t a houseman (#24) presents… his poem: lay down your arms

lay down your arms!

lay down your legs!

somewhere,

a dog begs;

and is moved on by a policeman;

and a brisk busker basks

in the glory of a note.

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One Day, whilst the soldiers try out some close-harmonies (a song)

Soldier: Oh, the Sergeant-Major’s daughter – goes by the name of-

Chorus: June.

Soldier: She spends her life in wonder, just looking at the-

Chorus: Moon.

Soldier: The Sergeant-Major hasa pipe, and he plays a merry-

SFX pipe notes – very short, not that merry.

Chorus: Tune.

And now his song is over. It ended much to-

Chorus: quickly.

Soldier (spoken): Sorry?

Chorus: Soooooon.

Soldier: Mmmmm.

SFX Soldier walking off.

1st Chorus: Right lads, he’s gone. A one, a two, a one, two, three, four-

Chorus – with hand claps / rifle loading noises (eventually fades out):

Four letter word just to get me along

It’s a difficulty and I’m biting on my tongue

And I I keep stalling, keeping me together

People around gotta find something to say now

Holding back, everyday the same

Don’t wanna be a loner

Listen to me, oh no I never say anything at all

But with nothing to consider they forget my name (ame, ame, ame)

They call me ‘Bell’

Private Bell: Present!

Chorus: They call me ‘Stacey’

Lance Cpl Stacey: Present!

Chorus: They call me ‘her’

Private Her: Present!

Chorus: They call me ‘Jane’

Corporal Jane: Present!

Chorus:

That’s not my name

That’s not my name

That’s not my name

That’s not my name

They call me ‘quiet girl’

But I’m a riot Mary, Jo, Lisa

Always the same

That’s not my name…

In the Waiting Room

I have no words to say

I am at a station

And the train is not going to arrive

And therefore

Will not be departing

Any time soon.

I don’t even have a ticket

For a destination;

And, there is no track.

So, it looks unlikely

That I shall be steaming out of here.

1348 – somewhere in England.

I’ve never been so vague

As when I caught the plague

Back in fourteen thirty eight

It left me in a state…

Of confusion

I was suffering grandeurs of delusion;

My toes didn’t count up to ten;

Then they didn’t count up to ten, again;

I couldn’t count on them.

I wandered to the church

With a stagger and a lurch;

Finding little Solace there: ‘Hello, little Solace; how’s your mare?’

But, little Solace’s mare had died;

And wouldn’t carry little Solace far and wide

Any more.

And so I wandered off to war,

In just the ragged clothes I wore;

But, knowing not the way to go,

I wandered where I do not know;

And by and by I ended up,

At yonder inn, a drink to sup;

If money had, which I have not;

And so I wait here for a tot

Of rum

To appear;

Some time, I may be waiting here.

And so, I vaguely write these words

And await the end of Edward Third’s

Reign

To come

When we shall have so much more

Or some.

One Size (Poem) Fits All!

One Size (Poem) Fits All!

I’ve been wondering lately

(Not as a cloud)

Whether one poem could suit everybody;

Whether one poem could deliver to everyone;

And, whether I could write that poem.

Well, I have considered this for a long and a short while

And I have decided

That the answers, my friends, are:

‘No’, ‘No’ and ‘No’ again

To the above questions.

Poems are individuals;

They have their entrances

And their exits;

And, each, is as like to another

As an eggplant is to a porcupine.

A Thing

There’s a thing somewhere;

But, I can’t be any more specific than that.

It may be over there

Or over there

Or somewhere else

Or it may not.

Because, as things go,

It might have gone.

In The Morning Garden

The birds visit the garden

And flurry around the spoils:

Starlings bossy and in numbers;

Blue Tits gentle and discerning;

Robin, nervous and not for long – he’s soon gone;

Sparrows and finches,

Tiny in inches, check out the ground for some spillings below;

And others fly to and fro

For the taste

“There is little to waste!

For waste is a crime;

All is needed for the cold Winter time.”