New poems by Mary Cresswell

 

Evoking The Muse

 

The ginger cat is my Dark Lady,

the penates of my lair.

He is my Scarlet Pimpernel —

I seek him here, I seek him there.

 

He licks in shape the purple flame

of perfervid fabrication

and scrambles for fresh figments

on my tree of inspiration.

 

He scuffles in the spinifex

by my deep poetic sea;

he pounces on my efforts

and drags their guts to me.

 

When he has my thoughts in shape

at last, he’ll then defer

his efforts into blameless sleep—

to dream, perchance to purr.

 

 

 

The Enlightened Manager

 

“Sensitive management is the cutting-edge tool for organisational progress.”

With my sensitive new age smirks

and my sensitive new age manner,

I smugly survey the world from my works –

I’m a sensitive new age spanner.

 

 

 

What The Preacher Said

 

The sky is falling! The sky is falling!

We must go and tell the king!

We knew the truth would be appalling!

 

This is the end of everything!

Know ye that we’ll all be taken

before the passing bell can ding –

 

The pig will never turn to bacon,

the chook will never see the pot,

every pudgy seed or acorn

 

the farmer and his wife allot

will go to waste. Such misery!

Is this what God hath really wrought?

 

Is there no hope for such as we?

Come quick, come quick my tender darling,

so you can spend this night with me.

 

‘Tis the end of summer calling

across the barnyard, cold and sure!

Chicks can’t escape when the sky is falling

and youth’s a stuff will not endure.

 

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