The flowered year

Crocuses bloom when spring has sprung
And there’s no room for feeling glum;
But when church bells their rings have rung
The year moves to Chrysanthemum.

And as the winter chill draws near,
When mists and rain beset the hills,
And ring the end of the flowered year,
It's only weeks to daffodils.

Least said...

"You fool," I think but that's not what I say;
For I'd much rather try to keep the peace.
There may be angst here but there's no release
In saying what I know I want to say.

I really don't want to exacerbate
The situation that has risen here.
Nor do I ever want it to appear
That I was one who only could berate.

Instead I keep my cool and hold my tongue.
Sometimes I'll nod and sometimes shake my head;
For soonest mended is when least is said
And easier for us all to get along.

The byte beyond

I find it hard to find my way around
Computers and their difficult software.
It is the most demanding sort of ground,
Yet youngsters find it easy - it's not fair!
My hair is silver and my beard quite long
Perhaps that's why I get it all so wrong!

I've read the books and followed all they say
To no avail, it's like a foreign land.
I've clicked on HELP not minding the delay
And still it's difficult to understand.
I'll struggle on, of course, wasting my time,
Hoping at last these barriers I'll climb.

Bankers

I cannot think of what to rhyme with bankers
That I can publish. They are all such rogues!
If they were squaddies they'd all be on jankers
With bulled up boots instead of city brogues.

They take our cash but pay the lowest interest,
Then take their bonuses. It's so obscene.
There cannot be a heart within their pale breast,
It raises to the heights my angry spleen.

In future I will take my cash and spend it,
That way I'll get its value while I can.
I'll never ever more decide to lend it
To a cheating, greedy, breed of banker man!

The poor oppressed

In ancient times there lived a lord
Who ruled his lands with fist and sword;
This was a prince of fearsome mien
Hated and feared wherever seen.

He taxed his serfs and villeins too,
Freemen oppressed, and there were few
Escaped his fearsome evil ways,
The worst example of his days.

It chanced at last that some had had
Enough of him. He drove them mad.
Their bellies ached with hunger pains.
This Lord cares not. He just disdains

To think of what his actions cause
Or anything beyond his doors.
These few began to plot and plan
To get rid of this evil man.

Their plans sadly would come to nought
For spies of his the news had brought.
Skill to assassinate they lacked
So to his doors this bill he tacked.

"Reward of fifty crowns is paid
When these men in their graves are laid."
With such wealth offered they're betrayed
And all their dreams are thus gainsaid.

He took those men. Not looking back
He forced confessions on the rack.
Now haggard, battered, bloody, lean
They're never more from that day seen.

So that all men would them forget,
He cast them in his oubliette.
'Twas there they wasted, rotted, died
No history of them yet escried.

They never in their graves were laid
So no reward was ever paid.
By means so devious he proceeds
Throughout his life with evil deeds.

But many years would pass and then
Historians write about those men.
Their tale is told, their evil fate
Writ down - this sad tale I relate.

For such as this in ancient times
Was often told in bardic rhymes.
We think we live in happier days
Yet still oppression with us stays.

It's subtler now; from poorest men
They make large profits where they can.
The banks, the multinationals too,
And governments, to name a few;

They pay small wage to make large gain
Unheeding of the poorest's pain.
So goes the world forever on
Until the final day is done

And everything comes to an end.
Then long eternity we'll spend
Reflecting on the life that's gone
The good and bad we all have done!

The Prison Prayer Group

Not monks, but monk-like in austerity
And fast enclosed within these fearful walls,
They pray with fervoured sprirituality,
Seeking God‘s forgiveness of their falls.

Heads bowed and silent I can hear their prayers
And know their wretchedness and deep despairs.

The circle meets and greets and prays as one,
The Christian and the Jew, respectful all
Of one another’s different beliefs
Reading and discussing scripture's call.

Heads bowed, yet joyful for they know each cares
For other, here united in their prayers.

In song they also raise their praise to God,
And heed th' instruction that the leader gives.
In this way they can reach for good
And find the God who every sin forgives.

For such as these the Saviour gave His all;
To rescue us from an eternal fall.

There is no prison for the faith-freed soul,
No bars to hold the spirit’s heavenward leap;
What once was broken has now been made whole
And soars to heaven from the darkest deep.

Yan, Tan, Tethera

Yan, Tan, Tethera… the shepherd counts his sheep;
I wonder, as he counts them, does he ever fall asleep?
The woolly flock, in rank and file a military disgrace,
Flee from the friendly shepherd in a crazy, ram-led, race.

I wonder does the shepherd ever wonder of his flock
If they really understand that they’re an edible kind of stock.
Or do they graze unwitting of their butcher’s destination,
That their legs will soon be dinner for a hungry human nation.

They’re the dumbest kind of creature and yet they have their charm
As they move in wavelike motion across the hilly farm.
The wonder is the pasture on the slopes will turn to meat
(Or some creamy dairy product: milk or cheese) for us to eat.

Life for the sheep is simple though it has its share of threats:
The winter’s bite at lambing; the fox or wolf that sets
Its hungry sights on lambs and sheep that, heedless, carry on,
Leaving safety to the shepherd or to the farmer’s gun.

I sit and think on these things as the dish comes to the table,
The mint sauce on the sideboard – that’s not too execrable.
For th’ambition of the farmer with the lonely shepherd’s aid
Is to fatten them for slaughter – then the table's truly laid!