The Organ Association

They are mostly men,
Some wives tag along because
Its what we do.

The church has laid on tea and rich tea biscuits.
Some old dears and a young mousey lady
who looks completely out of place
boil the kettles and
offer biscuits around.

Small blue china mugs,
so small you couldn’t even
spit in it.

A hoard of organists have
Come to the church to see the Organ.
Nothing spectacular, local builder,
Two manuals. Its even got a Reed Stop,
An Oboe I believe?

Clad and cloaked in green macs,
with wafts of tweed and pipe smoke.
The rain makes such a cold
harsh eccleastical cave
warming and a relief.

Some come to listen to others play,
others sit around and natter about
their organs.  Some moan about
Their organ builders, and how expensive
It seems to be to keep the King of Instruments
On its throne.

The classic pieces drift out,
A bit of Boellman’s Gothique Suite,
One of the younger chaps bashes out
A bit of Widor.  But only a bit.

The schedule is tight.  Woodbury is
over the hill and Terrance is not one
To be left in the rain waiting.

The hoard of organists depart, smiling and
Thankful that they’ll have a cup of tea
when they reach the next church.

The Assembly

Suited, dressed in
The best of their Sunday Best.
A time to meet
Greet
Catch up
And avoid old foes.

For a brief time,
A spiritual
Community is created,
A mass of biblical bodies,
Bustling and rustling flasks
And umbrellas
Just in case.

Girls, slapped up to make
Young Brothers stare
Boys, suited and smooth,
To make the sisters stare.

The early birds
Get the seats near the
Exits. Perfect for loo breaks.
Hard nasty plastic seats,
Comforted by cushions
And coats.

The talks are given,
Dramas are acted out,
Baptisms, announcements,
Messages from the Slave Class,

Sometimes, ten thousand leaves blow,
Through ten thousand bibles
In an orchestrated unison
As scriptures are used.
Bibles are exchanged
For songbooks. Songbooks
For bibles.

Songs played by some
Disembodied distant orchestra over
An army of tannoys,
On parade, on the pitch.

Then back to the loos,
Screams of kids, playing and complaining,
Running through the
Arched corridors of the football ground
Under the watch of those marshalls
In their priveledged positions,
The high-vis clad brothers
Dotted about,
Ever watchful for
What, we don’t know.

So, we leave a little early,
Our brains, buzzing
Like a tannoy.
Like a tannoy.

Apple

In our funny little western world,
We all like to own devices.
Contraptions that let us get online
And satisfy our vices.

And the one type of device,
That everyone wants to own,
Has a fruity little logo,
Which makes PC owners moan.

Would you refuse an iPad?
Or even an iBook?
Because you have to understand
That its all part of the look.

Some Apple owners won’t use PCs
And some would rather die,
Then have to suffer the trauma
Of using a non-Apple device.

But then the PC crowd are bad
And think Jobs a dark lord,
Of everything that Apple has made.
His turtle-necked essence poured.

Me? Can’t afford a Macbook Pro,
Or even an iBook,
I’ll just read all my emails
On my Blackberry Playbook.

Nasal Hair

It is not fair,
My nasal hair,
I couldn’t care
If it was never there.

But I have lots
of nasal hair
And the fact its there,
Means that I do care.

Which is why
Oh nasal hair,
I have to stare
In the mirror a lot.

To make sure
You’re not coated in snot.

Mum.

Many people don’t
Understand me like my 
Mum.

Most of the time they
Underestimate my abilities,
Missing the mark monumentally.

Many people make
Untrue judgements and try to 
Manipulate me.

But not my mum.

Rough

Sleeping,
Head against the
Hard slabs of
This mantle.
The Squaddy listens,
to the soft
cooing of pigeons
and the legion of
voices, resounding
around his own skull.
It is rarely a quiet day.

Sleeping lightly,
the trauma flashes past
his eyes like a high speed
train, whipping up

the hot desert air
as it speeds
past.

Cardboard bunker,
nothing to stop
the wind stealing
it away. His paper
defences against
nature still let in the cold
stares from passers by
who just think
he is lazy.

Tidying

The dust has gathered,
Like some sort of grey and hairy
cling film.  And yet I still
wonder how it got here.
After all,
we only dusted last week.

Presents and things,
still homeless from
late home arrivals from
relations, filed in bags
around the house
awaiting their placement
in the advanced house
organisation system,
cunningly disguised
as neatly organised piles of
stuff.

I take two tablets of
Procrastinol, settle down
and wonder how much  more
we can leave to
tomorrow.