Losing A Sock

I lost a sock today – ’twas one of three,

And all the more maddening to me

As I had lost a leg at Waterloo.

Last week I lost a tenner in a game

And now I’ve not a penny to my name,

Only the other leg I didn’t lose.

                                    

Two weeks ago while swimming in the sea

I lost an earring that I’d had with me

Since I lost that leg at Waterloo.

I’d put the sock I lost inside a shoe

That fits the foot I kept at Waterloo,

Which is ironic when you think of it.

I have another shoe, another sock,

But neither fits the only foot I’ve got.

The trouble is they only come in pairs.

I’ve won things too: a cutlass and a ship,

And thirteen hamsters in a lucky dip

But socks are very difficult to find.

Perhaps the gods, or kismet, will be kind:

I’ve lost the sock, but I might find the shoe

Among the other legs at Waterloo.

This Is My Heart

I haunt the air you breathe, the food you eat,
The water you wash in, trust and drink.

When you enter the house,
I walk in front of you to clear a path.

I warm the spaces that you occupy;
And occupy the spaces you leave warm.

When you leave the house I say goodbye; 
Here are my tears.

I am custodian of all that belongs to you;
I am silent and leave no odours.

I take inventory of the house and contents;
It is my gift to belong

And yours to take possession of my gift;
And yours to take possession of my gift.

This is my heart;
I wait my turn.

Inordinately Fond

The air is fresh; tonight the wind will bring

Solace to the sweaty, even here,

Where sun has burned the hillside and the dogs

Eat the rotting remnants of a deer.

For our last intercession did the trick

And Power deigns to grant us this reprieve:

Shall we now stay and cultivate the soil

Or be the first to grab our hats and leave?

Angora is the softness of her bosom,

Dynamite the power of her mind;

How could I leave her when her faith’s forgotten

The innocence not even fear can find?

We’ll stay then, wrap ourselves in satin robes

As befits a naughty monk or friar

Dissembling in the tragedy, who hopes

To grant forgiveness in the face of fire.

We love this circus and its painted lies,

The bear who laughs, the antelope who frowns,

The ringmaster inviting us to share

His stricken smile, donated by the clowns.

We miss the imperfections in the home

Which others see and titillate their ardour;

But we are not designers: curse the gate

And keepers who exhort us to try harder.

We visited the land of songs and verse

And love and sex and jolly good boating weather,

And for this swift and hedonistic crime

Were shown the door and legged it hell for leather.

We only ask to live where we are known

Biblically, as Amos, Ruth and Paul;

And to Damascus, then, on route to which

The prophet said, when he was known as Saul:

Christ is risen.  Hallejulah, boys!

And, like a liegeman, venerate your Lord!

Let him seduce us, for his silver tongue

Is not as sharp or mighty as the sword.

And, like a liegeman, love the soil we own

For it will soon be subject to the bond

Which fastens us to service of that lord

Of whom we are inordinately fond.