To Zephyrus, The West Wind

 

Psyche you bore, not too heavy a load
Took her to Cupid, the Ancients did sing.
The best way to fly, for her just the thing,
Not your fault the pain that thenceforward flowed.
Pilgrims afoot on the old frog and toad,
Geoffrey heaped praise on you, herald of Spring.
Writers a-plenty have blessed what you bring -
Young Percy the poet wrote you an ode.
For some reason things do not seem the same
This western wind now’s an icy, cold blast
Why did it all go so horribly wrong?
That wretched jet stream is what we must blame.
Mild, gentle breezes – a thing of the past?
Poor Zephyrus – have you sung your last song?

© John Welford

Cleaning Day

 

One day a week the house gets clean
It’s called the Saturday routine.
We execute our careful plan
To get as close to spick and span
As can be done when short of time
For getting shot of filth and grime.
The problem is our canine beast
Who is no help, to say the least.
A joy in every other way
She simply must be kept at bay
When Mr Dyson’s fine machine
Is used in our attempt to clean
Domestic floors of dirt and dust.
You see, you simply cannot trust
That, spurred by its persistent drone,
She will not treat it like a bone
That must be grabbed, and, what is more,
She’ll even lift it off the floor.
When she’s around, a task like this
Will always be less hit than miss.
It takes an age, need I mention,
If the task has dog’s attention.
And that’s why Sue, my lovely wife,
Does what she can to make my life
Easier far, without more talk,
By taking doggy for a walk.
About two hours is what I need
To give due credit to the deed.
But on that day the rain was such
She simply couldn’t grant that much.
“This is not a passing shower,
We’ll be gone for just an hour”.
And off they went, a bit less keen
Than what is regularly seen –
The pair seemed equally averse,
Both seemed to fear it might get worse.
(The way we work this, by the by,
At least means my good self stays dry).
But now I had – it’s not much fun -
To get two hours’ work done in one.
The downstairs rooms are always first
Their muddy tiles, of course, are worst.
The furniture is moved aside
So no unwanted dirt can hide.
The Dyson sucks up what is loose
And then the steamer’s put to use.
When all is shifted once again,
The other half is treated, then
The room’s restored to how it was.
The work goes faster next, because
The other rooms have carpets, so
The task is nothing like as slow.
That day, ‘bout which this tale is told,
Was going well, I make so bold
To state I reckoned I could crack
The lot before dear dog came back.
Upstairs, not much was left to do,
Just bedrooms, office, bathroom, loo.
The final task would be the stairs
After which, no further cares.
A maxim you must never shirk
Is, when you have a lot of work,
Less speed results from excess haste,
But if you have no time to waste
Common sense through window flies
And deeds become more dumb than wise.
So that is why that morning, when
I went to clean my office den,
(I should have taken lots more care)
I roughly pushed aside my chair.
The table corner that it bumped
Was where I thoughtlessly had dumped
A ton of interesting stuff -
As if I did not have enough -
For which no shelf space could be found
Thus forming an unstable mound.
But gravity then took its course
(A somewhat overrated force).
I should have known, for ill or good,
The merest, slightest, knock just would
Precipitate an avalanche,
Depositing thereby a tranche,
A heap, exactly as it looks,
Of unread mags and unsold books.
I rushed the job, I must confess,
Resulting in a lot more mess.
I then did something just as naff –
A stupid time-consuming gaffe –
I took a photo of the scene,
The very one that’s on this screen,
I thought I’d have a tale to tell
That I could write, if all went well.
I quite forgot, was unawares,
I hadn’t finished with the stairs.
Instead, with office aids in sight,
I stopped the task, began to write,
And then the sound – I’m sure I swore –
Of someone opening our back door.
Oh dear – of course my hour was up
And back came Sue and former pup.
The latter, wet with muddy paws,
Was overjoyed to be indoors.
I ran downstairs to greet the pair
And hear whatever Sue might care
To tell of what the two had seen
While I was getting homestead clean.
But that was when I had a shock -
My efforts, racing ‘gainst the clock,
I saw were plainly up the spout
Of that there was no likely doubt.
Dog, as soon as she was able,
Gave us an Augean Stable.
The muck from up to three miles wide
Had been deposited inside.
Worse than prior to when I’d started,
Mud, not there before we parted,
Was coating every kitchen tile -
I found it hard to force a smile.
With further shakes of sodden hair
More globs of grime were plastered where
They joined, to make the scene complete,
The fall-off from her filthy feet.
Those paws were all it took to spoil
The fruits of muggins’s strain and toil.
You take a deep breath, count to ten -
In seven days’ time you try again.

