Jeremiah Odd Lobster and the Politics of Prawns

Jeremiah Odd Lobster and the Politics of Prawns

Jeremiah Odd Lobster
had one too many legs,
handy for a human
with a pile of washing
and a bag of pegs.
How often would he wonder,
as he stumbled on the shore,
what the extra ones were for.
Secretly, though he thought him drab,
he somewhat envied
Cedric Caesar Crab,
who always seemed quite pleasant,
and had no sting or stab.
Oliver Octavian Octopus
told him not to make a fuss.
How many legs he had
was not a subject to discuss,
for the more you look into it,
the more the ocean yawns,
might as well try to meddle with
the politics of prawns.
“Down here, things are simple,”
was his bubble born remark.
“We know who the enemy is,
and that is certainly the shark.
Avoid him, like a star fish,
and life’s a sea horse and a lark.”
“Yes, but O why is the Right Wing always wrong,
the Left Wing always right?”
asked Jeremiah,
truth attained was his desire.
“And why do both sides seem so smug?
Why is the rope strained too tight
whichever way you tug?”
“Mess with politics and you will fail,”
warned Wilfred Wilhelm Whale.
“Do not fear your intuition
when you refuse to sign
the latest Left Wing petition.
Unlike a human son or daughter,
we cast no net or vote,
we who live beneath the water.”
Still the mind of Jeremiah
desired the ice of fear and doubt
to burn with liquid molten fire.

The Lost Saga of Brikk the Unbold

The Lost Saga of Brikk the Unbold

On the island of Starkk lived Grimm Gorm Brain. He inherited a farm at the foot of Vrack, a volcano with a red cone and slopes of black slag. His fields never truly thawed from the snow and ice and profound cold of winter. A few rows of cauliflowers, turnips, carrots and potatoes was all he could grow, so he lived mostly on fish from the sea and nearby lakes and moose meat. When his chin grew a beard, he wedded Bertha White Wolf. She gave birth to Brikk the Unbold. This is his saga, while men still listen to tales. It was evening in the farmhouse. There was a knock at the door. Bertha opened it and saw a man standing there. It was Brikk.
“Mother, why did you call me the Unbold? I do not behave unbrave. Tales are not told about men who are unbold,” said Brikk.
“That’s why I named you the Unbold, so no one will remember you. No one will remember me. Why should anyone remember you?” said Bertha.
“What if I bring victory in battle or slay a dragon or a troll hag?” said Brikk.
“No one will take you seriously if you did, not with your name,” said Bertha.
“All my life you have been older than me, so I accept your wisdom,” said Brikk.
Deserving to be called Mute Tongue, he said no more. The moon shone above the cone of the volcano as he trudged home to the hut he shared with his wife, Annhild.
There was a man called Surt Hot Head but this is not his saga.
“Yes, it is. This is my saga,” bawled Surt, berserk in his bear coat, and hit his shield so hard he broke a bone in his knuckle. Do and say what he would, this is still not his saga.
Meanwhile, Bertha sat at table, eating moose broth with her husband, Grimm Gorm Brain.
The End

Ski In The Sky

Ski In The Sky

I went for a ski in the sky,
never more free was I,
far higher than any bird could fly,
when I went for a ski in the sky.

Really I walked down a road,
my arms strained, my feet slowed
by my shopping bag load.
I looked up.
Saw me ski down the slope of a cloud,
its edge white with winter sunlight.
I smiled to see I wore
the same blue coat I wore on Earth.
My face looked younger, serene,
accustomed to pleasant thought and mirth.
Clouds shifted, my concentration waned.
It grew grey, chilly, like yesterday,
when it was windy and rained.
The moment passed by.
I was happy enough to cry.
I was thinking of you and I,
when I went for a ski in the sky.

Stone Age Sonnet

Stone Age Sonnet

My heart stampedes,
like a herd of mammoths,
when I think of your dark eyes.
With them in mind,
I fear not the chattering baboon
or the sabre toothed tiger
in the darksome night
when no light stones shine in the skies.
You give me strength to brush away
a mammoth like a moth,
and you nourish my innards more than a
bowl of brontosaurus broth.
To be brass bold, bee hive brave,
I wish to share with you my cave.
Meanwhile, more mammoths thump the ground,
not as hard as the beats of my heart,
when I think of the depth of your smile,
the way you lift your eye lash with no sound.
Accept my Stone Age sonnet,
even though it obeys no rules.
It may sound pre-historic,
I did my best with basic tools.

Final Pages

Final Pages

Here is my rusted helmet,
this is my broken shield.
You may wonder how I survived it,
what happened on the field.

I believed the king was right,
the rebel leader wrong.
Out of the great battle we fought in,
the minstrel made a song.

I rest now in this chapel,
seems the true place to be.
Say a prayer and think of what happened,
if anyone is free.

It ever was a tangle,
it ever was a mess.
The doctor was right about the wound,
the pain grows less and less.

I loved the woods in summer,
I loved the stars at night.
I was moved by fine words on the page.
Wish I knew which were right.

Now read the final pages
that will complete my tale.
Though mist and shadow lies on my quest,
I know I did not fail.

Ship of Fools

Ship of Fools

No one bites the dust,
no one cuts the cloth,
they’re just things people say,
like a flame draws a moth.

Try to start a tale,
to find a way in,
even with the sound off,
the world still makes a din.

Night is an ocean,
dark, calm, I begin,
an eager voyager,
but I still fear a fin.

May not be a shark,
that line sharp and thin,
could be the peace police,
a patrolling dolphin.

It was Plato in The Republic
who first wrote of the ship of fools,
asked what if the captain cannot navigate,
and his crew squabbled over who should take the helm,
how could they survive a voyage on the ocean realm?

I contemplated in a monastery,
but could not obey the rules,
now I am far from any harbours
on board the ship of fools.

Dick Turpin was a highwayman,
his horse was called Black Bess,
today that sounds romantic,
but I could not want to be him less.

Robinson Crusoe was a castaway,
wanted to escape but did not have the tools,
his wit was almost gone when he was rescued
on board the ship of fools.

No one tries to jump overboard,
no one wants to drown.
They wait for land on the horizon,
the lights of a seashore town.

Some fools are very serious,
others like to jest.
Ask them why they’re here,
they’ll say they’re just a guest.

An old blue clothed buccaneer
reads a newspaper by the mast,
asks those with nearby ears: Is this real?
If so, he hopes it will not last.

They say the captain is worse than Captain Ahab
who searched for Moby Dick.
He’s some kind of failed magician,
you can see through his every trick.

I would train to be a master mariner,
if I could find the book of rules.
I do not intend to end my voyage
on board the ship of fools.