Deservedly the most admired, most famous Florentine.
Her hands are not quite right, and though the background composition
Is strangely out of balance, yet Sfumato’s imprecision
Yields magic changing views - we sense her inner thoughts and fears,
And revere her gentle portrait, loved for half a thousand years.
And letter play with the same lady
A Mixed-up Lady
Malasion? No I’m European.
On Malais? Only a little indigestion.
Nil Samoa – One Italy – hurrah!
Alamo sin? Davy Crockett was far later.
Loin amas? Now you’re being rude.
I a salmon? How ungrammatical.
Soil a man? Never! What a dastardly stigma.
Am Alison – No I’m not, I’m incognito and an enigma.
All life is messages.
Two chromosomes can answer why; the boy XY, the girl YY.
All DNA’s made up of bases, coding genes with lots of spaces.
Are the gaps filled up with packing, or are theories somewhat lacking?
It’s doubtful whether folk should marry, who lack a good pituitary.
It is a most essential gland, to guide, conduct the hormone band.
Betwixt our nerves synapses stand - each tiny gap a frontier land
Across which messengers diffuse to transmit all our nervous news.
So if the second waiting nerve is rested and recharged, with verve
The synapse will depolarise - and swiftly then the message flies!
Electrically these signals send fresh currents to the distant end
To muscles, other nerves perhaps, which wait beyond more tiny gaps,
Well primed by Nature’s clever rules - alert with waiting molecules.
Anonymous Critic at the Globe
This Shakespeare hath a mighty vocabulary
But however hard the Bard tries
He cannot match for size
Chambers, or the Oxford English Dictionary.
A Real Discovery
We knew all along that sides of 3,4,5 or 5,12,13
Made perfectly right angle triangles,
But did that mean that the longest line squared
MUST be the sum of the other two squared
If between them stands a true right angle?
Though every time we checked we found
The same with other sets of numbers.
But now it’s done – we’ve proved the proof!
And the boss has ordered a barbecue
With a dozen cows and a tipsy brew.
I dare say there’ll be a drunk or two
At the party thrown by Pythagoras.
An Easy Riddle.
What orchestrates the human tune,
Conducts the rhythm, taps the beat?
What leads the loving lads to leap,
And deck themselves in plumage gay,
The loving girls to sigh and weep,
And wash their hair on every day?
What makes cruel acne spot each chin
With comedones to pick or squeeze,
Attacked with tweezers or a pin?
And why does acne spare the knees?
Young lads who death and drama seek,
Need danger just to feel alive,
Their steering wheels disasters wreak!
What fires the drivers’ overdrive?
When later hair grows thin and grey,
With wrinkled skin, with stooping gait,
And lustful urges fade away -
Must we blame all of these on Fate?
What forces influence our stars,
Which planets plot to make us spin?
Not Venus nor the angry Mars -
Change comes from HORMONES deep within.
And inexplicably missing from the main travellers’ collection of stories -
The Hedge-Layer’s Tale
Dear pilgrims, bound for Canterbury Town,
Perchance my simple tale may cause a frown -
How greed and love between them toppled down
A squire and daughter, once of high renown.
I knew them well.
I laid their hedges - thick from foot to crown
The tightest living saplings ever grown.
My squire and lady bore one daughter fair,
So shapely, friends, with pale and flowing hair -
Sometimes the little maiden, sweetly bare
Would step into the pool to bathe. Don’t stare -
My well-laid hedge protected her from care.
But by the time that sixteen years had run
She’d fixed her father fast beneath her thumb
Whate’er she liked he sent for and t’would come -
Denied her nothing larger than a crumb.
Her mother disapproved but remained dumb.
Expensive things were those she loved the most,
Her slightest wish he gratified foremost.
The squire, bewitched, made it his proudest boast,
For her he’d search, if need, from coast to coast.
So he became a rich and dripping roast.
The lady died. (God rest her soul.) The squire was still beguiled
And lavished further fortune on his child
Who was so beautiful, so kind and mild,
Spoke soft and low, whose thoughts were undefiled,
But whose requests each month became more wild.