© John Welford

1,6,3,1,4

Not him or her, don’t look too far
For pronoun perpendicular.
Ocular orb, a town near Diss,
You surely must be getting this.

 

I had it once but here’s the score
I do not have it anymore.
I wonder where it might be hid -
In haven to support its bid?

 

It is as plain as plain could be
The holy Deutsch divinity
It is exactly as you heard
You must omit the fourth or third.

 

Beef or mutton? Go one higher
It’s horsy food that you desire.
Played on banjo, flute or sung?
Three major sharps but minor none.

 

You only have the downstairs floor
Is the rope inside a drawer?
Mystery solved? No need to fuss
You simply leave off Homer’s cuss.

© John Welford

To WB, 1808: a villanelle

I much admire the words you write
In which you never cease to make
Strong armour for my mental fight

Clouds unfold and doubt takes flight
For green and pleasant England’s sake
I much admire the words you write

If conflict comes by day or night
Along with sleepless sword I’ll take
Strong armour for my mental fight

My golden bow is burning bright
To dreaming time from when I wake
I much admire the words you write

Desiring arrows set in flight
All inspired by what you spake
Strong armour for my mental fight

Your fiery chariot gives me might
To render void tormenting ache
I much admire the words you write
Strong armour for my mental fight

© John Welford

Paws For Thought: a silly poem

When your brain is in a fog
Can you remember types of dog?
You’re in luck – I will confide
To you my foolproof doggy guide.
This is all you’ll ever need
For right-on knowledge of the breed.
You’ll want to tell what’s good or trash
Before you part with hard-earned cash.
It’s black and white? Friendly? Jolly?
It well might be a Border Collie.
With loyalty that can’t get better
Could it be an English Setter?
Companionship? You can be sure
If you buy a Labrador.
A long-term friendship will ensue
With a handsome Kerry Blue.
You need a dog to reconnoitre?
It’s obvious – an English Pointer.
It comes up to a midget’s knees?
Possibly a Bichon Frise.
Sharp of bite and strong of muscle?
You’ve got yourself a fierce Jack Russell.
Its coat can be both light and dusky
I refer to the Alaskan Husky.
It looks ideal to mop the floor,
Hairy Hungarian Komondor.
A spotty dog is your fixation?
No choice other than Dalmatian.
It blocks the light and fills the lane?
Can only be a huge Great Dane.
You leap a burn or brook in one bound?
So does a feisty Irish Wolfhound.
A dog to run round any barrier?
Maybe a beagle or a harrier.
Is there one dog here or two -
The crazy mixed-up Cockapoo?
So there you are, a canine glut
From which to make your choice of mutt.
Now you know just where it’s at –
What do you mean, you want a cat? 

© John Welford

Familiar Figure: a poem

In the doorway there stands a familiar figure

Nobody laugh, nobody snigger

Don’t stare for long, it’ll only get bigger

In the doorway there stands a familiar figure

A familiar figure is there in the doorway

Not in the passage, not in the hallway,

Is it imagined? I’m telling you no way

A familiar figure is there in the doorway

The familiar figure is standing just there

It seems I could touch it, did I but dare

Is it a threat, should I beware?

The familiar figure is standing just there

The familiar figure is there and it stands

Is it going to speak? It holds up its hands

What will it say? What are its demands?

The familiar figure is silent and stands

The figure I see is someone I know

What is its name? Why am I so slow?

If I turn around now, will it just go?

The figure I see is someone I know.

The figure, familiar, is something I see

But is it a doorway? Could it just be

I’ll be fully awake if I count up to three?

It’s only a mirror, that figure is me.

© John Welford

Tornado Twists and Shouts: a poem with introduction

(This piece was written for the writing group – Hinckley Scribblers – to which I belong and which meets every week at a local library. The theme – chosen at random – was “Tornadoes twist and shout to the sound of music”. I have interpreted this theme in my own way, and thought that a factual piece followed by a short poem might fit the bill!)

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There were once 49 Peppercorn Pacific AI steam locomotives, designed by the last Chief Mechanical Engineer of the London and North Eastern Railway, whose name was Arthur Peppercorn. They were built at Doncaster and Darlington in 1948-9 and hauled express trains along the main East Coast line between Edinburgh and London’s Kings Cross. They proved to be not only cheap to run but exceptionally robust – indeed they were the most reliable class of express locomotive on the whole of the new British Railways network.

But the age of steam eventually came to an end and so did the Peppercorn AIs, with all 49 being scrapped in the 1960s, after an average working life of only 15 years. Although some other ex-LNER Pacifics were preserved, notably Flying Scotsman and Mallard, none of the Peppercorn AIs escaped the scrapyard, and that might have been the end of the story, were it not for an extraordinary venture, begun in 1994, to build a brand new Peppercorn loco from scratch.

