Thursday, 14 October 2010


Poem 141 of 230:  IN A SMALL POT


D1 F#1 F#1 F#2
G1 F#1 1E E2
D1 E1 E1 E2
F#1 E1 D1 D3)

I like Acers
    But rent a flat,
So mimic one
    In a small pot:

As for starters,
    I made a plat
Of ivy run
    Out from one spot;

To this basis,
    All round the mat,
In a trunk-bun,
    Dirt - soaked a lot;

Without traces
    (Not got down pat),
A moss-lawn spun
    And short-ferns shot;

And, like Acers,
    Branches have sat -
Wirework done -
    Toward the pot;

Trimmed with scissors,
    This foliage-hat
Thrives in the sun
    Of my sill-plot.

(C) David Franks 2003
Hear here -

Wednesday, 13 October 2010


Poem 142 of 230:  UNCLES

A penknife lies in each one’s pocket,
    Each has a Constable on the wall,
A staff leans near all three’s front door,
    And each other’s phone they scarcely call.

(C) David Franks 2003

Tuesday, 12 October 2010



Largely, I’d say, an Olympic Games is
    One nation’s way v. other nations,
During fairly-fought sport competitions -
    “Citius, altius, fortius.”

So, if all states become multicultural
    Or humans become culturally one
(Through settlement and globalisation),
    Holding Olympics would become null.

(C) David Franks 2003

Stratford view of Olympic Park, London, Sep. 2014

Airplane view of Olympic Park, Sydney, Dec. 2014

Monday, 11 October 2010


Poem 144 of 230:  LINGOLF


Eb2 G1 G2 G2 A1 A2
A2 Bb2 C’3 C’1 C’2 Bb2
Eb2 F2 G2 A2 A2 A2
F2 A3 Bb2 G3 G2 G3)

Your honour, Your Honour.
    Watch out - he’s a burglar.
I’m to school on your putt.
    That’s one heck of a cut!

It’s my bread and butter -
    A left-to-right cutter.
That’s where elephants die.
    That’s a grave - not a lie.

I’m in the old plum-duff;
    Tough - I’m on the cut-stuff.
The hooks with my driver,
    And fades with my putter.

There’s a goalie in there.
    Trees are some nine-tenths air.
I have a soldier’s plight -
    Always left, right, left, right.

Everything was fine -
    Apart from weight and line.
It took a member’s bounce.
    A rare bird to announce.

An unlucky horseshoe.
    Had a look - liked the view.
Poetry in motion.
    Read with blind devotion.

He’s just hit a cracker.
    I’m only a hacker.
I wish I’d missed the well.
    A fried-egg where it fell.

A crop of a divot.
    It was speed that killed it.
Your wedges land so neat -
    Butterflies with sore feet.

Like pitching in pudding.
    Never up, never in.
Drive for show/putt for dough.
    Can’t beat bad luck, you know.

He’s just missed a gimme.
    That, then, would be dormy.
It went in the side-door.
    A Bradman of a score.

Just spoiled a good walk.
    Can’t play, but can he talk!
'Twas daylight robbery;
    Not “how” but “how many.”

The nineteenth’s not too far -
Have a jar at the bar..?

(C) David Franks 2003
Hear here -

Lime, lemon & bitters at Kareela G.C.
in Sydney's Sutherland Shire, Sept. 2011

Sunday, 10 October 2010


Poem 145 of 230:  DOT-BALL

                                            A "strike,”
                                      Makes game fair:
                                   A     swing     of     air,
                               And    bowlers    receive
                          What batsman can’t retrieve -
                       A  dot-ball  against  their  name;
                     Whereas in Tests there is no blame.
               Adding to this the forced increased-pace,
             To my mind, one-day cricket wins the race.
          And, as for the corruption plaguing both codes,
      Once   more,   “regulationism”   must   be   imposed.

(Or,  if  an  umpire  says  "air swing,"  the  batsman  goes..?)

(C) David Franks 2003

Saturday, 9 October 2010


Poem 146 of 230:  HORSES FOR COURSES?

To some (in income-anticipation),
    Horse baulking, at gates, is a small debase;
To me, it seems a memory/fear case
    Over the coming whip-castigation.
To some, the winning jockey’s elation
    Is the highlight of an ended horserace;
To me, the horse’s bulged veins and scared face
    Undermine the winners’ celebration.
I can’t condone a punter’s desire
    To gamble rather than earn a living,
    But can acknowledge a jockey’s courage;
I can’t see and think as a raced sire,
    Nor feel the scrapes fences are giving,
    But find horses choiceless in their bondage.

(C) David Franks 2003

Manchester Art Gallery; 9/3/17

Friday, 8 October 2010


Poem 147 of 230:  DIEDACTIC

Disconnect the die’s water,
    Any electrics and air;
Undo coupled-ejector,
    And spray tool against rust-wear.

Close up the tool on die-set,
    Undo bolts on moving-side
(But not on the fixed half, yet),
    And open the clamp out wide.

With a hoist-chain safely strapped,
    Now undo the fixed-half side
(Base-bolts first, so hands aren’t trapped),
    Then give tool an upward ride.

With the used-die back on rack,
    Fitting is a reversal
Of the tool-removal knack -
    Minor changes, that is all:

Locate tool onto fixed-side -
    The die-ring in platen-hole,
And the clamping bolts all tied
    (A ratchet’s good for this role).

Fit knockout to tool’s back-plate
    (Suitable for ejection),
Then move platen in close-rate,
    And free hoist that held tool on.

Adjust platen fully-on,
    Bolt the moving-half to it,
Then set the tool’s ejection -
    With mould opened, bit by bit.

Pipe it up, tune close/open
    Plus the cycle's other strokes;
And, with mould settings chosen
    For the plastic, that’s it folks.

(C) David Franks 2003

Thursday, 7 October 2010


Poem 148 of 230:  AUDIENCE LOST

I returned, again,
    To what they pen -
The free-verse poets:
    Deep prose in sets…
I could read, again,
    Of Mice and Men.

(C) David Franks 2003

Wednesday, 6 October 2010


Poem 149 fo 230:  FOR BETTER OR WORSE

Largely due to America,
    English - to use Italian -
Is now the world’s lingua franca,
    Where, it seems, it once was Latin;
But, while brogues are a good thing,
    I doubt American spelling.

(C) David Franks 2003

Tuesday, 5 October 2010


Poem 150 of 230:  TEARS

Watching a documentary
    Of the ‘66 World Cup,
And the way of England’s Ramsey,
    I thought: “Let’s give ‘passion’ up.”

It voiced and showed his calm way -
    He playing things down a touch;
And, as his home team won the day,
    They showed care but not too much.

Analytical Englishmen -
    Cool over the tasks that lay;
We see some of it in Henman,
    But it’s not the modern way.

Sadly, passion and youthful thought
    Have become the status quo,
And social-standards and sport
    Have sunk relatively low.

(C) David Franks 2003