Poems
by Tony Dawson

Pale Horse, Pale Rider

 

Death cast a baleful eye around the castle room,

his personal microcosm of planet Earth.

While he mainly savoured the widespread doom

he was not so keen to encourage the birth

of a new virulence invented by Plague and War

and Famine. Death had made up his mind to show

them who was in charge and so with a roar

ordered the three of them to come to his chateau

to discuss the current state of their affairs.

Death’s main complaint? Being worked to death!

He told Plague not to come upon him unawares

with new viruses. He’d like some time to catch his breath.

“But I’m fed up with buboes,” old Plague whined,

“frogs, and lice, and flies, and locusts are so tame.

If there’s no novelty, it just becomes a daily grind.”

Death growled, “D’you think it’s all a bloody game?”

Next, it was Famine’s turn to be called to account.

“Why the surge in food banks, especially in the west?

The sight of hungry kids upsets me. It’s tantamount

to sadism. Remember Sade? Well, I’m not impressed.”

“Give me a break!” groaned Famine, “It’s not my fault

that that ghoul Putin invaded Ukraine and cut off the grain.

Why don’t you pay him a visit? That should put a halt

to the war and you and I could take it easy again!”

Hearing his name, slumbering War sat up with a start

and looked askance at both Plague and Famine

who went on to say, “We think, with hand on heart,

that we only follow in the wake of War. If you examine

where we hang out, it’s usually where War has been.

And another thing, why was he provided with a horse?

By asking that particular question, what we mean

is that he’s not like the three of us, that is, a force

of nature. He’s something invented by Man.”

“Just hold your horses a minute,“ cut in a fuming War.

“For them to dodge responsibility, their gameplan

is to blame me? Who are they? The Peace Corps?

The animal kingdom has been at war since day one,

and, yes, that includes the human race. Think Cain

and Abel. From jawbone of an ass to a big gun.

Sorry, but as you know there’s no gain without pain.”

Death looked no happier than before the meeting,

though he did give the comments about War some thought.

“Maybe I should send Putin a personal greeting

because it’s high time the dictator was taught

that actions have consequences, which are often dire,

as they will be in his case. It’s a given everyone dies

and few get to choose the way they expire.

But I do! Putin’s down for an excruciating demise.”

 

 

 

 

 

Oops!

 

In 1990 in early spring

Fiona Maidenhead wed Arthur King.

Her virginal surname was naturally lost,

and her virginity, at no extra cost.

 

When Fiona was born, her mother decided

to name her for Ursula, in whom she’d confided

when she was at school. And her father proposed

the name “Carole,” knowing it would be unopposed

 

because his wife was a keen Carole King fan.

It seemed preordained that a brilliant young man

surnamed King, who’d been wooing their daughter

should end up at her side in front of the altar.

 

Initially, everything seemed for the best.

Everyone thought Fiona was blessed.

Arthur agreed their life was quite splendid

until the time came when it all nearly ended.

 

When she was made Head of a new Quaker school,

Fate struck in a way that was remarkably cruel.

She was told by the Friends and other officials

her office door only had room for initials…

 

 

 

 

 

The Point of Poetry

 

While reading Etty’s carefully wrought poetry

meandering from idle thought to idle thought,

a fruit fly that’s been annoying me

flies between the last page of Office Workers

In the Gateway to the Last Field on Cow

Pasture Lane and the first of Sitting Next to Barbara.

For a man of my years, I am quick to react,

closing the book with a resounding smack,

much to the fruit fly’s discomposure,

bringing its life to an early closure.

So much for poetry not achieving anything.

Now, Etty-like I begin to wonder whether

the fly was lured by the smell of the pasture

or by the unclean Barbara’s pungent odour.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s been raining Russian oligarchs

 

Who would have thought that oligarchs

could go from top dogs to no-marks

in the twinkling of a Putin eye?

Did they believe that they could fly?

When Putin points his stubby finger,

the oligarch assassins do not linger.

Two top dogs were exterminated,

by being summarily defenestrated.

Their deaths were made to look like suicides,

though everyone knew they were really homicides

When the malignant Putin got the hump

certain wealthy “friends” had to “jump”.

The Gazprom boardroom needed a reshuffle,

chop-chop, and with the minimum kerfuffle.

Another Gazprom hierarch fell off a cliff

hiking to Achipse Fortress. But what if

someone pushed him and he didn’t slip?

Perhaps a timely nudge made him lose his grip...

A long-time yes-man flushed down the pan,

once a yes-man who’s now a no-man.

And so it went on throughout last year.

It rained oligarchs that were once held dear.

 

 

 

 

 

Snapshot of My Mother, Susan

 

In a family of twelve, she was born number ten

just a couple of years before the Great War.

Her mother Flo Delaware was of French descent.

Her father, after the glory of fighting the Boer,

ended his days washing trams for a pittance.

It’s obvious the family was desperately poor.

Just think of how many must have slept in each bed.

And breakfast became part of family folklore.

How on earth on his wages were they all fed?

The story as told by my mother was this:

“Each day at breakfast there was a ritual,”

she’d tell me and started to reminisce.

Her father sat down to eat his habitual

Soft-boiled egg. All would wait in anticipation

to see which of the twelve by some twist of fate,

would have the good fortune and smile with elation

when the top of his egg ended up on their plate!

 

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