The result, which emerged from the Darlington Works in 2008, was Tornado, a fully-operational mainline steam locomotive that was the first to be built in Britain since Evening Star in 1960. It is fully compliant with current safety standards and is licensed to run on the British Rail network, which it now does on a regular basis hauling “specials” mainly during the summer months.

The most scenic route that Tornado is allowed to run on is surely the Settle and Carlisle line. This route incorporates some of northern England’s most dramatic scenery, including long tunnels and high viaducts, all built by muscle power and the sacrifice of an army of railway navvies, few of whom would live past their forties, killed either by accident or their unhealthy alcohol-fuelled lifestyle. 

The drama of the setting on the Settle and Carlisle is enhanced by the display of power shown by Tornado as the locomotive puffs its way up some of the steepest gradients in the country.

The boy who once watched Evening Star

Until its smoke had gone too far

Has never lost that childhood dream

And welcomes back the age of steam

A chance presents to see at last

Mighty Tornado thunder past

He joins the crowd beside the line

To wait the loco’s vanguard sign

A distant whistle tears the air

The rumbling rails tell all: “Prepare!”

Then comes the voice that none can doubt –

The shunt of steam, shout on shout

The pistons’ noise assails in waves

Tornado twists past navvies’ graves

Powering on to climb the height

Affording all a fleeting sight

Of flashing, steaming black and green

A brief, to be remembered, scene

Whistling, pounding screams and wails

Rebound from hills and down the dales

Tornado’s music blasts the ear

A memory of yesteryear

© John Welford

Time: a quad poem

(The challenge was to write a poem of four four-line stanzas, each of four four-letter words)

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Tick tock tick tock

Keep step don’t stop

Tock tick tock tick

Walk tall don’t trip

Must pace life fast

Zing zest dart dash

Trot trit clop clip

Tock tick tock tick

Time runs like sand

Rush past, take mind

Gone, won’t come back,

Tick tock tick tock

Tock tock tick tick

Such flux must tire

When will time stop?

Tick tick tock tock

© John Welford

The Pockets of Power

Everything you came to love 
So freely bought and sold
An easy life, dependent on
A pocketful of gold

A world of privilege and greed

Was yours from earliest youth
You never knew the contents of
A pocketful of truth

You opened wide your gaping maw
From which came – no surprise –
The latest mad extraction from

Your pocketful of lies

You sought to foment seismic change 
And make your country great
But deeply thrust your hand inside
A pocketful of hate

What you dislike’s condemned as fake 
You guess this makes you strong
But only adds more substance to

Your pocketful of wrong

Your moral baseness further dips
With each offensive tweet
And yet more shame augments what’s in
Your pocket of deceit

All decent folk desire that you
Will not achieve your goals
Each decanted safely in
A pocketful of holes

© John Welford

The Darkest Hour: a poem

It’s often said, maybe it could be true,

That just before the sky gives hint of blue

The night does all it can to fright and cower

It’s what is sometimes called the darkest hour.

The task undone, impending daily grind,

Is all that sleepless you can bring to mind,

As thoughts forbear to cease their surly dance

And time, it seems, refuses to advance.

All that is vile is ready to ensnare

But must you yet fall victim to despair?

Take heart, be hopeful for the coming morn -

The world is darkest just before the dawn.

© John Welford

Kitchen sink thoughts: a poem

(The challenge was to write a piece beginning with the opening line of Dodie Snith's "I Capture The Castle", namely "I write this sitting in the kitchen sink")

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink

A place to marinade the brain and think.

To cleanse and rinse the green stuffs and the grey

And send all gritty nonsense on its way.

Beside me lies the draining board of thought

Where dripping plates and notions newly sought

Assume their former or a brand new sheen

Or are they just pretending to be clean?

I rise with care and step down to the floor

Where brush and pan have swept up peel and core

The shining tiles have nothing left to say,

As bare of meaning as a wasted day.

Great thoughts depart and brainwaves all retreat

Perhaps I should resume my former seat.

© John Welford

Vote For Me!

Vote For Me – you know it makes sense

I’ll scale every wall and climb every fence

I’ll swim every moat and fight every foe

I’ll take on your fears and lay them all low

There’s no noble deed that I wouldn’t do

And, needless to say, you know it’s all true

Vote For Me – I’m pure as the snow

When temptation comes I always say No

My record is free of sordid affair

In skeleton terms my cupboard is bare

My years behind bars stand proudly at nought

Well, let’s just say that I’ve never been caught

Vote For Me – the other lot’s worse

None to be found in the whole universe

They’re cads and they’re rotters – not very nice

Murder your granny? They wouldn’t think twice

They’ll take all your cash and land you in debt

Which I wouldn’t do, so never you fret

Vote For Me – the obvious choice

Loudly express your political voice

Turn out in numbers and give me your Yes

What I’ll do with it is anyone’s guess

When I’m in office what good will I do?

