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Gregory Deane Poem
It was a time to bond and booze with dear Papa,
An interval all the more naughtily charming
As it inflamed the temper of irascible Mama.
Before happy hour, we two went shooting
With the three o three I bought for drama
In a gauche youth that was always dragging.
Out we drove in my short, fat pa's beetle,
Two maladroits equally socially feeble.
We stopped by some neatly stacked cans
That we shot, exploding wet excrement
Putting a brown pall on our bonding plans.
I fired a random shot as if by witty accident.
Off we went driving by unbroken fences
Till we saw a policeman in bewilderment
Standing over a black and white cow,
By a farmer making a bellowing row.
“We shot the beef, my son,” joshed Pa,
And put the foot down upon the pedal,
Laughing merrily in the hurrying car.
I smiled at his jest however feeble,
A tasteless jibe at the furious farmer.
The very thought I readily dismissed
With a sly, effete flick of the wrist.
The matter of the dead cow was forgot
Until not too long before oblivion
Took hold of every thought of the sot
Aged stupid by whisky and bad living.
“It was because of that cow we shot,
A sin that God has not yet forgiven.”
For a neighbour's dog gored his heifer,
A punishment he had to decipher.
But I think he obliquely gave me blame,
For it was I who shot the bovine brute.
Before his fading mind went fully lame
He reasoned it best to stem guilty root
Before old sins haunted shaky mind's frame.
Dark disputes lingered as he was less astute.
But for me the cow is a point of indifference,
In the abattoir a month earlier of its existence.
Copyright © Gregory Deane | Year Posted 2015
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Gregory Deane Poem
Rog the funambulist
A paragon was Rog, heroic in the air, without airs
One of the most magnificent funambulists at ease
Whether walking a rope or flying on a trapeze,
Though he blessed the earth with no dauntless heirs.
None could ever hope to meet his burly like again.
How admirable was the way he stood, so poised
Muscles taut on his tightrope, the crowd un-noised
Agog, as he stepped off his platform drum, laden
With two massive iron balls held above his head
With nothing but his huge iron-bar moustache
To balance him, and a saving sense of panache.
Rog was unembarrassed though unencumbered.
He bore no unnecessary clothing, as he began to stride
Going forward, forty feet above the hard ground,
Looking straight ahead, as the crowd made no sound,
Eyes turned up at his almost bare bottom, and sighed
They gazed in awe, hushed in uncritical admiration,
As Rog held a two hundred pounds weight of iron balls,
Heavy, manly balls aloft, to earn him the more applause,
Balls steady over his glabrous head, wet with sudation.
The audience gasped as the taut rope trembled,
Twanging elastic beneath his firm, slippered feet.
The still warm wax in his moustache dripped suet.
Sweat oozed through his striped jumper, downward.
But Rog didn't tremble. Rog went forth on his way,
The way of the funambulist, not dithering or wayward.
Until the wax from his moustache fell ropeward.
Rog's foot was sure; Rog's arrant slipper caused dismay.
Rog slipped, and crashed to the ground, earth thumping,
Dropping his iron balls into the crowd, with abandon,
Maiming and slaying as Rog smashes into a circus lion,
Crumbling his skull, whence his brains were pouring.
The loitering lions were saved the trouble of cracking.
But Rog should not have waxed his handsome handlebar
So soon before he stood so perilous high, airily ahover.
There will ever be another Rog, so frightfully smashing.
Copyright © Gregory Deane | Year Posted 2015
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Gregory Deane Poem
The Sound of Colours
http://gregoryswisdom.blogspot.com.au/2015/07/the-sound-of-colours.html
Red sounds like blood dripping out through some severed artery,
Bursting out in a gush from a severed head, or limb, spluttery.
Or the hot breath of passion in the pulsing darkness, whispery.
Orange is citrus fruit bursting, splattered on the hard ground,
Or the song of choirs bouncing off a chantry's walls all round;
Or a King coming with glorious reforms in an irresistible bound.
Yellow is cows bellowing among buttercups, chewing cud,
Or the rush of cowards, defeated, fleeing through stalling mud;
And the clang of gold beneath a smith's hammering, heavy thud.
Blue signals a k pop singer's lament when there's no Gucci bag;
The sound of birds waking up a drunken, wanton, layabout slag;
Moody jazz oozing through the dark recesses, a misery drag.
Green is the rasping rattle, of green phlegm in asthmatic lungs,
The slithering sliding of serpents in grass darting diabolic tongue;
The creep of wilderness spreading tentacles where man has sprung.
Indigo is rubber tyres flapping, punctured on the bitumen;
Ink splashing out of some wayward, penning fountain;
The slinky rustle of a siren in a dress sleek and silken.
Violet is the siren sliding off her gossamer attire of desire
The rustle of money to quench the flame of prurient fire;
Cancer cells rupturing, oozing from sores dirty and dire.
Copyright © Gregory Deane | Year Posted 2015
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