1 A little girl of eight
Was leaning on the gate,
Pondering the miracle of birth.
From her parents’ attitude
She thought it might be something rude
And was neither cause for sorrow nor for mirth.

2 By chance along the road
A little lady strode,
Hurrying from the vicar's after tea.
The girl thought, There’s Miss Price,
She is wise and nice,
She will solve my mystery for me.

3 Miss Price approached the gate,
The little girl in wait
Called out, Hallo, a lovely evening, too.
If you can spare the time
There's a problem on my mind,
A question I would like to ask of you.

4 The lady, coming near,
Said, Yes, of course, my dear,
I'll surely try to put your mind at rest.
Although I'm not a sage,
With the wisdom of my age,
You can rest assured I'll do my best.

5 I’ve a brother now, you see,
He was born at five oh three,
He's upstairs in the bedroom now with Mum.
And now I’m full of doubt,
I've tried but can't find out—
Please tell me, miss, from where do babies come?

6 Miss Price, a little shocked,
Thought she was being mocked.
Good Lord, she thought, what can I tell this child?
A spinster all her life—
No experience as a wife
This subject always made her feel defiled.

7 Miss Price looked all about
Seeking a way out;
Anything to stop this sinful talk.
Then, clutching at a straw,
With her dim old eyes she saw
The poor bedraggled, drunk and gasping stork.

8 She pointed at the roof
And in a tone aloof
Said, There is how your brother came to you.
I’m surprised you haven't heard
That all babies come by bird,
And now I must be off, so toodle-oo.

The little girl turned and looked up at the stork.

And the stork, to his eternal credit, winked.

It would be pleasant, would it not,
If in the world one found a spot
Where peace and tranquil tempers reigned,
No grudges borne nor lives profaned;
Where one could sit and contemplate
In undisturbed surroundings, fate,
Instead of devastation.

No doubt all parties have just cause,
Or think they have, and hence the wars
That scar the waters, land and skies
And in doing so give rise
To doubts of man’s professed desire
That he should rise above the  mire
Of constant devastation.

Man’s history records with awe
Long millennia of war,
And to its heroes points with pride—
A monument to suicide.
Does this prove that man’s insane
Inflicting wretched endless pain
Pursuing devastation?

So will it be man’s timeless fate:
Continuing carnage, endless hate?
Or can he ever have the will
To disobey the order: ****?
Can it come about? It may
A long night’s journey into day
Rejecting devastation.

One is anarchy
Two is conspiracy
Three is a crowd
(But also democracy).

To all boating writers
Required to write several boat reviews
In a short period of time
While at a boat show:

And off I set this jolly morn
One more bateau to go
But which is which?
My stale, confuséd mind is torn
My stride along the dock is slow
Gotta work though
*******.

Nostalgie de l'ecole

I well remember Mr. Naughton
Whose life I daily yearned to shorten
He who drove us to the edge
Flailing with his pitching wedge -
Or it might have been a flashy
Royal & Ancient wooden mashie -
Niblick, driver, I don't care
As long as I was never where
I could be slashed with shaft or hosel
On buttocks, ribs or even schnozzle.
I longed to see him in the gutter
Impaled upon a Ping-type putter -
In fact I'd even go so far
As deem that outcome "even par."

many a lad
has sold his soul
for the chance to possess
a center console
he picks the T-top
and the color graphics
with an eye to how
it will look in traffic
for the rocket launchers
and numerous reels
he trades his children
and the rest he steals
gotta have the four-stroke
to drive him out yonder
so he hocks his wife
for a brand new Honda
to pull the whole lot
needs an F-150
so he cons a salesman
without looking too shifty
and drives away
in his cloud of glory
but that's not the end
of this sordid story
he's crossing the bridge
on the way to the ramp
and fails at the side
to see a sleeping *****
hobo wakes up
sees Apocalypse descending
yells like a banshee
and starts defending
his right to the road
and an open-air bed
that's when our lad's boat
hits him right in the head
blood's all over
the go-fast paint
and hobo yells
I WISH TO LODGE A COMPLAINT!
but the rig's long gone
uncontrolled weaving
driver's a-panic
and feels himself leaving
the road and the scene
his wits start to falter
as he crashes through barricades
into the water.
Now you could say
he got what he deserved
with a long prison sentence
justice was served
he sits in the slammer
regretting his role
but planning his next
BIGGER center console.

