Perfidious

Perfidious 

Who ever liked perfect rhymes

Nether melted at belle’s charm

Tethers on the edge of jigsaws

Preponderous perfidious 

Could not leave a vacuum

At the centre of his game 

Would never put an orange  

Where it might feel strange 

Slither mouth’d

His words are worms 

Simply there to aerate 

Whilst for some, they-line-them-up, as bait. 

Like goblets made of silver 

Housed in the strong-room of Lady Cadiver

Just waiting to get out

Stumbling together like trash sounds 

Like at the start of London’s marathon

Heaps of sheep, askance, chased by python

A hungry chappy

Set there to fill-a-gap. 

Is it not the forked tongue that whispers idiocies 

Then paints them all up by powers to indices. 

Powdering over those fine cracks 

As eatable as soft white flour’d baps. 

But I prefer the imperfect tones

Slim of volume, though heavily bound 

Charming better than many a hocus pocus

But in the meantime this will never be my opus. 

Shafees

20th December 2017, South London

A million fingers of ....

A Million Fingers Of... ❄️ 

Snow of course can offer a slight,

To one who looks heavenly, 

To the white sky.  

Tobogganing in his minds eye. 

Whilst the flakes drift on

But not settle at all 

The worst of them are those that come at night. 

But by the morning’s rain 

Only disappointments remain. 

The deep desire to see all four climes

Without venturing to the tops of mountains 

 As distant as those North of London

And to not want to be bypassed

By the year’s savagery 

To feel that sting of a well thrown

Soft and slushy 

Wet and sticky 

Well you know what I mean 

That want to grind us to a halt

Our old country that in our novels

Immortalised the white Yule. 

A Dickensian time of happy poverty 

When now our cars sputter 

And struggle to climb.

When now our newspapers headline,

The frozen homeless,

Our elderly neighbours all alone. 

And when we can safely

Cheerfully,

Disdain from our work. 

But snow too, is great in a fight. 

It tends to blanche all misdemeanours 

And for one day, make us forget

The everyday drudge that is, this life.

Shafeesthoughts