Thomas Hobson (1544 –1631)
in 19th century late
a Cambridge ostler and postal carrier
set his priorities straight
he owned a livery stable
of 40 Hackney horses or more
plus boots bridles and whips
and put the horse the cart before
after the animal left the barn
by bolting fast the door
and as precautionary balm
the nag nearest the stable gate
the worn-out equine storm to calm
was the firm rule he did make
this one or none in the stall
was that which customers had to take
or do with no ride at all
but for the paying equestrians
either way they win or lose
as there was no choice but accept or reject
for any of them to choose
Walk, walk in a cemetery. Old and imposing necropolis. In Hackney.
Poe lived here, in this amazing main district.
Walk, walk. Silent...
You don't hear the voices of the dead, no, never
They tell you to wait, stop, don't go any further.
Listen to us, you are with us, but carry on the news of our past.
On and on, because we also lived here, and we are making our future generation live on.
Live on
Once in a while my brainpan looks alike
a hackney carriage full of hackneyed clichés
and tired words. In times like this, my psych
advised the psycho to unharness wishes,
to burn the carriage down, to make love
to the imaginary charioteer
and, having smoothly closed the above
gestalt, to go for a walk. Oh, dear,
how silent and empty are the streets!
My head is silent and empty either.
This emptiness miraculously treats
a writer’s block. I feel how formless ether
morphs into words again to give a birth
to the entire world and this small verse.
hackney ride
flowers birth swimming pool alliance
You frowned at that fraudster called age,
The fiend that lets no one sleep light,
In book of life age is a page.
A child lets life a free passage,
Flying off in a fancy flight,
And this creature’s caught in a cage.
Grown up when knows, hedges on hedge,
Balks at calling this boaster’s blight,
Life’s a long book, age passing page.
Pushing up life’s hackney carriage,
Reaping fruits, in fair-weather flight,
He copes with that impostor’s rage.
When old enough, bit of a sage,
In vain trying life’s wrongs to right,
He prepares to pen life’s last page.
But you lived in heaven’s image,
Fought your best to give age good fight,
And frowned on that fraudster’s false rage,
Proved, life’s a book, age but a page.
______________________________________________________
Inspired by my father who led an exemplary life and died at the ripe and rewarding age of 102
______________________________________________________
Villanelle | 01.10.08 |
Happiness, over-rated
in the lizard of a soul
You call your own.
And the trainee smiled
while I lusted after his
bottle of rosé.
And undone, these white teeth
Clenching for London Smiles.
Sir where may I drive you
With your finery and trappings
To the world renowned palace
So high in the rankings
And what do you do there
For you plainly are princely
I order activity
Of circuits and machinery
Now leave me to working
While you do drive me
I know where you hail from
Of your far away kingdom
How could you know it
A mere village hackney
The tales of your queen
Are known in our country
Does the queen tell you kindly
That you're a fine scholar
Have you known a lord
To praise you a driver
I sing my own praises
To myself softly
What wisdom I have
That is enough for me
Tell me now of the princess
For whom shall she marry
I know not who warrants
There are too many vying
Name the three manners
That rise above others
Philosophy bravery
I can't name another
Here is the palace
The trip has passed quickly
I hope to drive you
Again if you need me
I will sing your praises
And I'll sing them loudly
What wisdom you have
That is enough for me
Its been taken,lost, buried.
Non existent
The ashes crushed and grey gather in my palms
A faded pretty picture
The sweetest ... Bitter
A wisp of memory brushes past
Caught by my the strands of coil on my head
By the touch of scalp
My heart begins to beat red,pink,orange
Living
Wide eyes
Bones of steel
But as quickly as it came
It return on its journey
Dancing in the glint of the sun
My eyes clinging on
Following into the sun and poured back into my sockets
High bury and Islignton
Left with blue and smothered in black
the road of independence awaits
Ice for muscle, sharpened bones the human bleeds
Confusion stands behind the yellow line
Wisps of memory pass once more
A wounding memory
Caresses an iron cheek
But Without refuge,it dances again to the sun
The violent heart darkens black
For what are memories in the dark
Light blown out by the sigh of the weak
The present serves the grey and strong
Colourless life
Hackney central
Dreamless sleep.
Hey you! You’re a mum
‘Bout time you talked to your son
Where was he last night?
Came home, what a sight
Lingering smoke
‘Bout time you sat down and spoke.
He ain’t got a job
Well dressed, not a slob
Cut hands, torn clothes
Bruised cheek, bloody nose
How come he ain’t broke
‘Bout time you sat down and spoke.
No sense in avoidin’
What went on in Croydon
In Hackney and Ealing
You must have a feeling
The destruction and riot
This ain’t the time to keep quiet.
Full of excuses
Substances abuses
Lack of respect
Which you’ve come to expect
Why d’you let it go on
Where did it go wrong?
Hey you! You should listen
This discord and friction
It won’t go away
This ain’t no way to behave
You need to ask questions
What are his intentions?
Hey you! You’re a mum
'Bout time you talked to your son?