He bought the richest ware merchants supplied,
Each day she dressed as if she were a bride,
Two serving girls to help her, horse to ride.
She ate the best of food, and wines beside,
‘Till in her milky breast grew sinful pride.
When suitors came to seek this maiden’s hand
She fiercely scorned the young men of England
And bid them leave - disjointed and unmanned,
Then turned away good suitors, rich and grand.
Squire still provided gifts at her demand.
For money, squire would go from friend to friend,
Then those whose grasping business is to lend.
The hedges he ignored and failed to mend,
And quite forgot to plough his fields and tend
His land. In short he neared the end.
One day there came a lean old withered knight
Who’d bought the squire’s debts legally, thus might
Take all he owned, enjoy without a fight
Whate’er the squire possessed by day or night -
The daughter too, as was his knightly right.
My lords, for this indulgent foolish squire,
(Whose hedges lay unlayed, his yard a mire.)
His daughter’s greed brought consequences dire -
He fell with her from frying pan to fire,
And she must slake the withered knight’s desire.
So now the squire lays hedges in my place,
His daughter serves the knight with gloomy grace,
In modest dress with downcast face,
No cloth of gold, nor Flemish lace -
She keenly feels her family’s disgrace.
Indulgence drove this silly squire to harm
He squandered all his fortune and his farm.
His daughter’s now lost innocence and charm,
And I my work - but still I’ll sing a psalm
Each day – I have my strong hedge-laying arm.
And so I joined your party on this walk
Enjoyed our diverse stories, gave my talk,
.Passed many thorny hedges, left and right,
.That need a hedge-man’s skills to bind them tight.
I’m sure I’ll find employment until Lent
With farmers and good countrymen of Kent.
Aphorisms reported from a fossil egg from the Gobi desert.
Dinosaur he say -
To be old is good for people and i
deas – not so good for eggs or salad.
The old are only the young with wrinkles, experience, and pensions.
Conservation of energy is needed by the old.
Relativity is the absence of family older than you are.
Fundamental particles are given off by the very young – to be cleaned up by their parents.
And for the naturalists:-
The old cat may have spent eight of his lives, but knows where the birds perch.
The old bird knows that there will be other worms.
The old worm stays in its hole until dark.
The old mouse lets the young mouse taste the cheese first.
The old swallow knows it’s a long way to tip of Africa.
And about Youth:-
The Museum of Youth – who would visit it?
The Festival of Youth – why celebrate?
The Fountain of Youth – close to the Stream of Abuse.
The Wisdom of Youth – a contradiction in terms.
The Folly of Youth – possibly the start of a journey towards wisdom.
The Fantasy of Youth – why cosmetics always sell.
And one of the genuine heroes of London.
John Snow.
When cholera came to the city,
‘Twas patchy – some places were spared,
While others were hotbeds of sickness.
There was one man who not only cared
But who looked at the map of the cases
Which showed near its centre a pump!
Snow took off the handle at Broad Street
And the death rate reduced with a thump
For the cholera came with the water -
The supply had been mixed with the drains.
Snow knew nothing of germs or infection
But he could stop a plague with his brains.
Character Flaws.
As often said, nobody is totally perfect
Obsessions
Soccer
My obsession is United – I’ve seen every goal they’ve scored
I watch them play at home, away, I follow them abroad,
Each player is my hero, the director is a God.
At home I have a piece of turf – it’s called my lucky sod –
It’s my favourite possession and I’ll never give it up,
For it’s from the pitch at Wembley where we won the Challenge Cup.
Infection
The World is full of nasty germs, of viruses and bugs
They lurk on every surface, hide in blankets or in rugs.
I know they’re out to get me, make me sick and cause me woe
So I scrub each nook and cranny from my head to little toe,
And I spray the room with Dettol, I put Harpic in the loo
Yet I simply know the germs will win, whatever I may do.
