Poets of July
Jean Wearn Wallace
Jean Eearn Wallace
CLOSER TO GOD
He is striving for physical perfection;
Total fitness, bubbling vigorous health;
Strength of body and strength of mind.
There are no doctors, emergency services
Nor hospitals in the vastness of space.
Every day he makes the time,
Usually before appearing for training,
For his daily visit to Church.
When the moment comes for blast off,
He will leave this beautiful planet,
To journey into the unknown.
His comfort is that out in space,
He is physically closer to God,
Than in his daily visit to Church.
What a privilege!
CUSTARD THE DRAGON
What happened next….
With apologies to Ogden Nash
I am the pirate the dragon ate;
But this was not to be my fate.
With my cutlass and pistols too
Making Custard’s stomach go poo;
Indigestion growling round and round
Soon the dragon can’t take the sound.
Custards tummy is bubbling bad
Making the dragon awfully sad;
Woops, woops, woops, up I come,
Frothy, but better than out his bum.
But my cutlass is now rusty,
My pistols no longer trusty;
At least I can try again,
After my holiday in Spain.
St George didn’t have this problem.
GHOSTS IN THE NIGHT
There they go ..spectres in the night sky
Shimmering and shining amidst the pristine stars,
Leering and leaping lights in the nocturnal ether
Peering at these we fancy that these ghastly residues
Are either figments of our imagination or UFO’s
Somehow really up there
What else can explain those eery entities?
In the mind’s eye or really in the dark night firmament
I don’t believe in any ghosts myself,
But sometimes I discern strange visions up there.
And cannot imagine what on Earth they might be
But that’s just not it; they are not here in Earth,
But in an aethereal, empyrean, ecstatic realm,
A panoply of weird luminescent superlunaries.
What would have convinced me that they
Were indeed ghosts, would be if they spoke or uttered sound—
But, no! Dim, dumb and drearily quiet they just seem.
But they are not seemly –merely spectral sparks or somesuch.
And at night they are distinguished from stars –
Because, amazingly, they whizz about like
Effervescent physical presences in a patchwork quilt of astral bodies.
The eerie science of the night skies shows me,
There is far more in the heavens than can be
Seen at first glance – and yet I.m not even
Looking through a telescope at the time,
But just seeing things –Are they not there then?
Yes, I’m dreaming it all
There really are no ghosts in the sky’
On earth, or underneath it.
There was an old boy – I think his name was Charlie
Who used to run what we regarded as a vital service.
He lived in a villa (or ‘group home’) in the hospital grounds,
And people came from everywhere all day and even at night
To pay him a visit.
Why, you may ask , did so many patients and others make tracks for his door?
Well, he was a cigarette wala, a fag vendor
And how was it , he did this, and made no profit to speak of?
Well he collected the coupons or vouchers, and ‘sold’ his wares cost price.
So that’s what the smokers did especially when the shop and WRVS. were shut;
They used to make a beeline for his door,
And out of the vouchers, at a value of £20
He bought a state-of-the-art, mega-wave-length band
Transistor radio of which he was very proud
So he’d open up his fag packets, take out the vouchers,
Collect them and over a period of a couple of years send them off.
This is what I would call socially viable entrepreneurship!
…And the beauty of it was that he did not have
To make a profit as such and he provided a vital service
To all of us smoking-addicts.
And the authorities were happy about what they
Regarded as providing a therapeutic activity for all
Who used to socialize at Charlie’s villa – Furzedown, wasn’t it?
So he had no competition as such, and very few other clients and
Residents had any other notions for gainful ‘therapeutic’ actions
And yet…what is there that’s so marvellous about fuelling what is after
All a distardly activity which helps no-one not even thinking
About who helps themselves!
They solved the puzzle that perplexed
In a land far removed
Yet only an eye-blink away
A hug that lingered in to waking
And a joy that travelled across
The river Styx
An adventure where the hero is both
Victim and villain, puppet and martyr
Flying both high and low and in between
A welcome escape from the mundane jigsaw
Or entry without exit into
The realm of Nightmare
A lover of dream and not reality
A friend of Morpheous and not David Cameron
If I could turn back time
If I could turn back time
I would have burnt my bridges
I would have saved my bundles
Worked harder at school
Took care of my mind
Worked on the railway for years and years
Took care of my mind
By the river
Looking at the mirror of water
Drying her wet hair
Willow searches for
Her Narcissi’ beauty
And finds the broken image
On the ripples; a mirage
Cries a river
Dries her tears
Water whirls a while
Twirls a moment
Iron out the ripples
Swirls and flows away
The noises in my head
Started fighting with each other
To get their word in edgeways
That made me, leave my bedsit
To rush out and find a peace
In some secluded countryside
Outside on the street
There were so many traffic sounds
People talking on their mobiles
Children yelling in their games
The noises in my head could not
Stay quiet were about to burst out
I entered into the nearest railway station
And bought a ticket to Lake District
The train was full of all sorts of tourists
With mobiles and cameras around their necks
They talked and clicked, clicked and talked
It was a horizontal Tower of Babble in the Bible
Speeding on the iron wheels to my destination
In the Lake Districts I found a lonely spot
And breathed in fresh air and looked at the view
Flowing water, green hills, chirping birds
All the noises in the head slowly quietened
I heard a strain of a song, notes coming from distant
Was it a The Reaper, the highland lass who enchanted?
The great romantic poet William Wordsworth
I romanced my ears and listened with more intense
The song came near and near and it was a chorus
All was soon revealed it was the tourists group
With open mobiles and clicking cameras all around
“I wander’d lonely as a cloud
That floats high o’er hills and dales”
The vale profaned overflowing with the sound