Halle Loo? Jah!

(May be sung to the tune of 'Hallelujah'; ¬)

They say ye canny fill yer breechs
Wi' tatty scones and boiled leeks
But you don't know whit we went through tay see ya
Diarrhoea. Diarrhoea
Diarrhoea, Diarrhoee-ee-ee-ee-ya

I'd like tay lay hons oan the bam
Who hid ma feekin diocalms
That's why ma erse is hingin o'er the pier
Diarrhoea. Diarrhoea
Diarrhoea, Diarrhoee-ee-ee-ee-ya

That Blackpool beach had golden sand
Before these things got oot o' hand
The consequence o' dodgy grub and bee-arr.
Diarrhoea. Diarrhoea
Diarrhoea, Diarrhoee-ee-ee-ee-ya

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poem by Hola Mentirosa
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If Tristan was mending his girlfriend's jewelry, would he use an Isolde-ring Iron?

I wondered, if the hero had been overweight or baldy
would women weep, perhaps lose sleep, o'er Tristan and Isolde?
And then I pushed derision from my vision of the plot
and asked my heart to seek the part, wherein the story got
its hook and held my interest. The part where it took hold.
The crux of what draws in the masses, since the days of old.

How can we find a modern link, a crude analogy
compared to such medieval ink which peppered History.
I thought then of a trinket. A desk-top toy per chance,
those cradles of ball bearings swinging in hypnotic trance.
For love to last eternally, would mirror this toy's mission
and live within the pleasing din that chimes with each collision.

And just as in enchanted forests, mystic wood or copse...
The forces great will separate them, till at last,
the cradle stops.

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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How Kin Ye No Get a Single Fish in a Glezga Chippie?

'Can I just have a single fish? i.e. just ONE, not TWO? '
This simplest dietary wish, was holding up the queue.
'Am sorry, a single fish is aye two! Are you friggin' huvvin' a laugh?
Even if ye huv a simple Fish Supper, ye're still getting one and a half! '
'But two fish is too much fur me' said Anetta, 'The fat joost goes straight tay ma hips.
One and a half wi' nay batter is better, but I really don't want any chips'
The queue was soon catching that trouble was hatching.
The hungry man's patience could not see the joke.
'Oi missis, if this is whit huzs yer brain scratching,
buy the single, eat wan, 'n leave wan in the poke! '
Unflustered, she mustered another suggestion, 'Hauf a single? ' the strange request came.
'Oh fur God's sake...Aw right, anythin' else ya wee $hite? '
'Aye! Ma wee brother here, wants the same! '

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Take a bad look at yourself

The mirror only offers us... reflection,
inverting down the axis, what is there.
So left is right across this intersection.
We never see in it, what others share.

We wash our faces, brush our teeth or shave
while gazing at this stranger we know well.
Accustomed to the convex and concave,
the magnified or back-lit link to Hell.

It never shows the 'Candy Man' behind us,
unless the Demon really dwells within.
The flash when he reveals himself may blind us
this specter of our past and future sin.

And though now, (thanks to Facebook and such sites)
we see more photographs of how we look,
when misbehaving out on drunken nights,
with candid snaps we wish they'd never took.

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poem by Hola Mentirosa
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A not so brave pyugh world

So we, the elite, are soon to pass
and take leave of this world.
Doomed by the deeds which came to pass
whose hell is soon to be unfurled.

We are the very victims of
our own efficiency.
The air grows fowl, we sniff and cough
and struggle just to see.

For all the farms attend themselves.
Our need for food? No more.
The robots even fill the shelves
or fetch it to our door.

We sit around and think all day,
'Enlightenment' we seek.
The working class has gone away.
(We culled the last, last week.)

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poem by Hola Mentirosa
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The little Photoshop of Horrors.

There is a little corner in a sepia coloured shop
that hides a silhouette inside the grain,
A sobbing child is briskly making headway with her mop
as countless customers insist on dragging in the rain.

They only see the shopkeeper, his wares upon the shelves
and hope to see no more than what they need.
Like most, they've no desire to see much farther than themselves.
Like most, they don't associate this blinkered trait with greed.

I scanned this ancient photograph, which I had thought so quaint.
Not knowing, seeing, sensing what it hid.
When lightening the contrast, saw a face, at first so faint.
But sharpening the focus was the worst thing that I did.

You see, two hundred years or so had covered o'er the cracks
that now creep through my family's history.
The chains and shackles on such children, birch scars on their backs.
Some times we don't like what we see, when software solves the mystery.

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Good Morning Mr Magpie

'Good Morning Mr Magpie'
She saluted, then returned to her grounded
fact-based faith in her own impersonal reality.
Dismissal of her own superstitions,
seemed impossible.
She'd put it down to hard-ass habits
and the cudgels of conditioning
with which we all are kneaded.

Meanwhile in the treetops,
the wood pigeons were rallying.
The magpie's attention saw no salutes,
just a glint of an egg in a ray from the sun.

He cared not who had moved the branch
that let the sunlight through.
He cared not how, an avalanche
had spawned a breeze that this way blew.
He cared not how the leaves had parted
just as he had chanced to fly

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poem by Hola Mentirosa
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When I listen to Camel’s song, “For today”

I tethered my thoughts to a mournful tune
which held them above the abyss.
It cradled and comforted, succour, so soon
I was kept from the edge of the dark precipice.

That place where the faces of phantoms collide
with the snap-shots of summers locked deep in our soul.
The dreams mix with memories, rocking the tide
so the ebb and the flow can but coax or cajole.

All the pain that was instant, instead of prolonged
may have stolen the beat from those thousands of hearts
May this tune guide them home, back where they once belonged.
When the anger subsides and the healing then starts.

Yes I tether my thoughts on a mournful tune,
with a pause for a breath at the break in the score.
May it carry my hopes in its silken cocoon
till the screams of the lost, need be heard here no more.

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poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Do Train Toilets inspire Your Poetry?

I closed the toilet door aboard the train
and looked into the bowl with much dismay.
For if the choice were offered me, again,
I would have used the Station's loos, that day.

Entrapped within this unisex commode
and knowing there were others at the door,
my grim companion mocked me as we rode
humiliation hummed at me once more

Someone had left a floater in the bowl
this dreadful deed, so clearly out of line.
Were I to leave it there, upon my soul...
the next one to come in would think it mine!

One flush did not deter this dreaded dung
from leaving me a cleaner place to pee.
I did admire, how cleverly it clung
its only tool was mega-buoyancy.

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poem by Hola Mentirosa
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The Ballad of Jock Dean.

I watched the daylight trickle o'er
the hills behind oor hoose
A sight I'd often seen before
but never through a noose

These shoddy thrown up gallows
where I waited for the crow.
Forget the debt my pal owes,
he'll no help me, this I know.

(Chorus.)
Why have you betrayed yer ain
and left me without hope?
Condemned by my ain twisted wean
tay dance upon the Sheriff's rope.

I swore I would avenge the loss
of all the Laird had stole
The sheriff couldnay gi a toss,

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poem by Hola Mentirosa
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