FIRE DOG

There's something very special
about the time of year
when Christmas wraps around us
with end December cheer.
The hardest heart may soften
the cold perhaps to warm
and for a fleeting moment
there's shelter from the storm.
Children stir in slumber
their hopes beneath the green
and will they won't they contemplate
the presents of their dream.
The kitchen smells of roasting
of spice and heat and sprout
the family kiss each other
or brush a festive pout.
The Queen comes on the tele
and with reverence we hear
how well she reigned all over us
and next her Diamond Year.
The fire dog sits and takes it in
enjoys the extra food
she too is feeling Christmassy
or maybe that's our mood.
Does it really matter
if only for one day
we maybe think of some else
some other different way.
If inner true contentment
can find in you a place
on Christmas Day may you be
full of season's grace.

BUCKS AND FIZZ.

My champagne cork has never popped perfectly. Nothing has ever been as precise or as well ordered as it is in the magazines or on the tele. Even though I've been to some pretty glitzy places, on yachts, in top hotel suits, manor houses, chateaux, helicopters, ski lodges, island escapes and film sets, nothing deemed top notch has ever been like it is painted or talked about, like it's supposed to be through the rose tinted lens. The cork rarely pops from out of my bottle at exactly the right moment, in precisely the right way. It sometimes breaks up on partial emergence and the remaining stump has to be unceremoniously dug out or worse still pushed back which gives the wine instant extra gritty body it doesn't deserve. Alternatively it may fly out with such startling premature force that it ricochets off the ceiling catching the person you are trying to impress and inflicting a sharp cork burn on her cheek which is then quickly flushed away by the torrent of white foaming spume ejaculating from the bottle you are frantically waving about like some dithering India rubber buffoon. On most occasions it will probably come out with your tug and make no more noise than a bill hitting the door mat giving the whole celebration just as much excitement as the opening of a brown envelope. Pulling corks from Champagne bottles like James Bond is just not how it happens at my gatherings for such things. My world always falls short of the neat well ordered glossy one we are encouraged to expect.

On the other hand the rough bits have always been portrayed as rough as I imagine they are. Black and white photos of the starving in Africa or the Humbrol paintings by the artist who should have won this year's Turner Prize, George Shaw, are spot on. Stories of drought or Tsunami are vividly recounted and totally believable in their horrid detail. None of them would be short of their frightful mark. We sob as we watch children in need and text Sir Terry with promises of help as we mop away the distress. It's an annual TV extravaganza that makes Kleenex rich. We look forward to it and it doesn't fail to satisfy and each year we give more and more.

Why is this? And why is our expectation of good short of the mark? Very few of us can imagine Heaven while most of us can envisage Hell and all its damnation. I think it is because we are encouraged to strive for perfection, to shop for the "best", to go for gold, reach for the stars, smell like we're worth it. We're not encouraged to take part in earth quakes or genocide and there in lies the answer. We are sold the good things in life and not the bad even though it's sometimes the good things in life that make it bad. We pay to stay in the best, we struggle to climb that ladder of excellence and strive for perfection. The first thing a big lottery winner does is buy a new car, the second is to visit Disney Land. Both will disappoint and neither will live up to their imagined brilliance. That is why disappointment prospers.

So why are we let down? If we accepted reality a little more mightn't we find reality a better option? The anti-capitalist occupy protests that are cropping up and fading away all over the world are also a victim of the reality check. What exactly are the protestors expecting? What is their dream? They don't have a decent tag line between them and their collective disorganisation will mean that they will fail. To squat in a cold tent on a concrete pavement is not really an alternative to even the lowliest that Premier Inns has on offer.The London rioters took the flat screen t.v's and flashy trainers because they were told that these were the things to have and because they were allowed to by the police who were just not there. How funny that on the day of "the keep your hands off my pension" strike it was the shops that won. Shopping and often spending money we have not got on things we do not want is the hobby of our times.

So to be an anti-capitalist is a bit like becoming a Methodist instead of a Roman Catholic.

