Signs and Signals

 

I wonder exactly where
we’re heading,
if it’s safe to cross,
but everything feels skewed
and the perspective can’t be judged,
I need a straight answer
from the Many-Eyed God
of Provisional Road Safety,
but he prefers to keep me guessing,
saying with a glinty laugh,
don’t be so pedestrian,
you’re missing a golden opportunity
to jay walk — take it!
And perhaps I’ll come a cropper,
but it’s all par for the course,
because we no longer abide
by other people’s rules,
we are free to breathe in the fumes
of history on impulse,
while dodging oncoming traffic,
after all, our forebears
were perfectly happy
to be dug in surrounded
by spiked helmets
and explosive special effects,
that didn’t stop them
from bringing home the piping-hot
pyrrhic glory in time for tea.
This period of mild transition
means we can relive
a past that never existed,
when the only crimes were cosy ones
committed by Agatha Christie,
and everything was
in lovely black and white.

Don’t wait for the green light,
he says, red is standing to attention
singing ‘Nearer my God to Thee’,
so when you do step out,
you don’t even need to look
where you’re going,
everything is clearly marked,
just follow the clown hats in orange.
They say our progress
will be turbo-charged to perfection,
employing only the best
slummers and hawkers
in the highest echelons,
building fantasy bridges
just for us — because we aren’t
the type to labour
over details.

We may seem like mice
squabbling over a crumb
on the deserted night platform,
but a richer future
awaits us — just think of
an admiral butterfly
with patriotic wings,
perhaps easy prey for predators,
but let’s be confident
of making good headway,
whatever the wildlife.
So put your best foot forward,
and if you do fall under a bus,
or become a casualty
of some white van drama,
remember those superior powers
vested in me— by all that dark
money — and please don’t worry,
should these lights ever
go on the blink,
be secure in the knowledge
that you can always rely
on a back-dated cheque
sent with love,
from Mustique.

**

(slightly revised version of poem originally published last month in ‘No Crime in Rhymin’ on Medium.com)

An Ocean of Trouble

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Abundance is there for the taking,
and we are in deep,
twirling with the planktonic flagellae
wafted by the frills of mighty sea slugs
as they retreat towards the abyssal plain,
lips fastened to vestigal truths,
while starry-eyed shoals in pursuit of elusive riches
weave in and out of loamy loopholes,
without brushing the sides of conscience,
that old dredger.

We scavenged the bones
of the old monsters
as they slept in the shallows,
shaped them into hallowed vaults
where all the drowned hopes congregate
and uncertainty lies half-buried
with the spoils of a fabled romance
that broke apart on its maiden voyage.

Stinking of yesterday’s catch,
we cast our tangled nets over the side,
wary of any submarine narratives
that may approach beneath the turquoise,
schooling the dogfish
to warn others of trouble
if they swim out of line or attempt
to disturb the polyps that form our coral.

Responsibility has been out-sourced
on this voyage of discovery,
steering by whipstaff,
after regret has been scuppered,
while the dreck of old arguments
drifts further away from us,
to become a problem
for someone else to solve,
because we are too busy pandering
to the vanity of big ships as they scrape
against our heritage coast.

We have no need of the stars to guide us,
as our reach will be fathomless,
chasing the bubble
through the debris fields of misfortune,
far richer in resources than the obsolete reef,
our collective hubris enough
to barnacle those damaged hulls,
harness the sea horses,
re-align the oyster beds,
cause hermit crabs to flip their houses
and mermaids’ purses squirm
with potential.

From the corners of antique maps
porphyric cherubs will puff their cheeks,
enabling crested waves
to ride ashore and obliterate the ambiguous,
no matter if it’s the same
salty rhetoric from some earlier spill,
empty bellies always need to be filled
with plastic promises
guaranteed to disintegrate.

A dramatic sea change is always
best viewed from the holystoned deck
of a super yacht where the distant creatures
can be observed through vintage field glasses,
as they toil away in their slick suits
on the rusted platforms,
or dance on the waves for our pleasure,
while tepid glaciers tumble
and thunder to nothing.

Our diverse eco-system
of ingenious disarray tied to cork floats
with tarry old rope
will be enough to sustain us,
although the slack may roll around the bilges,
for some considerable time,
we will always look back
with a certain pride and gratitude
at this historic altering of latitude,
bearing in mind a bawdy sea shanty
is more than enough see us through
the squalls and lurid sunsets,
even when lashed to the mast
of an empty vessel,
we can plough on regardless
towards those unchartered prospects,
until we become as lawless
as the myth of the vast ghost ship
swallowed by the spun glass of an old sailor’s yarn.

**