Death, you is my woman now

Death, you is my woman now.

You is all that's left for me

since you snaffled Laura-Lee

leaving me to wonder how

life goes on. OK I bow

to your every whim, but gee

Death

we is cruising for a row

if you dawdle aimlessly.

Shift your ass! What's it to be?

Chicken flu or crazy cow,

Death? 

(after François Villon, 'Mort, j'appelle de ta rigueur')

Helga's Chickens

Helga's Chickens take the floor

around eight thirty every night.

Could anybody ask for more?

Perhaps some spotty troglodyte

would rather hide away and write

his C-plus-plus, but that's a bore

and hardly likely to delight

Helga's Chickens. Take the floor

for instance – even if it wore

a carpet of a lurid white

our eyes would still be on the door

around eight thirty. Every night

the Paranormal's heaving. Quite

a crowd prepares for what's in store

and brightens as they dim the light.

Could anybody ask for more

than Helga and her brood? Before

you rush to call her 'parasite'

or breathe the appellation 'whore',

perhaps some spotty troglodyte

will rush to her defence and cite

an evening back in '94

when he succumbed, gave up the fight

and sang – O come let us adore

Helga's Chickens! 

In Hope

There will be time to take your hand, one day,

time not to talk, not to know urgency.

There will be walking times, watching the sea,

our faces turned towards the wind-borne spray.

Then there will be no need for us to say

is this forever - ours the certainty

of something understood. The he and she

of half-forgotten stories . . .

We have seen war and death. We have seen fire

and tempest. We have seen disease and pain.

These times have tried us hard and may again

crash rude upon our lives. We stand aware,

while through it all our human hearts aspire

to love. We are not blind. We have this power.