Paradise Pending

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PAM CRANE HAS BEEN writing poetry since she was seven years old; this collection spans the best part of seven decades’ work.

Wearing her other hat, she has been a Christian astrologer for most of her life, is well known in that community, and has had three books on astrology published, plus many articles and a regular column in the bi-monthly Astrological Association Journal (for which she also compiles the Cryptic Crossword.)

You can find her website at:

http://revpamcrane.weebly.com.

ALSO BY REV PAM CRANE:

DRACONIC ASTROLOGY

Aquarian Press 1987

The Draconic Chart (Astrology)

Flare Publications, LSA London, 2013

The Holy Twelve—Hidden Treasures of Astrology,

Rev Pam Crane, Shoestring, 2019

Dicing With Life—Collected Short Stories

Rev Pam Crane, Shoestring, 2019

DEDICATION

To my wonderful husband, who has encouraged my

writing so generously over the past forty-two years!

IRON

IN THE CRUST OF A THOUSAND islands,

In the rocks and the dust of Mars,

In the core of a whirling planet,

In the breath of a billion stars

THE METAL OF MAN WAS waiting

For a brain and a thumb and fire.

An age of history-making

Began with naked desire;

FIRING, HAMMERING, honing,

Ready for food and foe,

Blade and spear in the forest

To swing, to thrust, to throw.

MANKIND HAS HARVESTED iron,

Harnessed its weight for war,

Hard in the mouths of horses,

Strong on the fortress door;

MELTING, MOULDING AND casting

Cauldron, helmet and chain,

Armour against the weapon,

Shield to carry the slain.

HOOPS FOR THE COOPER‘S barrel,

Rim for the carter‘s wheel -

And then the gun. And the girder.

Man has discovered steel.

WITH STEEL HE PLUNDERS the planet.

With steel he murders the trees.

With steel he conquers his neighbour ...

But loses to Heart disease.

THE CRUST OF THE WHIRLING planet

Is left with the rust of war,

Waiting for souls to ripen

Just as it was before.

TUNNELS

WE ARE THE MEN WHO bring the trains ...

Tunnelling, tunnelling ...

We are the blokes who clear the drains

Tunnelling, tunnelling ...

We are the docs who mend your brains ...

Tunnelling, tunnelling, tunnelling.

BLASTING A WAY THROUGH ancient rock

Blitzing a stinking garbage block

Boring through bone against the clock ...

Tunnelling, tunnelling.

WE ARE THE GUYS WHO drill for oil ...

Tunnelling, tunnelling ...

We are the brains who search the soil ...

Tunnelling, tunnelling ...

We are the chaps who heap the spoil

Tunnelling, tunnelling, tunnelling.

DRILLING THE EARTH until she screams

Probing the past for secret dreams

Ripping the heart from golden seams ...

Tunnelling, tunnelling.

WE ARE THE CREATURES put to flight ...

Tunnelling, tunnelling ...

We are the ghosts that haunt your night ...

Tunnelling, tunnelling ...

We are the bugs you fail to fight ...

Tunnelling, tunnelling, tunnelling.

RIDDLED WITH GRAVES a world will die

Riddled with guilt, the mind awry

Riddled with death, we all know why ...

Tunnelling, tunnelling.

THE KEY

THE LINES AND CONTOURS of a walker’s map

To armchair travellers are a mystery.

What do these colours and those symbols mean?

Here at the paper’s edge we find the Key.

THIS BLUE IS NOT THE sky, but ocean swell

That washes golden arcs of treasured sand,

Meets green swathes of mediaeval fields,

Woods, and butterfly-rich down-land.

BEYOND THE GREEN ARE rings of gentle brown -

Here we are told the ground begins to rise.

The browns get darker and the way is steep

As contours cluster and reduce in size

AND SEPIA GIVES WAY to pewter-grey,

Then silver that is almost violet;

We are amid the rocks, beyond the trees,

On high fells, or a mountain parapet.

THE LAST SMALL CIRCLE at four thousand feet

And further still is white as the old snow

That lies all year in every gully there,

High as the sky where hikers long to go.

AND SHOULD WE LOSE our way, a double line

Printing a track by lakes and thready streams

Will take us safely back to yellow roads,

Red highways, dotted houses and ice-creams.

RED FEATHERS

WHEN YOU LAST LET IN the morning frost

To scatter crumbs upon your window-sill,

Shook the bread-board clear over the garden

And watched the wild wings beating down for breakfast,

did you think then? - birds have died for you

So you can have red feathers on your hat.

A cock bled all his gallantry for you -

His love flown to your head.

Put out more bread.

MY CAMPAIGN

ROLL UP! ROLL UP! AND vote for me,

This rare day of democracy!

