Another query from Finn, who was shocked at this worrying gap in police jurisdiction.

Attention please, citizen. We’re the police. 

Defy our authority? No one would dare!

We demand that at once you desist and you cease!

I AM A VOLCANO AND I DO NOT CARE.

You’re a very fine mountain, you’re right to be proud:

You can be picturesque and enjoyed on a hike

But no smoking! no rumbling! It isn’t allowed!

I AM A VOLCANO. I’LL DO WHAT I LIKE.

Your ash cloud’s a menace, and we must demand

That you try to control all the lava you spatter

You’re subject, you know, to the law of the land.

I AM A VOLCANO AND YOU DO NOT MATTER.

The villagers tell us you can’t be controlled

But of course, they are not the police – what do they know?

You’re under arrest so just stop it! Be told!

AND NOW THAT YOU’VE TOLD ME, I’M STILL A VOLCANO.

Another young theologian asks a question about heaven.

Heaven can only be a metaphor.

We die. We cease to be. And what comes after

If anything, cannot be comprehended

By us, or by our living, pulsing brains.

As such, assume that when we go to heaven

If we go there, we go as something new

And inexperienced. Yes, you could say

We’re reborn there as babies. If you like.

I can’t imagine angels changing nappies

Made out of fluffy clouds. Wiping the bottoms 

And tickling the chubby little cheeks

Of newborn souls. But you can. If you like.

In memory of Douglas Adams, my 42nd poem is late, and a bit odd.
 ‘I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.’ – D.A.

the sky is technically every colour 

the molecules of air scatter the sunlight

by rights we should see rainbows 

but blue hits our eyes first.

blue’s weird. 

the ancient greeks couldn’t see it at all.

they didn’t perceive a clear sky as having a colour.

 it was clear.

they noticed the colour of the sea when it didn’t look blue

when it looked dark like wine, or shone.

because blue was just… clear

i wonder what they made of irises and bluebells

maybe there weren’t any

because blue hadn’t been invented yet

when you look at the sky, and it’s blue 

you probably see something different 

to the person next to you.

who knows what my blue would look like to you?

just be happy you can see blue at all.

i feel sorry for the ancient greeks 

looking at the boring nothing-coloured sky.

i wonder what colours we haven’t learned to see yet.

maybe the sky isn’t blue at all.

maybe it’s flarpetua.

A very sensible question, overheard by a friend. Such sensible questions deserve limericks.

Some foods can play tricks on your tongue

More especially so when you’re young

They can feel cold or hot

Although really they’re not

And your tastebuds can feel a bit stung

Things like chilli and curry seem hot

While things that are minty do not

Their chemical make up

Will make your mouth wake up

And some people like it a lot

Most people agree it feels nice

To be eating room temperature ice

It takes more time to learn

To enjoy foods that burn

Take it slowly, would be my advice.

It’s important, so don’t forget, please

When each breath feels like Icelandic breeze

It’s a physio-mental

Illusion. It’s menthol

That causes your tastebuds to freeze.

Another one from my sex education career, and a stellar example of a little knowledge being a dangerous (or at least deeply bewildering) thing. 

There have always been births, you know that at least these

Are kind of a must when it comes to a species

Continuing, but there have not always been

Equipment and experts and rooms that are clean.

Though you and your brother and thousands before

Came out into the world through an improvised door

Made by surgeons in hospitals, there is another,

More old fashioned exit, built into the mother.

We talked about sex, the vagina and penis,

How they fit together, and how that can be this

Exciting experience, but there’s a risk

Of infection and pregnancy. Maybe I missed 

Out a detail: The way that a baby gets in,

That’s the way out as well. Look. Where do we begin?

The vagina. It stretches. I know it seems small

But for years when we didn’t have surgeons at all

Every baby came out of that marvelous part

Of the body: as vital, at least, as the heart.

Now Caesarian sections save millions of lives.

They’re a wonderful thing, helping babies to thrive

And if there is a snag, or the mother gets ill

Or the baby needs help, then the hospital will

Recommend one. But babies are usually born

The way that they were since humanity’s dawn.

Do not worry about it, please. We will be fine.

We’ve been doing it, now, for a very long time.

This question, and the glorious mental image that comes with it, comes from Lucas.

You’ll hear, on Thursday morning

The magic lorry coming

Along the street at sunrise,

Its great big engine humming.

The magic bin collectors

Or so the stories say,

Jump down and get your rubbish

And take it all away

They travel with the sunrise

Forever heading west

The lorry rides upon the dawn

To chase what it likes best

All of the stuff we throw away

Recycling and landfill.

To get around the world so fast

The workers have their hands full.

The kachara in Fiji, 

The gomi in Japan.

In China it’s the lésé

Musor in Kazakhstan 

The qamama in Egypt

The afval, müll, ordures

(They go all over Europe)

They do! It’s true! I’m sure!

At last, in the Atlantic, 

The lorry makes a splash

And when it hits the USA

They go take out the trash.

And if you get up early

Upon a Thursday morn

You’ll see that magic lorry

A-riding on the dawn.

Maybe we are.

Maybe our whole existence.

This world.

This universe.

Exists, fleetingly

Because someone ate cheese late at night.

(That is if cheese, and night exist at all

Outside the dream.)

Perhaps we are imagined.

Symbolic manifestations of a worry 

Or a wish

In a waking world 

We cannot comprehend.

But if that’s true

The best thing we can do

Is make the dream a good one.

So that the dreamer, when they wake

And we burst like soap bubbles,

Says to someone else

“That dream I had last night

Was awesome.”

Yesterday was a full day. This was thought yesterday but is going up late. Thank you Harry for your kind hospitality. 

Although

You’d really love to show

Your egg farm and 

Your pig farm and

Your buildings

Your banners and 

Your boxes and

Your blocks

And blocks 

And blocks 

And blocks…

And you really really really

Want me to have a go…

No.

This question provoked something of a homily.

The trouble is, no one agreed on the rules

And some people cheated, and some people knew

That those who won one race would lose at another 

So finding the winners? Well don’t even bother.

There isn’t much joy to be had in the beating

Of those running with you. That triumph is fleeting.

It’s better by far to just try to have fun

And look out for each other. And then, we’ve all won.

A deceptively simple question from Tirion. I’m afraid my answer may be somewhat misanthropic.

Some would say we’re clever monkeys

But I’d have to disagree:

Monkeys who destroy their jungles

Don’t seem bright at all to me.

Other monkeys have bananas 

We have work and wars and guns.

Humans are a bunch of monkeys

But we’re not the clever ones.