Everybody but us – 28th January 2022

Twas Freya’s Day, a sun-soaked summer’s day,

Dry and cooled by a southerly breeze.

The sort of day for which we all pray,

 Cone Man, mighty beer mug in hand, was at ease.

 

Far less at ease, the neighbours of the Bear Tribe,

Seeing tanks massed on their eastern borders.

The mystery of this menace vexed many a scribe,

Knowing only that this host followed Vlad’s orders.

 

Bewildered was the Stars and Stripes Tribe,

By the peculiar attitude of their leaders.

“We must defend the borders of that tribe”,

Their scribes informed their readers.

 

These leaders guarded not the southern border,

Abusing many in their own tribe as ‘deplorables’,

Tolerating lawlessness and disorder,

And denied the reality that inflation was deplorable.

 

True, the Bear Tribe was bullying the Crane Tribe,

True, aggressors would be encouraged if not opposed,

Yet, wondered many in the Stars and Stripes Tribe:

“Why do our leaders care about everybody but us?”

 

© Craig Turney

A Flying Start - 14th January 2022

 A Flying Start - 14^th January 2022

Twas Freya’s Day, a beautiful fair day,

Cool breeze balanced scorching heat.

2022 was well on its way,

News junkies looked forward to a treat.

 

Many broke the rules, failing to understand,

That the times did not kindly suffer fools.

 

Lawyers pursued Duke Drew,

Win, lose, or draw, he was done.

Titles receded and withdrew,

Sun setting upon errant son.

 

Antonio, world Tennis Ace,

Aced not his visa application.

Bureaucracy evenly matched against grace,

Leaving Scomo with an unhappy situation.

 

The Stars and Stripes Tribe watched,

As the shipping crisis dragged intractably on.

Transport, their Transport Secretary, had botched,

Empty shelves showed the crisis was still on.

 

Inflation’s existence, denied by Democrats,

Recognised by Republicans and everyone else,

Battered the Chieftain’s polling stats,

Act he must, before the Red Wave swept away all else.

 

Boris, Son of John, a garden party attended,

Before ending the Union Jack Tribe’s lockdown.

This crime his Loyal Opposition duly apprehended,

Even his loyal backbenchers were seen to frown.

 

“Blazing cones!” Cone Man exclaimed.

“2022 is off to a flying start …”

© Craig Turney

Freedom with Responsibilty

 

Freedom with Responsibility - 21^st December 2021

 

Twas the Day of Mars, and on time marched,

Fire raged in Northland, by dry winds parched.

Declining Delta followed by overwhelming Omicron,

The new plague struck while the old was still on.

 

Hysteria and Cynicism, those dark handmaids

Of dark times, were present in spades.

Hysteria cared naught that Omicron was less fatal.

Cynicism ignored cases where Omicron was fatal.

 

To be or not to be? Whether to vaccinate

Against viruses and by opposing, end them.

Or suffer the slings and arrows of infection,

And achieve herd immunity without injection.

 

Who was right? No one knew.

Who was wrong? No one knew.

Those who knew the science were few,

And even they were in a stew.

 

Cone Man reflected: “No stew can forever simmer”.

“The heat must end, or the stew become grimmer”.

The heat of controversy would burn off frivolities,

The heat of controversy would create policies.

 

The sillier regulations would be relaxed,

The sensible measures would be reinforced.

The less hesitant would be vaxxed,

The more effective measures better resourced.

 

Pride, Arrogance, and Ignorance were often found,

In the halls of power to abound.

Would the government find the middle ground?

And the cry “Freedom with Responsibility” resound?

© Craig Turney

Better sentences – 9th December 2021

Twas a happy day when to the printer went,

His book of verse, in time for Advent.

Relieved as he was, he could not relent,

Fearing the loss of time, through time poorly spent.

 

He was tired of rhyming couplets,

He simultaneously found them comforting.

In rhyming verse poetry emerged in droplets,

Yet archaic discipline was strangely enabling.

 

Why? Why should ending sentence,

With a rhyming suffix, produce better poetry?

What was the point of rhyming pretense?

Was it not mere sophistry?

 

Rhyming required constructing whole sentences,

Allowing less scope for vacuity

Rhyming required composition to make sense,

Allowing scope for clarity.

 

Cone Man was bound by this discipline,

Frequently forced to re-write sentences.

Cone Man was empowered by this discipline,

Frequently forced to write better sentences

Cone Man takes stock - 5th December 2021

 

Cone Man takes stock

5^th December 2021

 

Cone Man’s compiled verse to printer went,

Cone Man comfortably enjoyed Advent.