I'm not sure what the answer is other than to be happy with your lot. I agree that if your lot happens to be a little then you'll be forgiven for wanting a little more. It will sadly never ever be fare shares for all until the day when the air and water run out and even then there will be those who will survive just a little longer than the rest of us, those whose champagne corks always pop perfectly.

BIG EARS.

WHEN old men getter older

and their ears touch their shoulder

it may be a sign of content.

Terry Wogan and John Simpson

have ears when you glimpse them

like those on a bull elephant.

Some things don't stop growing

and there's really no knowing

what size an appendage might try.

The ears on old Wogan

are some sort of omen

if they flapped he'd probably fly.

While those on John Simpson

are less in dimension

he's still got his ear to the ground

but he may well say

it's much better that way

as you pick up the smallest of sound.

As I do grow older

I don't want my shoulder

to act as a perch for my ears.

I've only one gland

I'd like to expand.

It's the one worn down with the years.

WHEN WALKING WITH THE DOG

There is something therapeutic
and not to be disputed
when walking with the dog

the tightly coiled spring
the jumping and the din
when walking with the dog

the burst when off the lead
acceleration speed
when walking with the dog

the sniffing at the grass
and other canine arse
when walking with the dog

and will they come to heel
no shout or loud appeal
when walking with the dog

the stick or ball you fling
remains a distant thing
when walking with the dog

oozy mud or dirty puddle
never the edge always the middle
when walking with the dog

the thinking time you gain
the fresh air and the rain
when walking with the dog

plots you start to hatch
none the day can match
when walking with the dog

and in your dreams you may
travel far away
when walking with the dog

for journeys of the mind
need not be of that kind
when walking with the dog

you know where you have been
the people you have seen
when walking with the dog

and when you climb that hill
in front and running still
when walking with the dog

words cannot recite
the absolute delight
when walking with the dog.

the plea for more, the plaintive bark
the turning home before it's dark
when walking with the dog

And when your limbs grow old
you'll miss the muddy road
when walking with the dog

you'll still get an eager eye
the tilting head and sigh
when walking with the dog

the years may take away
the joy of everyday
when walking with the dog

and when you've had your last
they'll fly the flag half mast
when walking with the dog.

He will take the lead
and handle every need
when walking with the dog.

PAWS FOR THOUGHT.

The unbearable likeness of you
puts us both in a terrible stew
the difference between us
has always been heinous
and we don't share the same point of view.

My porridge gave you the hots
and the bed is so hard that it hurts
mummy Bear's done a runner
and baby's a goner
what more do you want Goldilocks?

REMEMBRANCE DAY.

The men and boys that died there
from villages and towns
in Somerset and Norfolk
from valleys and from Downs.
They marched away as heroes
to fight the Hun for King
and no one ever told them
it was a glorious thing

to die for King and country to be the glorious dead
to die for you and die for me and die for what was said.

I stood there with my Father
at every Remembrance day
watched him as the soldier
heard the words he'd say.
"We will remember them"
and then the bugle sang
a last post, a coming home
for those the final gang

to die for King and country to be the glorious dead
to die for you and die for me and die for what was said.

"O Valiant Hearts" we sing and cry
and even though not there
I think I understand the pain
of those that had the fear.
My forbears did it for me
fought the awful foe
stood up and were all counted
with reasons we don't know

to die for King and country to be the glorious dead
to die for you and die for me and die for what was said.

And still they do it for us
lay down their priceless lives
leave children without fathers
and black-eyed weeping wives.
We'll never learn the answer
as long as man is man
and King and Queen rule over us
to draw their awful plan

to die for Queen and country to be the glorious dead
to die for you and die for me and die for what was said.

The poppy with its redness
its black and beating core
grows from the blood in Flanders
and from the death of war.
We wear it on our collars
we wear it without shame
November is the timing
the month we say your name

to die for Queen and country to be the glorious dead
to die for you and die for me and die for what is said.

STUFF I WROTE BACK IN THE '60s WHEN LIFE SEEMED SIMPLE AND DREAMS WERE ALWAYS BEAUTIFUL.

WHAT monster is society
that seems to have priority
over me a mere minority.
For if my mere minority
became a large majority
we would have priority
and thus become society.