August 9, 2013

 

 

A change of plans

And shake of hands

A deal struck overnight.

 

Scrambled wavebands

Enforced remands

Alas, not whiter than white.

 

Through rushed demands

Evidence in strands

A blast of dynamite

 

Emerging from quick sands

To far off lands

On an escapologist flight.

 

A change of plans

And shake of hands

A new world of sunlight.

 

 

 

August 7, 2013

 

 

Juxtapose had an orange nose-

an orange nose had he.

So opposed was Juxtapose

to fondling a maidens knee.

 

Juxtapose had a wandering eye-

a wandering eye had he.

So composed was Juxtapose

when tinkling a piano key.

 

Juxtapose had an opposite view-

an opposite view had he.

So decomposed was Juxtapose

when found at the bottom of the sea.

 

 

 

 

Oh Mother

of brother and sister of mine

Remember me in the middle

who the others outshine.

 

Oh Mother

of brother and sister of mine

Show me some affection

so I know I am thine.

 

 

August 6, 2013

 

 

When Cristobelle comes calling,

allow her into your world.

Accept her for what she is;

a fickle, complex girl.

 

When Cristobelle comes selling,

purchase her homemade wares.

You can forward them onto a charity,

if no use for them ever occurs.

 

When Cristobelle comes weeping,

mop her weary brow.

She’s really at the end of her tether,

and in need of a good friend now.

 

When Cristobelle comes no more,

a sorry day that will be.

There’ll be a gap in your life,

for the whole of eternity.

 

 

 

 

 

August 5, 2013

 

 

Recurring horrors

of self loathing now,

can only hinder progress

anyhow,

 

and shyness be

thy enemy within,

restraining talent,

victory ne’er to win,

 

and words, withheld,

ne’er seeing the light of day,

locked in some dusty drawer

to rot away.

 

A line, a verse, a book

or even worse;

an entire life’s work.

Oh t’is a bitter curse,

 

to see them on a page

without a voice,

the writer being struck dumb

without a choice.

 

Standing, shaking,

sweating in a coat;

in readiness to flee

and slit his throat.

 

 A writer, yes, until

the cows come home,

but an orator not,

of any given poem.

 

The spoken word

for actors on a stage,

and other great performers

who may rage,

 

who say their lines with

feelings left to treasure,

and hold an audience

awestruck, with  pleasure,

 

who raise the roof

like Hamlet in a rant;

each word spat out

so touching and tri-umph-ant.

 

The writer wanting only

that his lines,

send shivers down the

congregational spines.

 

So happy just to hear

work come of age,

as singers flick the music

page by page.

 

No lyricist ever sung

his moving hymn,

whilst sitting hidden,

inside some pseudonym.

 

A script, enough, when

written on a whim,

performed with gusto,

giving joy to him.

 

A writer with no tongue

inside his head,

can ever hope to earn

a crust of bread.

 

But no voice, however

real and out of tune,

is due to be released

to this world soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

August 2, 2013

 

 

Is not reality

but a sobering thought

when far too late in life

partners become dear

When the memory holds fast

the past – crystal clear,

whilst today, from the mind,

disappears.

 

Why is happiness

so short lived

when it takes a lifetime to bind?

Why does a young head

on old shoulders still sit

when vital tools are now

so hard to find?

 

 

 

 

 

Pushing the parameters

Meeting crazy deadlines

Dealing with incompetents

causing deep frown lines.

 

Loading up the data

with back-up, just in case

Working long into the night

to see dawns enlightened face.

 

Like a hamster on a treadmill

Never putting on the brakes

Hell bent on succeeding

at whatever price it takes.

 

 

 

 

 

Searched for

Yearned for

That tempting ghost

 

Nagged for

Begged for

That ultimate most

 

Worked for

Fought for

That freedom coast

 

Prayed for

Paid for

That finishing post.

 

 

 

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