Your Independent candidate

Is up for vigorous debate

On any issue - you may pick it;

I shall add it to my ticket.

Join me! Wear my fine rosette!

I found these on the internet,

The symbolism quite apparent -

Frills and ribbons all transparent.

My platform? I am anti-greed.

‘To each according to his need.’

SO - NURSES’ WAGES? They must rise;

That should come as no surprise.

I am also on the ball

With soccer - salaries must fall

To where they were back in the day

When games were televised in grey;

The pricey foreigners must go

So local lads can run the show.

Then we can all afford to cheer

Our teams three dozen times a year!

THE BEATING HEART OF my campaign

Is second homes. Let me explain,

That only for a licence fee

In this corrupt economy

Should anyone at all be given

More than a single house to live in.

After somewhere nice to stay

With kids or friends on holiday?

You’ll have to rough it like the rest

Of us, and be a hotel guest.

Open the villages again

To local folk and working men!

My logo is a garden gnome:

Make every house a proper home.

STILL ON THE THEME of rural life,

One phrase that cuts me like a knife

Is National Park. A park’s for play.

We’re throwing peace and space away,

Granting the ignorant permission

To tramp the wild into submission.

I’LL CURB THE GREEDY National Trust,

Stop all the farms from going bust,

Punish the waste of food, and pull

Strings to revive the trade in wool.

(... Remember the verses on the bus

And tube that once delighted us?)

WE MUST CONTROL OUR lust for oil,

Return the plough-horse to the soil.

Spread the forests, marsh and heath,

Meadow and moor, till we can breathe.

I can see progress here and there,

But people need another scare -

We’re seeing fewer plastic-trees

Yet micro-beads are in the seas

And particles lodged in the brain

May drive us secretly insane.

Is our poisoned air why we

Deny the world’s divinity?...

I’LL FIGHT THE RISING tide of noise

From shrieking girls and fighting boys;

The clubs and bars will close at ten,

And we can get some sleep again...

Under a blazing Milky Way

Once light is limited to day.

No fireworks may be lit before

November 5th; I’m waging war

On every huge exploding shell

That turns an evening into hell

For those with post-traumatic stress,

And trembling pets. The friendliness

Of toffee-apples round the fire,

Sooty potatoes, rockets higher

Than stars, and flowers of coloured light

Are joys enough on Fireworks Night.

AND THOSE WHO WIND their windows down

To blast their ‘music’ through the town

And all who leave their engines running

For ages at the kerb, I’m gunning

For you! You shake the old, the ill,

The tired - I’ll force you to keep still

Many end up on a ward,

Sick or broken, stressed and bored.

ON MY WATCH, TO HELP us heal

We shall feast at every meal.

Morale will soar - and if we get a

Smile as well, we’ll soon be better!

Prevention always trumps a cure;

In Whitehall thrift has great allure:

I’ll save the NHS a packet,

Ruining Big Pharma’s racket.

Garlic scrips at fifty pee,

Will keep the country virus-free.

(You take it raw, with lots of food.

It does your blood and body good.)

And when you go to see the Doc

He won’t be looking at the clock

And neither will your daily carer -

Pay and practice must be fairer.

Nobody should lie all day

Unloved until they waste away.

ROLL UP! ROLL UP AND vote for me!

I’ll do my best as your MP

To purge pollution, waste and lies;

Let’s save the world before it dies. 

O UMBRELLAS!

ON

Upward

Murmuring

Bending in black

Rows climbing people

Ever closer to cloud

Lost in rapture and hard rain

Last bruised steps dedicated to

A lifetimes’ weight of mistakes and pain

See, the shrine. Under parasols eyes shine

BEWARE!

BEWARE!

Secure your hard hat.

Danger lurks in the flat

Field and fresh air!

BEWARE!

Don’t go near the water.

A man and his daughter

Are drowning there!

BEWARE

Everything you eat

Can kill you. Horsemeat

Everywhere.

BEWARE -

Only the thin look great.

Say you are size eight

Whatever you wear.

BEWARE

Losing your self-esteem

When Following your Dream.

Worst nightmare.

BEWARE:

Kids must cope alone

While you are on your phone

With stuff to share.

BEWARE

Trends that are so last year.

Insist on the latest gear -

It’s only fair.

BEWARE -

For anything really nice

Don’t pay the asking price

Anywhere.

BEWARE

Those beggars on your street;

They drink. They never eat

Or wash their hair.

BEWARE,

That man with the ready smile

May be a paedophile.

Get out of there.

BEWARE:

A touch is an assault.

Nothing is your fault -

You were In Care.

BEWARE OF CUDDLING.

Beware of love.

Beware of the velvet hand

in the iron glove.

Beware of black and posh

and daft and queer -

Beware of everything

you ought to fear.

Estranged from mercy, trust,

reflection,