Living in the Clouds

In Asparagus Town the houses,

shoot up seven storeys an hour,

the people who live at the bottom,

never reach the top of the tower,

cause all the new flats,

are rented to bats,

who don't need a bath or a shower.

There is a choice between red and blue,

but all the latecomers get green,

the children have rooms with small windows,

because they are easier to clean.

Some houses are round,

and others are square,

most of the residents colour their hair.

Those dwelling in the uppermost flats,

do not use the elevator,

they are, you see, exclusively bats,

that swoop like a winged alligator,

drinking mojitos,

catching mosquitos,

which they eat on french toast much later.

Local and national newspapers,

print articles that draw a crowd

to view these curious skyscrapers -

of which the architects are proud.

Many now think the same,

it's time to change the name,

and call it the City in the Cloud.
 

Animal orchestra (a word bank contest)

At a fantasy concert the other day,

a reptile remarked: there'll be hell to pay

if no respect is shown for the vulture,

it's doing its best to add some culture.

The absolute rubbish most of you perform

has, unfortunately, become the norm,

the message here is plain for all to see,

I expect in future some loyalty.

In subsequent discussion, it was agreed,

that the new leaflet tended to mislead,

the band needed better publicity,

communicating more simplicity.

Drawing on similar experience,

website traffic could rise by ten percent,

this could appear to be a paradox.

This view drew disagreement from the fox:

I must express my profound displeasure,

for if we are to approve this measure,

unanimity is mandatory.

The meeting broke up without reaching any form of accord,

later the armadillo was to say something untoward.

But, as they say, that's another story.

​

The Ball in the Ritz

Last night I went to a ball in the Ritz,

dressed in a gown of damask and satin,

by twelve o'clock I was out of my wits

for the waiters spoke nothing but Latin.

My first dance was with a moth-eaten fox,

who rotated me around like a discus,

a dance form so very unorthodox,

it played hell with my inner meniscus.

The night grew older, my partners as well,

ready to pirouette all through the night,

despite the champagne, I felt really well,

although my partner was high as a kite.

He insisted we do the fandango,

I went pale; he said: where did your tan go?

​

The Days Before Technicolor

Why do Zebras always stand around

so unconcerned, as if they're waiting

for the next bus

unlike Antelopes that hop and bound

along, except when they are mating

without a fuss.

That Zebras occasionally break,

into a canter, of that I'm quite

aware of course

but that is impeccably alright

after all they are, make no mistake,

a kind of horse.

The only open question,

and I'm open to suggestion,

for I want to get it right

are the stripes

white on black

or are they black on white?

​

Trio

​

An up-and-coming poet was once commissioned to write
congratulatory verses on ladies of the night.

The youngest had many convictions for living in sin,
and earned her substantial income on the streets of Berlin.
She dressed provocatively in an off-the-shoulder gown,
and usually frequented the shadier parts of town.

The second, her age was estimated at thirty-one,
had a sixteen-year-old, handsome, illegitimate son.
It was rumoured that his father was the Prince of Prussia,
some said that his lineage was the Royal House of Russia

The oldest, a lady of considerable renown,
held exceedingly decadent parties all over town,
she plied her guests with oysters and countless glasses of gin,
meanwhile playing heartbreaking ballads on the mandolin.

Although their provenance was oft heatedly debated,
It comes as no surprise that they were, in fact, related.

​

Ghost Ship
(Contest. Prompt Shipwreck, Emily Dickinson)

A nutshell in a raging sea,

it tossed and tossed from trough to crest,

the skipper grasped the rudder hard,

days without hope, nights without rest.

The crew swept over, one by one,

into the merciless ocean

the skipper alone, lashed to the wheel,

had defied the ruthless motion.

But hold, regard those staring eyes,

fixed on a distant coastline,

they'll never see a shore again,

the depths will be his final shrine.

​

Chaos

Oh, what a sorry nation,

total disorganisation,

chaotic inoculation,

test procrastination.

In our hour of need,

who will take the lead,

how will we proceed?

Mutti has decreed,

give it to the fearless twins,

let them both redeem their sins,

Scheuer and Jens Spahn,

the best boys for the role

and time will take its toll

on the Covid autobahn.

But do Jens and Andy

have a modus operandi?

Trust us both say, A & J,

as they start their cabaret,

we are sure of what we say,

and God forbid in a shy way,

have no fear; we'll do it our way.

Can we rely on S & S

to retrieve us from this mess?

Let's put it to the test,

they can't be worse than all the rest,

we need much more harmonium,

in this pandemonium,

and when they have the wherewithal,

they'll  declare a free-for-all,

to hell with prioritisation,

let's have more disorganisation,

a Spahn and Scheuer spree,

of overwhelming anarchy.

​

The Baby on the Bottle

(Contest - prompt)

Syrup of figs, cod liver oil,

baby's dried milk, brought to the boil,

milk of magnesia, herbal tea,

bring back childhood mem'ries to me.

Marked in the ration books,

do we have enough stamps,

or coupons for sugar,

evenings oil-fired lamps.

Second-hand clothes from the sale Monday last,

mending our shoes on our own cobbler's last,

bottles of milk, in a crate at the door,

smells of cooked cabbage because we were poor.

Weekly baths in zinc tubs,

kettle boils on the hob,

then those good menthol rubs,

and hot corn on the cob.

Life was hard in a tenement,

not like in the advertisement.

Many times I wanted to throttle

that grinning baby on the bottle.

​

Ex patria pro gloria Berolina - Capitulum I

I reside in Berlin-Westend,

a sensational place to be,

the clubs are closed on Saturdays,

well before my afternoon tea.

There are many German customs

I've adopted, some are quite neat,

but nonetheless, I still measure,

things in pounds, and inches, and feet.

It's now been more than forty years,

and one or two German Madel,

I've lost count of the Königs Pils,

I once downed in Hienerwadel.

Why is there no Westend Tatort,

on Sunday night in ARD,

investigating the losses

of Auntie Hertha's BSC?

The dogshit on the Burgersteig

is always fresh, just look, es dampft,

it's well beyond the remit of

the Charlottenburg Ordnungsamt.

Many here live in villas,

or in Einfamilienhaus,

evenings we hear the Nightingale

im Hof when I bring the Müll aus.

I like to eat out once a week,

at home in my Neu-Westend Kiez

zumeist Italian or Greek,

but sadly, no longer Chinese.

If I live here twenty years more,

I'll seek a final resting Platz,

up the road, Trakehnerallee,

not far away from Ringelnatz.

​

Before and After

​

My facecloth

between her legs

sweetest spot

before and after

never wash it.

​

I have a surprise for you!

A handsome man,

charming and well-dressed,

intelligent and

and at the same time, gentle.

It wasn't love at first sight,

but a deep mutual awareness

that this was something different.

The inevitable followed,

and he left for the war.

A three-night-stand,

no ring on my hand,

a swelling tummy,

I'm going to be a mummy.

Waiting at the base,

his flight comes in today,

he knows I'm waiting,

looking forward to dating,

but doesn't know what's waiting.

Across the tarmac apron

I see him striding.

He's not seen me yet,

my cheeks are wet,

in anticipation, or frustration?

He sees me, smiles,

takes me in his arms,

and with his old charms

says, quietly and without fuss:

"Now there are three of us,

So that's your surprise"!