by George Potter
If depressed by your age
Remember the sage
Who by numeric twist
Would thereby insist
That at year Twenty-one
The age of great fun
A mathematical quirk
Commences to work
Stopping further addition
From then to perdition.
He said
“Double your age,
Then add an ‘0’
Divide by your age,
C’mon,don’t be slow!
Now add a year
There’s nothing to fear
‘Cos now you will see
That you, too, must be
Just Twenty-one,
Perennially!
George Potter (after Edward Lear)
Great Ambition, you Imposter! I do not like your style!
Some children think you’re critical, for them to make their pile,
Do Teenagers, without you, become just feckless Youth?
Without you, is there no success? – I doubt that is the truth.
Maybe you are a distant light, but you don’t show the way,
You blinker those who stare ahead, from the landscape of each day
Once achieved, you’re spent, like a mirage in the mist
If not, a dull reminder of some target, missed.
So away with you, Ambition! The future can’t be set
Let each seek his vocation, for there lies the safest bet
That one’s life will be fulfilled, work with happiness combined,
Then your real ambition, is to reach true peace of mind.
George Potter
I was murdered, that is why
I cannot speak.
But why should I
Stay silent, while the perpetrators
Of a sin, my Terminators,
Are deemed themselves to have been wronged
By our Justice.
I would have longed
To receive such intercession.
Instead of dying.
Their transgression
‘Gainst me, suggests, perhaps their Parents
And now the Civil Rights adherents,
Through a discipline too mild,
Have spared the rod and spoiled the child.
With the greatest respect for, and on behalf of, James Bulger
George Potter
During the ‘Troubles’, there were examples of irrational action, despite the tensions. One of these was the villification of children going to Holy Cross School, Belfast.
Oh! My Darling! Tell me so, how did you spend your day?
“I was at the barricade, and we had our say!”
But what, My Darling, was the point, the burden of your voice?
“No concessions! No agreement! We must retain our choice!”
But then, My Darling, in the end, what was indeed achieved?
“Nothing! But we made our point and won’t listen to what they plead!”
As he slept, she read the news of children terrorised
By feuding neighbours, so misled, apparently surprised
That mindless violent action, against young minds so mild,
Was abhorred by all the world, as much as each young child.
“Oh God, Please help me, find again, the Christian heart within
This man, who rides the tides of dark dogmatic whim.”
As he slept, a light appeared in the darkness of his dream
He watched as his friends dispersed, (the crowd, there once had been)
A voice demanded, “Tell me; What made you hugely proud?
Of what you did, just yesterday? –Don’t hide behind that crowd!
For you should come to realise, that behind its vulgar face,
Your voluntary involvement, was a personal disgrace!”
A quieter man arose next morn and silently reviewed
The news of misadventure, of tear-stained girls pursued
By insults and expletives, heard on their way to school
From those claiming adherence to Democratic Rule!
In deed, he thought, if it were me, without a crowd beside
Could I be, as brave as those, I selfishly deride?
George Potter
Some say that Otford village is a heavenly little place,
Its pond and quaint old buildings, and a model of ‘near space’,
For in fact, they’ve modelled our solar system there,
The planets set on posts, about the Sun, a stainless sphere.
All to scale, you’ll find the Earth, like a lentil in its size
Jupiter, the largest, would not win a rosehip prize
Saturn with its rings nearby, (in the Surgery’s car park)
And Pluto, half a mile away, half pinhead size, his mark.
Go, see this exhibition, if you are that way,
As it’s outside, choose a dry and sunny day,
Then, as you wander, like a traveller in Space
Wonder about the lentil Earth, our tiny homely place.
Perhaps the village, in proportion, is like a Heavenly place,
Some of God’s creation, is held in its embrace
And if He tarried there, so easy to understand,
How He could hold, indeed, the whole world in His hand.
George Potter
The fire is out, the blackened heath bears witness to the heat
Hard ash, instead of soft green turf, beneath the childrens’ feet
The pastoral scene will not be saved by rain, or tears of sorrow
But Nature’s power, like human love, can build a new tomorrow.
Ash-dusted by the fire, the neighbouring fields await
The first green shoot to repossess, the arid, desert state
For with this sign of life restored, will grow green pastures new
Changing stoney blackness, to warmer, softer hue
New hope and strength returning, ameliorate the pain
As seasons soothe, Good Nature shapes the beauty spot again
Gentler breezes sway the grass, where flames came withering through
For those who come now, do not share the memories of the few
Who yet recall, the earlier scene, and question what began,
The pyre of love ‘tween man and wife, and trust twixt wife and man.
George Potter
I think you say, in English, ‘I will be coming home’,
When you write a letter, or use the telephone,
But surely that must also mean, that you were there before,
With possessions and your Family, and a key for your front door.
So, I cannot use these words; I am a Refugee.
For complicated reasons, my home I had to flee,
So now, no thought of ‘coming home’ applies; I turned my back,
On all that was familiar. A home is what I lack.
In your hearts, unknown to me, I seek your intercession,
I travel forward hopefully, I need no more repression,
Perhaps, when I’m accepted, I’ll recall days when forced to roam,
And know then, safe and happy, I was really ‘coming home’.
George Potter
Lemmings, apparently, will suffer mass destruction,
Mindlessly they copy, a careless guide’s instruction,
Now we seem to follow the Lemmings poor tuition
As we ignore the craziness of our own position.
We let our children see the things, that used to make us blush
No time to teach a grounding, everything’s a rush
Only I-pad games, it seems, now fit the new ‘street cred’
Videos replacing the old ‘story before bed’.
Television just promotes the money making art,
Argument pervades the daily Soaps in every part,
Guns appear in every game with violent whoops beside
None wish to be creative, nothing to keep, with pride.
Then onward with temptations, the dire computer games
No decent conversation, just text and coded names
Mostly barely readable, the tweets and texts galore
Like addiction always, wanting more and more and more.
So, hardly surprising then, the Lemming attitude
Develops mighty passions, p’raps sex, and humour crude
But worse, the love of violence, guns and cruelty
The consequence ignored; we should, but do not see.
So potential Lemmings, cast off the herd instinct
Consider what you do, take a moment just to think,
Would the World approve, of what you want to be?
Why stay a careless Lemming, without the sense to see?
George Potter
Oh Lord, the Umpire of our lives, help us to play our innings with a straight bat, accept Life’s Yorkers, without complaint, and when, at last, our wicket falls, may we have notched-up a worthy score. Amen
By naming the Tower of Babel
Wasted speech was given a label
But then it was language,
Designed to discourage
The ambition of builders-too-able.
Now comes the Power of Mad Screech
Supposedly some kind of speech
Where the new predilection
To hustle one’s diction
Puts understanding, quite beyond reach.
Like announcements in DIY stores
A confusion of noise and no more
The objective should be
To improve clarity
Not to drive me, full speed, for the door.
As hearing falters, it’s less differential
Making the clarity all more essential
For my pleasure each day
I silently pray
For a word rate more clear and gentle.
George Potter
George's Rhymes for the Times