Frankly, dear voters, I haven’t a clue.

© John Welford

Clerihews

(A set of clerihews written for a writing group session) 

Queen Elizabeth the First
Was by no means the worst
It was best to be wary
Of her sister Queen Mary

Queen Victoria
Went to a trattoria
Albert sat down and snoozed
She wasn’t amused

Jeremy Corbyn
Found it absorbin’
To take copious notes
When campaigning for votes

Theresa May
Was discovered one day
In search of an exit
Other than Brexit

Nigel Farage
Went to his garage
His car was resplendent
And, of course, independent

Sam Allardyce
Does not need asking twice
He’ll declare black is white
If the money is right

William the Second
Was generally reckoned
A total disgrace
As well as red in the face

Edmund Clerihew Bentley
Always did things gently
When it came to writing verse
He was never less than terse

Margaret Thatcher?
No-one could catch her
As everyone would learn
She was not one to turn

Anthony Sher
Did not star in Ben Hur
His talents shone clear
In his Stratford King Lear

General George Gorringe
Was eating an orange
To celebrate the time
He provided a rhyme

Donald J Trump
Was given a thump
His chances are shrinking
Or is this wishful thinking?

Hillary Clinton
Was putting a tint on
When seeking votes, east or west
It’s always good to look your best

William Shakespeare
Often makes appear
For me, lots and lots
Of ideas for good plots

Charles John Huffam Dickens
The plot often thickens
In Bleak House there’s thick mist
But not in Oliver Twist

Geoffrey Chaucer
Drank from a saucer
As did most of the males
In his Canterbury Tales

King Richard the Third
Might have thought it absurd
That his bones would long fester
Neath a car park in Leicester

Percy Bysshe Shelley
Was putting on a welly
When out popped a toad –
But it didn’t get an ode

Emperor Nero
Was never a hero
He wrote many a Latin idyll
But he never played the fiddle

Emperor Commodus
Never kept the job in focus
He thought himself a doughty fighter
Instead? A nasty little blighter

Alistair McGowan
Has audiences wowin’
Footy’s his obsession
But he makes a good impression

© John Welford

Haikus and tankas

The writing challenge was to compose a pair of poems on each of six themes, these being:

Theresa May; map reading; making tea; writing a poem; bird song; dog bite.

The poems had to be a haiku and a tanka. A haiku comprises three lines with syllable pattern 5-7-5 and a tanka is a five line poem with a 5-7-5-7-7 pattern. Rhyming is not allowed in either form.

----------------------------------------------------------

Theresa May

A Prime Minister

Should prime all her ministers

Theresa may not

Theresa, P M

Stood in the street and declaimed

About the future

Will she keep her promises?

Or will the future keep her?

Map reading

I once owned a book

Called “The Map That Came to Life”

And it always does

To get where you want

Forget the sat nav device

A spouse with a map

Will take you both to places

That may not even exist

Making tea

Teabags are so cool

But useless for making tea

Until hot and wet

“You’ve made it too strong

And you know I put milk in first”

It all goes to show

Making tea and making war

Can be hard to tell apart

Writing a poem

Rhyme, metre, rhythm

Weave special magic to show

The power of words

Heroic couplets

Iambic pentameters

Flowing, perfect rhymes

When complete the poet gets

Heroic satisfaction

Bird song

The birds’ dawn chorus

Shouts their wish to rise and shine

Hours before you do

The songs of the birds

May have hidden messages

Should you choose to hear

The woodpigeon says to me:

“Take two books with you, you dolt”

Dog bite

When the dog bit me

No way did I remember

My favourite things

A bitten finger

Six trips to the surgery

Stitches and dressings

Waits for nurses and buses

Gave lots of time to read books

--------------------------------

(And an extra tanka for good measure)

In the library

On library shelves

Opportunities await

For curious minds

Imaginations bleeding

Into brand new dimensions



© John Welford

Poet's block: a poem in heroic couplets

(This was written in response to a challenge to write a poem in heroic couplets)

Poet’s Block

I stare and stare at sheet of paper, blank

Reflecting that there’s no-one else to thank

Than my good self for giving us this task.

Would it have been too much for me to ask

The friendly folk comprising New Bold Words

To write a piece on buffaloes or birds?

