cranes

 Eye scan every horizon around and

I see cranes, cranes and cranes again.

Looming constructors of construction,

As the city goes on and on

Building itself by destruction and resurrection.

 

But, as an urban romantic,

Idealising and fantasising

About beautiful natural nature,

Out there somewhere,

I wish I could see

Beautiful long-legged birds

Dancing all around me,

Summoning emotions with their cries

As they flock across the skies.

 

Any feathered cranes would do;

Sandhill cranes, whooping cranes,

Japanese blue cranes,

Red crowned cranes and

Grey crowned cranes,

Even the misnamed common cranes.

 

But I see metal monsters instead,

Swivelling, raising and lowering vast limbs,

Blinking red hazard lights

Like evil eyes.

These are the cranes that inspired H.G.Wells

To imagine murderous martian monsters.

But these are human made and human controlled.

I might despise them

For spoiling my suburban skyline

But only hope that they could build

A way out of human destruction,

An escape from our self-made extinction,

And one day, maybe

Bring back the real cranes again.

EMILE

Like a suspended blade

That has to descend

The news came,

And your name cannot now be called

So that you will hear.

Instead, it will be inscribed

On the certificates, the obituaries

And the programmes.

 

You were a wonderful man,

A man of many aspects

Shining out through many facets

Like a diamond.

Shining out through words and paint

Onto paper canvas and walls,

Giving generously to all and for all.

 

And those of us left behind,

Must try to continue to create as best we can,

With your memory in our minds.

THREE

 I set a silly puzzle,

As I listen to the drizzle,

Splattering on the roof.

I devise an equation to solve a situation,

That needs no solution.

 

There are three cities, built next to three rivers.

Two thirds are on islands,

And two other thirds have risen

To overthrow cruel rulers;

But only one has been burnt

By bombs from the sky.

And one third of the cities

Organises massive grovelling

To a silly king.

 

Many cities are older,

And the three won’t last forever

Beasts will walk on their ruins,

While the rivers roll on.

FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS

 I am bored by the sight of my street,

It never seems to change.

The sky is standard English grey.

Windows of similar semi-detached houses,

Masked with net curtains and blinds,

Seem like indifferent expressionless eyes.

One seagull honks as it flies by,

Is it wondering why it’s so far from the ocean?

I feel no emotion as I wait

For a van to bring me groceries.

I am a lucky old man,

In other streets houses explode in flames,

And vehicles deliver teams of assassins.

Residents hide in cellars and under beds.

Hot metal death screams through the sky,

They hope it will pass them by

Or they run as far and as fast as they can

Boredom doesn’t feature in their concerns.