Books
My obsession is collecting – I can never have enough
Some men are slaves to drink or smoke – while others turn to snuff
Or spend their time at golf or bridge or enter competitions –
But I devote my energies to owning first editions.
I’ve every book that certain minor authors ever wrote
And when I’m not collecting them I sit at home and gloat.
Shopping
My obsession is my shopping – when depressed I go to town,
I’ve got lots of lovely plastic – I ignore my husband’s frown,
For a day spent trying frocks on, buying hats and also shoes,
Will make a girl feel wanted, even more than flowers or booze.
Shopkeepers are so helpful, guide me to the latest fashion,
Yes, there’s nothing I like better than indulge my spending passion.
Cash
My obsession is for money – I can never have enough,
Since poverty in childhood made this adult pretty tough.
Although I’m worth ten million pounds I can’t believe it’s plenty
Or lose the sensual pleasure from a crisp new-minted twenty.
I never spend a penny since economy is finer,
And the car I drive to Woolworth’s is a dented Morris Minor.
Chocolate
My passion is for chocolates, the sweet liqueurs are best,
I first enjoy the juicy ones, then gobble up the rest.
There’s Thorntons and Black Magic, or the Belgian hand-made chocs
The more I take the more I suit a fuller style of frocks.
My friends know what excites me and they bring me what I need –
It’s my favourite obsession – though my husband calls it greed.
And beware a spiteful sister!
Bridesmaid’s Smiles
She smiled and watched the Bishop’s hands bind families with wedding bands,
Two dynasties would merge and hold - their union blessed by power and gold.
She smiled and stood behind the train, remembering last night again,
Her rich plain sister stood attired, the tall groom standing by her side.
She knew her beauty drew all eyes, and smiled, but to her mild surprise
Felt muscles knot, felt gut go tight - that groom’s brown hands were hers last night,
Those long slim fingers tingling round exciting places which they’d found -
That splendid deep engulfing chasm - a second synchronised orgasm.
He’d said that night should be their last, their life as lovers sadly past,
She’d changed position in the bed - and promised sister’s love instead.
So smiling, kept her breathing calm, complexion perfect, dimpled arm,
With swan-like neck, and stately stride, despite her turmoil deep inside.
The wedding went without a hitch - she helped her sister, fat but rich
To dress to go on honeymoon - when nights with him would start so soon.
Her sister asked her to obtain a love-draught to ease wedding pain.
She smiled, and added castor oil, since envy had begun to boil.
“Dear Sister, this will lubricate, distract you from your virgin’s fate.
I’ve heard girls should - perhaps it’s right - expect a rather broken night.”
The couple leave by white Rolls Royce, their guests and relatives rejoice,
She stands and smiles, her beauty glows, goes in to change and dab her nose.
The best man’s kiss felt rather nice, his speech was witty and concise -
Sweet smiles ensure that he shall stay, amuse her while the groom’s away.
Perhaps he’ll serve a week or two, until the honeymoon is through -
There may be worthwhile things to learn before the bride and groom return.
She knows that beauty casts a spell, but cunning knowledge helps as well -
She’ll hide her thoughts, conceal her fires, to win the things she most desires,
Appear to be most dutiful, look sweet and chaste and beautiful.
She’ll welcome back the bride and groom, then meet him in her private room.
Her sister shall retain the name of Countess, and a formal fame,
But she will rule the lusty Count, her skills enabling them to mount
The highest, richest social scale - as brother, and her chosen male.
She looks divine and goes outside, invites the best man for a ride.
A bridesmaid ought to serve her bride, the principle is true and tried,
To serve the groom as well implies a surfeit of deceit and lies.
We like to think maids good and free - alas, there is no guarantee.
Some sisters are consumed by spite – beneath their smiles a poisoned bite.
John Wood is a retired Physician and veteran of the writing class described at the top of this collection. A collection of short prose efforts is called Barnabas Tales, and has been published in a similar format.
The Writing Class intends to make its third and most recent collection of stories and poems available in the same w
ay later this year (2014).
The author can be reached at [email protected]
Barnabas Rhymes Page 5