YOU GET 5000
AND YOU GET 5000 AND
TRUMP BRIBE BEING PANNED
Don't need clues
Who lit the fuse
Of Soho's Blues
No old codgers
No bother bodgers
No dodgy lodgers
Just Oisin Rogers
And tax dodgers
Want it to be bland
Class not brass band
Just like the Strand
But any proper city
Needs a bit of shi*ty
Can't be too pretty
Needs a bit of gritty
So would be a pity
Don't throw in the towel
The midnight howl
Needs cheek by jowl
Seeds a bit of foul
Feeds owl on the prowl
So don't let it be panned
Our cult adult wonderland
That is the Soho brand
We whirled around like flakes in a snow globe.
Dad weaving miracles, keeping us un-cold.
5 peeps living under a sway-backed roof.
In a one-bedroom converted chicken coop.
Feathered tenants must've thought it a mansion.
Dad and Mom must've thought it a land-based Titanic.
Uncle Barnacle must've thought it a great place to crash.
Brother and I were just 2 gumdrops adrift in Candyland.
There're just two of us chicken coop people left.
We never chat about our chicken coop past.
I thank Rooster for busting his beak, keeping us fed.
And a hen who panned love from lean times and trash.
I've hee'rd some say you just; must not go, visit
That brazen faced man..Who's a maverick Joe..We thought he wasn't.??? But the way some things panned.? Just leave old Joe well out of your plans.' He resides in the deepest depths we know.' Where the cold is like knives.? Or at least a stubbed toe.! He's an old bush-wacker..Ask anyone here.. He ain't real tolerant either dear.' With him up is up.' And down is down, and left.? Well it sure ain't right.! What other faults are to be found. Un-right??? I think a toilet roll is needed.? The waxy type..Much inking must not be impeeded
And it'll remind me he's not a luxurious type, stubborn and pig-iron headed, this is
Streching like tripe, or India rubber, oh yes
There there..I feel most vindicated as i wail and Blubber....)
Low battery mode.
Made of triangles bobbing around.
Like things in unusual water droplets.
The worst of knowing that everything is moving in a shuttering way.
Not a pretty “whoosh.”
Just a whoosh at the base of my jaw getting slobbered on.
I lost my keys.
I think I’m entombed.
Cascades.
Low battery mode.
Made of triangles flat, and unshaped.
Like things in boring water puddles making a mess etc.
Made of lost keys in my head.
Tragic.
Things made of kaleidoscopes made of scraps.
Made of my jaw, shutting down.
Low battery mode.
Pencils of all things.
I never found them.
So the camera panned over to someone else.
Unusual stuff.
Spooked
Driving along on my scooter, seeing the familiar
landscape, there was a time disturbance
The landscape was the same, but the trees were small
And there were fewer ploughed fields.
mystical shadows and a murmur of voices sounded
as an echo, and I felt spooked.
I stopped and waited, perhaps I had a funny turn
Slowly, the warp panned out, and I was back at
my own time, yet I sensed an unease I should not
come back to this place that had layers of old-time
that had yet to melt into the clarity of a white water
that has no story to tell.
Tomorrow waits beneath the hush of dawn's first flush.
It listens for the promise of a guiding hand.
To cleanse the taint of all those yesterdays panned.
Hope strikes a match that burns away the remnants of regret.
A flare of faith that last night's darkness has extinguished.
Knowing that the sun will rise afresh tomorrow as well,
In the cycle of timely rebirth that comes every day.
I fear no wrong, knowing I learn from my mistakes,
that I can submerge and lock away, beneath the covers of night.
As I sail forth, buoyed and excited, by what could go right.
"Isn't it nice to think that tomorrow
is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?"
Though I traveled the world
I never did find
aught but vacuous
women and wine
Distant shores
promised gold
panned for weeks
then got rolled
Wonders of nature
thrilled me not
manmade marvels
I quickly forgot…
A fitting end to
all my adventures
Woe is me ~ I lost
my dentures
From a loud-mouth, world’s cease-fire arranger
To desperate man as if in manger,
Who when naught was rendered,
Panned, having surrendered,
And what is worse than that,
For a rival to bat,
Dubbed as salesman and Putin’s messenger!
