FERDINAND
the bull who loved flowers… especially yellow ones
Though most bulls are born aggressive And when in love become possessive
He preferred a gentle life
Passionless and free from strife
Happiness for endless hours
Was for him a field of flowers
While the others bashed and banged their horns
Crashed and splattered through the thorns
In search of victory or of love
For him the yellow tall foxglove
Or any other bloom with scent
Was all he asked to be content
The rest thought him a sorry sight
And jeered because he would not fight
But he refused to join their band
And so they called him Ferdinand
For if he would not be the same
He well deserved a funny name
To prove he differed from the herd
As much as any flying bird
For if he risked not horn nor limb
They did not wish to notice him
At first poor Ferdy was distraught
Because in truth he new he ought
To fight and battle with the rest
To prove who would turn out the best
Ere with a bellowed battle hymn
Proceed to slaughter in the ring
Yet before he met his Matador
He asked for just a little more
Of life within his peaceful meadow
Filled with buttercups so yellow
That grew beside the sparkling rill
Where every eve he drank his fill
And watched the dancing gnats at play
As dusk crept down upon the day
He really had no wish to vie
And go off somewhere else to die
With bloodied back and head deep bowed
To satisfy some rabid crowd
Life he deemed must have more point
Than ending as a Sunday joint
Deep down he knew this logic right
And determined that he would not fight
No matter how they laughed at him
It was a duel he could not win
Then came the day when he was taken
From his green and peaceful haven
Herded beaten whipped and struck
Into a darkened cattle truck
And after hours of grinding haul
Was led into a blood stenched stall
Left there thirsting through the night
Ere prodded out into the light
Where he stood blinking till he saw
Before him stood the Matador
Poor Ferdy knew his time had come
There was no place where he could run
And so he did the strangest thing
He sat down gracefully in the ring
The crowd let out a maddened roar
And ridiculed the Matador
Who used to being loved adored
Pierced poor Ferdy with his sword
As he died and eyes grew dim
Suddenly it seemed to him
The huge arena was transformed
And now was beautifully adorned
With primrose yellow daffodil
He sighed contented and was still
_____________________________________________________________________Death
I was supping the dregs from a bottle of gin
When the door eased open and Death walked in
In my stupor I felt neither fear nor surprise
For I'd planned for sometime to cause my demise
And Death far from being a sepulchral ghost
Had the plump smiling face of a genial host
He said as he sat in my favourite armchair
That he'd known for sometime of my current despair
And since he was passing nearby on a call
Had dropped by in case he could help me at all
He knew unsought advice was a terrible bane
But still thought it his duty to try and explain
That each life had been fashioned in purpose divine
And though I might use it it still wasn't mine
For to cut my span short by even one day
Would effect many others in some kind of way
There is no excuse for so selfish an act
Said death bluntly and I thought quite without tact
Ah I'm glad you've decided against such an action
Said he with a look of sheer smug satisfaction
I started my decision was only just made
With a wink he explained he'd been long in the trade
Then he leapt to his feet crying look at the time
I must go or be late for a client of mine
A most joyful affair of the pleasantest sort
With a charming old lady I have to escort
I said Death you're so different than I thought before
Eyes a twinkle he paused with his hand on the door
You may know sore sorrow much pain and great strife
But I am illusion there is only life
Decimation
Where fly our bees and butterflies
Where nest our birds of song
Who cares if our last meadow dies
Who bothers what’s gone wrong
What selfish careless things we’ve done
How deep should be our shame
Cupidity and greed have won
Base urge of the inane
This land is ours but ours on trust
Not ours to mar despoil
Ten million years turned back to dust
Two thousands wasted toil
There is still time but only just
Still time to mend our ways
And together with concerted thrust
Reverse this trend that slays
Aid the miracle of rebirth
For the children yet unborn
To shape a fresh and new Earth
With a living breathing dawn
___________________________________________________________________
I hope you enjoy my poetry as it gives me great joy to write them even if they may be about darker matters. I will post more as they make from my brain to paper.
