Hope Hanging On At Heathrow

Like the last lonely leaf on the London plane,
I drive down, lonesome, up the long airport track,
Still hanging on, through the wind and the rain.

Will you still forgive me, if I just explain?
Will you come home to me? Will you fly back,
Like the last lonely leaf, on the London plane?

I never meant to cause you all that pain
That tears through your heart, bruising it black,
Still hanging on through the wind and the rain.

Do you believe, since my efforts are vain,
It is “THE END”, as in books, at the back
Like the last lonely leaf, on the London plane?

Though you ignore me, with haughty disdain,
You’ll find me waiting, despite your attack,
Still hanging on through the wind and the rain.

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poem by C. Richard Miles
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5 Pm On The 56

Five o’clock on the fifty-six,
A mix
Of humanity on board
On Essex Road.
Some half-asleep and meditating,
Hesitating
Just before their stop
Outside the closed-down Charity Shop.
The London Paper tends to
Set the agenda
For some, while others might
Prefer London Lite
Interspersed with crude lads’ mags
Cheap rags, Harrod’s carrier bags
The office-opiated masses track
Their weary way back
To home
A few, lone
Still-awake chatterers
Batter us

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poem by C. Richard Miles
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Let’s Be Green

Let’s be green, the poster said.
My eyes just popped out of my head
Imagining weird aliens,
Sat upon the garden fence,
Who ask us to
Assume their hue
And come to their defence.

Lets’ be green; I paused a bit.
That can’t be right; it just won’t fit.
Why should my thoughts be left all fallow,
Naïve, untutored, innocent, callow?
I’m much too wise
For that disguise.
It seems too dim and shallow.

Let’s be green, it still went on.
I wondered which attire to don:
Jade-green jumpers, sea-green shoes,
Grass-green gloves or tree-green trews

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poem by C. Richard Miles
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On Being Told That There Is No Rhyme For The Word “Limerick”

After I heard Harry’s limerick,
I found that my mind set to simmer. “Rick, ”
I said to myself,
“One might write it itself, ”
But I answered, “You’re chances are slimmer, Rick! ”

So I can’t find a good rhyme for Limerick.
Told myself, “ You are just a beginner, Rick
And though there’s no reason
You can’t write something decent,
I fancy your chances get grimmer, Rick! ”

He said that it might rhyme with turmeric
But I thought, “You’re not that fast a learner, Rick:
Ditch your thoughts wasting time
Finding suitable rhyme;
Let your plans, man, stand on the back burner, Rick.”

But the cogwheels had started to turn a bit
As I guessed I had started to learn a bit

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poem by C. Richard Miles
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Pheasant

There it stood,
At first I thought
A clumsy statue
Made of grey concrete
Next to the terracotta pot
On the flagstone patio
Beside the grey-green weathered aluminium
Of the glasshouse.

A garden monument
A cheap and cheerful complement
Just adding to
The artificiality
Of the timber decking
And the chestnut fence
Daubed russet red
With weatherproof non-fading paint.

And then it moved
So swift at first

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poem by C. Richard Miles
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Lament For Leaf Loss

Sing sad songs for the days that are gone
Now the days are growing darker and the night lasts long
But listen for the flutter of each shrivelled tear
As it drops in golden leaf-fall of the fading, dying year.

Sing sad songs for the days that are gone
Now the light is growing dimmer and the night lasts long
But listen for the echoes of the summer’s breeze
As it gossips with the branches of the leafless poplar trees.

Sing sad songs for the days that are gone
Now the frost is growing grimmer and the night lasts long
But listen for the rustle of lost autumn leaves
And the crying of the dewdrops as the barren forest grieves.

Sing sad songs for the days that are gone
Now the mood is growing glummer and the night lasts long
But listen for the whispers of the coming spring
When the buds begin their bursting and the birds begin to sing.

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poem by C. Richard Miles
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Education – The Beat of the Street

It’s the beat of the street that we need in this nation
If you want to tell the kids; go get an education
You’ll have to show ’em it’s a sort of salvation
From the me-now lifestyle that just craves titillation
On sleazy easy street; it’s a sad situation
For they moan that work and college don’t bring much motivation
And it’s not just a matter of mass communication
To appeal to bored teenagers of this generation
It’s the beat of the street you’ll need in preparation
To get across your message in this no-hope nation
Shouting it louder won’t cause the creation
Of a change of mind for a new determination:
You just risk creating apathetic alienation,
So tell ’em it’s a source of self-preservation,
That a word’s like a blade to solve a situation
If you use it skilfully with deft discrimination
That cuts down an enemy without aggravation
And settles the score without recrimination
And perhaps you won’t be met with cold condemnation
And the youth will engage with fresh participation

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poem by C. Richard Miles
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Harry’s Come Marching Home Again (Written In March 2008)

Harry’s come marching home again, Hooray! Hooray!
From Afghanistan, not to roam again, he is back, to stay.
Whilst the flags are out and the bugles blare
I am sure he wishes he still were there.
And we all feel proud Prince Harry has come back home.

Harry’s come flying home again, Hooray! Hooray!
Since media hacks have hunted him down as prey, for pay.
They’ve snitched and let the cat out of the bag
And he’s had to fly home and brave jet lag
And I’m sure he’s sick he’s had to come flying home.

Harry’s come sailing home again, Hooray! Hooray!
It would just have been a security risk to stay, they say.
Now the papers groan and wonder what
They can do with him, now he can’t get shot
But they’ve got their scoop now Harry’s come sailing home.

Harry’s come driving home again, Hooray! Hooray!
Now he can go back on the town again, to play and stray

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poem by C. Richard Miles
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How January Is Propelled To Spring

Chill January’s snow falls thick and fast
Propelled by blinding blizzard’s biting blast,
So soft white blankets bind the earth for days,
Though spring means drifts shall not lie long nor last.

Bleak January’s rain falls hard and long
Impelled by fierce Atlantic gales, full strong
So even mighty oaks bow in their wake
Till fury fades to calm in spring’s sweet song.

Wild January’s storms shall shed their sting,
Repelled by sun, as winter spins to spring,
So kinder, temperate breezes gently blow
To melt the snow, that all the fields can sing.

Mean January’s curse will never stay,
Dispelled by hopes of ever-lengthening day,
So gardens don spring coats of cheerful hues
As colour’s charm returns where all was grey.

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poem by C. Richard Miles
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Sesquipedalian (With Apologies To Ogden Nash)

My poems are somewhat, in fact quite a lot, not to put too fine a point on it, just a bit or, notwithstanding everything else I will say, a great deal sesquipedalian;

They are packed full, to wit, of long-winded words that don’t fit and ululating complicated and multi-syllabic, incomprehensible terms that feel almost alien.

I’m not sure if, for cash, that flash, brash Ogden Nash hasn’t had the notion of creating this version; if not, then he should have done

Or whether, if other bards in that scene had thought really hard of a means of fitting “sesquipedalian” in, they would have done.

But these trite tongue-twisters titillate the tonsils and test the talker

And I like lines that don’t quite rhyme, even though they ought to.

My odes ramble on as I try to make simile and metaphor fit.

I think it’s fine fun and that they just sound better for it.

But some of that ilk try to milk your emotions

With a totally misplaced unfounded notion

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poem by C. Richard Miles
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