_____________________________
Happenings | 37.08.2025 | USA, humour
Note: Meeting between Trump and Putin in Alaska. Boasts galore and no more boats to reach the coast across! Putin conceded little, trump ceded his boasts, reduced from being a realtor president to a salesman and messenger to relay Russian terms to EU and Ukraine. But the deal maker that he is, Trump might still get Russian oil to flow in the world easing prices, access rare earths from Ukraine, and his coveted Nobel peace prize.
Scarlet was impulsive, impetuous, and hasty.
Her cousins said her decisions were reckless.
I felt they were repeating their parents’ words.
Their parents made fun of everyone.
Scarlet was intuitive, determined and lucky too.
Most of the time her decisions panned out for her.
She married a man after knowing him nine days.
Their marriage lasted 71 years, until his death.
Scarlet quit twenty-eight jobs before finding her career.
Nay-saying cousins had much to say about this.
She quit many jobs on the first day, before lunch.
They thought this was hysterically amusing.
When you quit jobs this fast, it does not take long…
to successfully eliminate twenty-eight jobs that were not right.
She returned to school and became a counselor.
She loved this job, held on to it for twenty-seven years.
The cousins no longer call her reckless.
They consider her risk-taking wise now.
She has been content most of her life.
I think the cousins are more forgiving since their parents are gone.
There were some blue patches down below, swimming pools,
of course, I should have guessed, where the white man rules;
so dropping into nirvana - someone threw me a banana,
from the South Afirican jungle, that was Jo'burg not Ghana.
They wanted my expertise - how many times disputed,
invasion, theft, but maybe was before bias was rooted;
I know, things have changed but maybe for the worse,
and it might have been better if left with a wet nurse.
Progressed, armed with so-called understanding, landing,
in other 'plastic' places, all races but still misunderstanding;
I settled for usual where the backpackers panned and stand,
or rather bend under their load with invisible grains of sand.
A word of advice - deviate your position from men and mice,
take stock - about your plans because Blackpool may be nice.
How was it back in the day? The second-grader asked me.
I knew by now he thought I was at least a hundred and three.
We rode in Conestoga wagons for months, I told him. Threw pianos out too.
Ate whatever we could find, lots of raccoon and opossum stew.
Panned for gold when we got to Califor-eee-ay.
That's how it was
Back in the day.
Devil Dan was a mountain man,
He had a surly disposition.
With a bag of tools and two pack mules,
Headed North on his final mission.
He found his way on a rainy day,
To the base of a mountain stream.
All wet and cold, still panned for gold,
Until he saw some pebbles gleam.
Tho his old back creeks, he panned for weeks,
Till he filled up all his sacks.
With greedy eyes, he seized the prize;
And tried lifting those heavy packs.
With a mighty strain, he winced in pain;
As he felt his low back go.
After dropping down to the cold hard ground,
There began a heavy snow.
All alone, he began to moan;
And with no one to beseech.
In despair and just lying there,
With his fortune out of reach.
Sad and crying, as he lie there dying,
Until he couldn't feel a thing.
No tears would trickle, this huge icicle,
Didn't thaw out till the Spring.
What is this sense that's made to be?
An afterthought expunged to reality?
Does this sense have a scent
of revelation, betrayal or of backing down?
Is it smelly repugnant, or a tasty, tangy treat on tongue?
Is its resolution crystal clear to bed-fellows one,
or lackluster and unconvincing to some.
Does it ooze up between the cracks between the lines of evidence?
Or is it refined in time, from raw materials mined to sublime?
Is it an ore, that lays there like gold,
to be panned and picked up among the nonsense sand,
with no need of refinement?
Making sense is a happening happenstance,
a presence, made and revealed
in the present tense.
In my twilight years I have grown silver,
weaved inside my hair and aging thoughts.
It reminds me of the first time I saw a star
beneath the first aurora hint of a bran new dawn;
All the firsts of my life have been sifted
like panned up gold between my fingers
Sieved through, held brief and then let go
inside this aging heart the memory remains ;
I once was ever altered like the shades of my hair
today I'm much more constant and alert
as I watch the passing storm from my window
I feel like a lamp post blazing in the snow
Lit up at dusk and closed after dawn
I feel like an iron metal post, though I am water,
holding up a dam of love inside my soul,
for all the ones I love, loved and continue to love.
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