
Food, love, the occasional bottle of wine…
.
Whether doctor, lawyer, baker or lobbyist,
Some people are really not built to be hobbyists.
Perhaps it’s simply hard-coded proclivity,
Or maybe a general disdain for activity?
.
But I shall not weep for Saturdays misspent,
Nor will I my free evenings lament.
Hobbies are great! I don't mean to condemn,
But sadly, I am just no good at them.
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Hot dog Haiku (2)
Hot dogs in summer. Running, running, running, run. They should learn to stop.
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Hot dog Haiku (1)
Hot dogs in July. Always wearing their fur coats. They should take them off.
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Midnight Blue: Red Dawn
Oh god, really? Is it that time already?
My heartbeat and my hands, no longer steady. Yep, there it is, I knew this would come, I’ve had it too good, had too much fun.
I grope in the darkness with quiet desperation, To find my tiny white chance for salvation... Crap! It’s not working, I should’ve heeded my fears, Now I’ll be here, unsleeping for years.
God, it’s freezing outside of the bed! Can’t I just stay here, comfy, instead? Oh lord, that floor is fucking cold! “It’s warm in Barcelona!” I was clearly falsely told.
My slippers have mysteriously disappeared, My dressing gown, missing, just as I feared! Faffing complete, slippers and dressing gown are found, Next obstacle; try not to wake the hounds.
Shit! Fuck! I stepped on a dog, While blindly searching for the bog. He let out a small yelp, or was it a growl? My wife, still snoozing, suspects nothing foul: “Get out of the way!” I silently rage: “Who wanted to adopt you anyway?!!”
No time for regrets over what I had said, To my poor little dog, lying quietly in his bed. Certain, as I was, that soon I would freeze, My dressing gown barely covering my knees.
Phew! I made it! And not a moment too soon, Oh dear, no please! Not a bloody swoon! No, nooo, the floor is no place to faint, Lordy! What an awful picture to paint! There really must be some place worthier, Where one can avoid certain death by hypothermia…
So back the bedroom! From the bog, Carefully avoiding the now-awake dog. Back to what best suited my intuition, The backwards, prostrate foetal position. And so there I lay, wishing myself dead, Trying to rush the blood back to my head.
After what seems like hours of this abject prostration, Finally, maybe, an end to my frustration! Yes, yes! A small glimmer of hope, Just when I thought I could no longer cope! Soon, I too would be dreaming away, For now, at least, out of the fray.
As the morning sun rose I was sleeping still, Praising the guy who invented that pill! But lamenting how from my bed I shall be plucked, Facing the day: knackered, grumpy and fucked.
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Ballad for a low-cost Aubergine
On my way home, on a Monday night,
What to cook? My brain wandered, left to right.
.
I grabbed my purse, to see what it contained,
A meagre 75 cents! Oh the shame!
.
Almost hopeless I crept, into the shop,
The aubergine section, my only stop.
.
'Lo and behold! There I did see,
An aubergine that was meant for me!
.
Timidly, I asked the owner of the store,
"¿Cuanto es este? ¿Por favor?”
.
Oh the apprehension! The fear that did rack me!
And do you know, it was seventy-five cents exactly!
.
"Oh how grand!" I exclaimed "it must be fate!"
For this fat little aubergine, to end up on my plate.
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Polished Turd
On this morning, when I did wake,
In a typically somewhat hungover state,
Little did I know I would start my day,
In a mildly strange and unpleasant way.
.
For on my shoulder fell a free-flying turd
A lowly gift from a poor and unseen bird.
From then on I knew my day wouldn’t suck,
As with bird shits come a small nugget of luck!
“What form will it take?” I did ponder…
“Money? Death defiance? Cake?!” I did wonder.
.
But to reveal itself, it did not take long,
As I left the house: boots, coat, scarf and jacket on.
And chose to walk! On such a day!
It was green man crossings all the way.
.
Not once! Not once did I have to stop,
As I made my way at a relaxed-medium trot.
My mind untroubled by my casual gait,
As my friend, Susannah, is always late.
.
Had it been another day,
Starting in a brighter, less irritating way.
And had that bird not targeted my head,
Perhaps all of the hombres
would have been red.
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Tock
The ticking of my clock drove me mad Kept me up at night Just ticking, ticking, ticking reminding me that days go on Then one night it stopped and I was happy for an hour But then I couldn’t sleep for the lack of ticking And couldn’t keep track of the time.
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