Backing into battle
With our buttocks gleaming white
We are rogered for Her Majesty
And Britannia’s ruling might.

The enemy  may raise his flag
Upon our flaccid pole
For the Queen’s most heartfelt wishes
Are that we should be the swishes
Fed will-nilly to the fishes
In our British glory hole.
Olé.

Where is the wit
That the average Brit
Is supposed to rely
On when times go awry?

Summon that grin
Or something akin
And gaily resolve Life's conundrum
When put upon
Remember that: Non
Illigit' carborundum.

I try to make
These lines to scan
I try to make them rhyme
But when I try
As best I can
These verses are no better than
Base poetic curdled flan
In short, iambic crime.

The wind wafts busily through the stays
The occasional gust—a frenzied rattle in the rigging—
Coinciding with the darkening water
Round the white hull

Darkness shrouds the windward hills
The sky above though blue
Is ,with the quickening breeze
Destined not to last
The gusts come strongly now
Feel their anger
The whine and slat grows louder
Clouds, where once was blue, are grey
And threatening

White water breaks the green tranquillity in the placid bay
Rain, like heavy haze, obscures
The not so distant outline of the shore
And seems to hover,
As if drawing strength
Momentum
For its inexorable run to where we sit.

A moment’s lull
The calm
And hear the hiss
Of heavy drops a scant few yards away.
Louder, closer, gust
The torrent hits
Initial downpour, pause,
And then the deluge.
Vicious sound, it pummels,
Seeks to inundate
All
In its elemental fury.
Inside, the heat  and damp oppressive.
Enclosed in grey walls of water. Sweat
Mingling with the condensation. Stifling
And claustrophobic.
Then all at once the noisy dampness
Recedes.
We breathe again the fresh-washed air
And shiver from the drips
And search the horizon for the next onslaught.

Sunlight filters through the branches
As warm air following the cold
Hisses at the leaves
And mingles with the half-heard voice
Of a not-too-distant neighbor.
An occasional bird-call
Keeps time with a squirrel’s jerky progress;
A dog sighs and briefly imitates the trees.

And slowly in this tranquillity
Comes a sense of recovery
Last night’s excesses, felt viscerally
These past several hours, turn
To a contented glow in the afternoon sun.
Inner trembling starts to feel
Controlled. And less visible.

Breathing deeply, tasting at last
The warm freshness of the clean air
As it permeates, so softly, the tortured frame,
The gutted pores, the brutalised organs
Of this body.

Time now, too, for the mind, busily
Analyzing complaints for all this while,
To feel some ease
No more pumping
Frantic aid to disturbed ampullae;
No longer succouring the fevered nerves
Or fighting for a woolly lobe’s attention.
Now  comes that ease and relaxation,
Long fought for and hard won.

Now the battle is over and with minimal casualties,
Now reason takes over and forward progress
Can be seen clearly in the mind’s eye.
Now once again the saliva flows sweetly
To the abused palate.
Now the rasping throat is
Pacified.
And one succumbs to that sense of
Pastoral  anticipation
As the brain
And the spleen
And the  bile
And the liver
And, inter alia, the noble ascending colon
All agree
Now is the time
Now the blessed moment
Now
We can begin again.

Set ‘em up.

Untitled (God frowned)

Light winds hiss
Like a lover’s kiss
In the trees that here abound
And the soft-scented air
Makes me all aware
Of the days before God frowned.

The cry of a bird -
So sharply heard -
The sense of another day dying.
The cooling breeze
Precludes the ease
Of a night when my heart won’t be crying.

See the sun set
And don’t ever let
The sense that time passes you by
Stifle your soul
Let the blood run cold
Nor torture yourself with the why.

The run’s not so hard
Though emotions are jarred:
Many ways to survive will be found.
Turn to and face
Your triumphant disgrace -
And look back on the day God frowned.