Torch Song by Steve Rudd

On the day of the royal wedding (29th April 2011) and on the day before, the police arrested dozens of people pre-emptively. People who had not committed any crimes were arrested, often handcuffed, and detained in police cells.  – News Report

I’d like to race in the ‘Lympics
But I’m guessing I must stay put
Because I’m in a wheelchair -
I have no athlete’s foot

I’d like to jump in the ‘Lympics
I’d wear my new pullover
If I thought there was the slightest chance
Of meeting “Fee-up-and-over”

I’d like to dive in the ‘Lympics
But it could be a pain
Cos’ I’d have to be para-plegic
And I don’t even own a ‘plane!

I’d like to swim in the ‘Lympics
Ambitions, I sure gottem:
But sadly, metal does not float,
And I’d end up on the bottom!

I’d like to compete in the ‘Lympics
Despite all the problems and bugs
And every day I’d strain, and train,
By taking a cocktail of drugs!

But I rather think that the ‘Lympics
Are a bit of a waste of space
Until and unless we disableds
Can rejoin the human race

Cause it seems to me at the moment
That patriotism is rife
But it don’t extend to the ill and the poor
Who are struggling with everyday life

It’s OK to cheer on our athletes
It’s OK to wave at the Queen
But it might get you arrested
To say that great wealth is obscene

‘Cause some in this land are speeding ahead
Without any handicap
While the rest of us are left plodding behind
And bearing their burdens through crap

I’ve had my fill of the ‘Lympics
Let alone the para-sequel
I don’t know why we should celebrate
When things are so unequal

So here’s an idea for the ‘Lympics,
For you would-be torchbearers to learn;
Use it to set fire to Parliament,
And then watch the buggers burn.

Patience by Steve Rudd

Those that tend fires require

A special form of patience

Watching through the window, winter-long

While the rain streaks; patience of a saint

Then, after bare grey days, at last

Catkins on branches unfurl daily until

The stumbling bee finally arrives

Late and cold like the spring at last

And the badger comes at night, or dusk

Rooting up the garden, from dark woods behind;

With patience to stay wakeful, and the stamina

You may glimpse its fleeting stripes by moonlight

Patience can make time pass quick or slow

Reconciling, days go by, like a pack of cards

Being shuffled and cut, and shuffled again

Jokers are always wild, spread out the deck

Red queen on black king; as pastimes go

It’s right up there with watching drying paint

Or having faith that things will ever change

Carry your cards, clock in, clock out, clock off

Have patience, they say; spring is coming -

It will come; it always does, sit tight

And tend your fire, and cultivate your garden

Long green spring evenings, now it’s light

But I was always better at starting fires

Than tending them, never saw the point

Of patience as a virttue (or a vice)

It’s not as if there’s ever any option…

Just sit there, and be a little patient

Tending your fire, not getting rash, taking your meds

In case your ever-coursing arteries harden

One day, if you’re patient, things may better!

One day, a lifetime’s end away from now.

Watch and learn, boy, watch and learn;

Life is what happens while you’re being patient.

Invisible Mending by Steve Rudd

Getting dressed, in chill before-dawn dark
One of those dull cold mornings, cursing,
I put my foot straight through a trouser turnup:

Now, my pants hang, sag, sadly over shoe,
Adding to my general dereliction -
A stitch in time was needed, ah yes

If only we knew, with perfect hindsight
The point where we should have stuck
The needle in, to intervene, to save

The need for later pins and needles
Pain jabbing – only a stitch, they say,
And you’ll soon run it off

A stitch in time saves nine; nine tailors makes a man,
Stitching surrounds us daily, like tapestry -
All of those needles, always waiting

Needles, sharp, fine, or hollow, hunting for a thread
But even caught in time, I do not think
There’s such a thing as invisible mending –

You rip what you sew; Euripides, Eumenides,
Your gentle “hem” is always ignored,
And life sharpens its needles, day by day

On worries worn as flat as rune-stones
Or pebbles in my shoe, the one that I stuck through
The web of cloth I tore by clumsiness

And so eventually, with the sense of an ending,
You’re forced to hunt the thimble, do your best
(In olden days, they’d sew you in a vest

each winter, underneath pincushion clouds)
Patches on patches, and hope your stitches hold,
Your needle swinging always to mag north

Follow it blindly on the rocks
And you may find they sew you into sailcloth,
The last stitch through your nose

I should watch where I put my feet
And tread more carefully: it’s always easier
To have a care, than try and mend a tear