A story that begins, proceeds then ends -

A tale that sets off jauntily and wends

Through pleasant scenes of jollity or love

That feature blessings falling from above -

Maybe, or should a darker theme be sought,

Something that tells of evil persons caught 

In webs that they have woven for themselves.

But snares arise for anyone who delves

Into the world wherein the poet acts

And clouds his fancies, fabliaux and facts

In lines of verse where metre rules supreme

And words must flow according to a scheme

Imposed by wordsmiths in some far-off time

That instruct strictly where must fall the rhyme.

On such occasions brain cells run amuck

And this indeed was where I came unstuck.

One of my roles as leader of this group

Includes suggesting some intriguing hoop

Through which we all, in the ensuing week

Will try to jump, and then arrive to speak

When next we meet, seven days further on,

And each reads out their deathless paragon.

Of course, yours truly has but little choice

Than boldly to join in and lend his voice

In reading out his poetry or prose

And taking praise or brickbats, one of those,

Should his week’s effort meet the bill or not -

No guarantee I’ll always hit the spot.

But this week look at what I’ve gone and done

Said something daft that ruined all the fun.

This guy who reckons he’s quite a thinker

Has come up with an absolute stinker.

“A poem”, he said, with abandon gay

“In couplets heroic, although you may

Write on whatever it is you desire.

We will read them all next week, good or dire.”

So now I must do the task that was set -

No way can I dodge the bullet and let

The side down and fail to do my duty -

Time to produce an object of beauty.

Or, if not that good, at least let the lines

Follow the rulings, the forms and designs

Laid down for this type of poetic verse

If I’m breaking the rules, what could be worse?

But what on God’s earth will furnish my theme?

Can’t think of a thing, prepare for a scream.

Brain circling in ways that look all the more

Like Max performing a test on the floor.

Back in the day, Pope, Lord Byron and friends

Wrote screeds of this stuff, it just never ends.

Did they ever ask, “What now shall I write?”

Was this doubt what kept them up half the night?

No way, which is why I have to admit

This week, I regret, the biter is bit.  

No topic to write on comes to my mind

That’s why the challenge this time is declined.

And that, my dear friends, is all I can say.

I’ll put down my pen and just slip away.

© John Welford

The Hottest Day: a luc bat

The following poem is a "Luc Bat". This is a Vietnamese verse form in which the lines alternate between six and eight syllables, and each rhyme sounds appears three times - as the final syllable of an 8-syllable line, the final syllable of the following 6-syllable line, and the 6th syllable of the following 8-syllable line. The final syllable of the whole poem must rhyme with the final syllable of the opening line.

The hottest day

It is the hottest day

Much hotter than in May or June

Some might call it a boon

Indeed it’s none too soon because

Summer up to now was

Not like you get in Oz or Spain -

We’ve had our share of rain.

So, to say it again, my friends,

A heatwave makes amends

However soon it ends and yet

It’s worth a tiny bet

There’ll still be cause to fret. Oh yes!

You didn’t need to guess.

More may soon turn to less I fear.

I’ve changed to Summer gear

And just got out the beer although

It is too hot to go

Outside but fine to throw out wide

All windows to provide

A cooling breeze inside the house

Or would be if some louse

Maybe told by his spouse had not

Decided that a lot

Of garden mess and rot could burn

And therefore did not spurn

To light a fire and turn the air

To foul from what was fair

Thus causing me to swear and curse

For little could be worse

Than fumes that then traverse the space

To my room from that place

I call it a disgrace. That fire

Calls forth my deepest ire

I wish it would transpire that he

Who caused this tragedy

Would think again and be a tad

More bound to good than bad.

Oh well, at least I’ve had my say.

© John Welford

A poem about cheese

“The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” G K Chesterton

****************************

The challenge is to tell a tale

That makes one long for Wensleydale,

Or maybe pen a line or two

That calls for Brie or Shropshire Blue.

Of course it never should be said

That there’s no place for Leicester, Red.

And could you ever be so silly

Not to try a good Caerphilly?

Was ever soul so lost or deader

That would ignore the claims of Cheddar?

The land of Shakespeare, Blake and Milton

Is famed for Lancashire and Stilton.

Perhaps it’s once more time to foster

A taste for good old Double Gloucester.

It surely would be far from fair

To spurn a piece of Camembert.

Or will you go for something rarer

Like Trappista or Graviera?

Some folk say you can’t do better

Than Mozzarella, Yarg or Feta.

Can I hear you shouting louder

For Emmental, Edam or Gouda?

Or are you only merely thinking

Bishops should be eaten Stinking?

One only hopes that lines like these

Have made you want to eat some cheese.

 © John Welford