The Scientists Say

Some scientists now say
This pale blue dot
Has had it’s day.
The scientists say,
Today this pale blue dot,
Is more a dirty grey.

Over centuries of spewing out pollution,
Beyond Earth, the Solar System.
Our rubbish has now conversed,
With the outer Universe.

And the scientists are now saying,
The possibilities are weighing,
Toward catastrophic Divine Retribution,
The end point for all Evolution.

But bring it all back,
Bring it all right back,
To just me and you.
Zoom right in,
because right now,
It’s important what we do.

What do we do,
To avert the crisis?
To ensure Life on Earth
Carries on.
I know the answer,
But I’m not sharing.
Coz the answer,
Might be wrong.

12 Year Old Nihilist

Canteen cafeteria, holds one hundred people or more,
As fifty conversations, bounce off the walls and floor.
Suddenly altogether, complete silence did ensue.
Had a famous person (I thought), entered into view?

I wondered was it Winston, Churchill of wartime fame?
His ghost materialising, grey image just the same
as the history books record him, fat cigar and v-sign hand,
Craggy looking smile, hunched over where he stands.

What history cannot tell you is… I piddled on his grave.
Don’t judge me too unkindly, an adolescent knave.
A boy uncertain of his place, with nothing much to lose,
Behaviour lacking scruples… and drunk, on stolen booze.

Before you boo and hiss, see a boy twelve at the time,
Although knew well of Churchill, peeing seemed no crime.
Before you boo and hiss, there’s a poignant question of scale,
I didn’t order city-obliteration, death, suffering, and misery, wholesale.

Miserable Old Goat

He climbed the stairs to the cafe,
Struggled free from an overcoat,
Scraped chair legs across the wood floor,
Ugly sounds emerged from his throat.

Long-suffering spouse soon followed,
Dejected, rejected, despaired.
Obliged to sit opposite him,
While he’d never shown if he cared.

The waitress approached and did ask,
Of their morning shopping in town.
Three words she got “He’s been awful.”
Despatched with a deep furrowed frown.

“I came to buy a new sun dress,
All he’s done is whine and complain.
Perhaps you can poison his tea?
Please save me from going insane.”

W’rds I Didst Not Sayeth, But Hath Felt The Urge To… (A G’rmaphobe Writes)

H’re satteth tabl’d in Oxf’rd’s heart,
Covet’d tav’rn from yesteryear.
Present to hark on what folks doth sayeth,
Trap their w’rds inside mine own weir.

Hoyday! Nearby, a sir did request,
A bombard of brown sauce to borrow.
By sight, his wrinkly, bact’ria’d fing’rs,
Hath brought unto me deepened sorrow.

“Withdraw!” I demanded, “Wend hence with thee!
Th’re did lie plenty m’re at the counter!”
That gent did reply “Thou art c’rrect,
I’ll troubleth thee with nay furth’r bant’r!”

“On thy way fusty fart”, I hath said out aloud
As yond p’or gent but soft hobbl’d hence.
“Dareth toucheth this condiment with so filthy hands,
I holidam to nail thee to a fence!”

In The Sandwich Shop

Green eyes and brown hair she greets me.
Straight-off my hunger ignites.
Hot panini – goats cheese and roast veg,
A combo designed to delight.

“An artist?” she asks me directly,
With candour remarkably free.
“Well, collage sometimes,” words stumble-out.
“While lately there’s been more poetry.”

“You know Simonov, Konstantin?
His war poem lament Wait For Me?”
“I don’t,” I say, “will look him up
Online, a translation, I will seek.”

Relaxed, we spoke of language, prose and verse,
Goals strived for, ahead of growing old.
Aware the queue had stretched out through the door,
I set off with my take-out, now stone cold.

Who Is This God?

Heavy rain fell throughout the night,
Is still falling early morning.
Cats stare out from behind the glass,
Ignoring nature’s calling.

“Dad, can you make it stop?”
My three all say to me.
“We can’t stay inside all day,
You know we have to be free!”

I say “There’s nothing I can do ’bout it,
My furry little friends.
It’s God’s way of washing
And starting over again.”

“We simply don’t believe you!”
They mewed and stamped their paws.
“We have no truck or faith in,
Such random, immutable laws!”

“And,” Otto – the youngest,
Did carry on to say,
“Just who is this God you talk of,