2022 was drawing near,

How could he seize the New Year?

 

The sands of time waited for no man,

Slipping away from the man with no plan.

Cone Man had lived 9 and 50 years,

Cone Man hand not well used these years.

 

“You must seize time or be seized by time,”

Cone Man muttered, lamenting wasted time.

How many left works unwritten,

Being by untimely death smitten?

 

Knowing not the day of his death,

He’d repent of sloth till his last breath.

Plan for 2022 he should,

Seize every day he would.

 

If his god allowed him many years,

Then he would have few fears.

If his god summoned him in a few years,

Then he would have few fears.

Either way he’d hope to hear:

“Well done, good and faithful servant.”

Turbulence at the top of the All Black Tribe

Cinda the Hard and Stern, mighty Over Lady of the All Black Tribe, had enjoyed a glorious reign, handling crises with her inimitably smiley style, and without having to handle competent opposition to her rule. Happily for Cinda, the Blue Rinse Tribe had chosen leaders who were male, incompetent and lacking in guile. Well might Cinda smile.

Darkness had descended on the Blue Rinse Tribe however. After rolling one chieftain because of his unfortunate tone of voice, the Blue Rinse Tribe was astounded to discover that the replacement chieftain was so unprepared for the trials and tribulations of the post that he resigned after 53 days in office.

The prospect of an imminent election loomed over the leaderless tribe, and as tribes had done since time immemorial, they despairingly accepted a leader they would not have chosen in less desperate straits. Emerging from the Dark Side, as if conjured up in a seance, the Sith Lady Judith the Crusher seized ultimate power in the council of the Blue Rinse Tribe.

The Old Boys of the Blue Rinse Tribe trembled in the presence of the Woman of Steel, but they were not alone in having reasons for their fear. Cinda too, had reasons to have a care.

Judith was female. No longer could Cinda count on an enemy who was afraid to attack a woman. Judith, being no wall flower, would not wilt in the scorching heat of the parliamentary kitchen. Judith had taken the precaution of marrying a non-European man, thereby making it difficult to play the 'race card' on her. Judith was shrewd and knew she only had to wait for Cinda to make a mistake. Judith was cunning. She suspected that constant, low-level needling might eventually cause Cinda to snap and do something stupid, in the way a girl exploded in rage after receiving one barb too many from a second girl who cloaked her attack by splitting it up into a series of small and seemingly innocuous criticisms.

Have a care, Cinda" Cone Man muttered to himself. "The election may be yours to lose, but the Blue Rinse Tribe has a cat in the fight, and while you may be feisty, she's ferral ..."

Cone Man returns to writing his chronicle ...

Cone Man had survived the Lock Down. He could almost be said to have survived it too well. People spoke darkly of a new beast stalking the world known as the "Pandemic 15", referring to excess weight gained from over-consumption of comfort food while enduring enforced sedentary hibernation. Like many others, Cone Man had resolved to use the time well, and like many others the time had begun to use Cone Man and turn him into a listless slob. Unfortunately, at the age of 57, he was enduring the 'Middle-age 45' or putting it in less prosaic terms, he was 20 kilograms overweight.

He could make jokes about his girth, and even laugh about it when others made jokes about the said girth, but the truth was that the jokes weren't funny any more. Jest did not make the weight drag less heavily or lighten the tiredness that haunted him. Jest emanated from a lively mind, not one sluggish from being trapped in a sluggish body.

Cone Man had avoided the issue, but the weighty issue would not avoid him. Cone Man could not run away from being overweight. Cone Man might, he hoped, ride off the weight that stalked him.

Cone Man's man cave was located 1.5 kilometres away from the foot of the Hill of the Gods. The crest of the hill was 184 metres high, and the road over it was 3 kilometres long. Riding uphill from the Wainuiomata side of the hill required an ascent of 90 metres. Riding uphill from the other side required an ascent of 180 metres. Riding from his man cave to the other side of the hill and back thus required ascending 270 metres during a 9 kilometre round trip.

The ascent was impossible for an unfit warrior who was 20 kilograms overweight. The real mountain to surmount was psychological, he realised. If he did not ride, he could never do it. On the other hand if he never did it, he may as well not ride.

Cone Man accepted that he would have to win the battle by attrition. He began riding to the foot of the hill each day and then riding part of the way up the hill. Each day he would ride one lamp post further than the previous day, thereby increasing his fitness each day while maintaining the pressure on his legs.

There were 50 lamposts on the hill. Cone Man accepted that this would be a long and brutal campaign against the terrible Middle Age Spread monster ...