The Retired Bloke

Today I have temporarily moved away from my poetry and in the light of recent developments in the Brexit fiasco looked at, tongue in cheek, at what Boris’s “We Shall Fight Them On the Beaches” speech could look like... We Shall Fight Them Bitches We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in Brussels, we shall fight on the front benches and back benches we shall fight with shrinking confidence and shrinking strength in the polls, we shall defend our Brexit, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight each other on the beaches, we shall fight at the despatch box, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets,we shall fight in the hills; unlike Jeremy Corbyn,we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving due to a no deal Brexit , then our dwindling influence beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the Irish Border control would carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, the New World, with

Last week we visited the Yorkshire Sculpture Park and wandered around The Underground Gallery.  There was an exhibition of sculptures by David Smith. I love modern art but for the life of me can never work out what it represents until I read the caption attached to the nearby gallery wall. Even then the language is often so complex that I am sometimes none the wiser. This poem is inspired by this recent visit.  Art Space One by one they pass by Circling the welded iron puzzles Scratching heads, quizzical frowns Knowing looks, a few little sniggers Echoing in the white walled temple Wise ones watch on knowingly Stirred by insights hidden Beneath the mystery of art itself  Hanging on adjacent walls Language poetic and pithy Aim to educate the bewildered Making sense of what Some see as nonsense Harbouring a need to fulfil The hunger for justification An explanation to unravel The mystical masterpiece.