The wheel is spinning
Like crazy
Someone set the hamster
Free
Houdini slipped the silken bonds
And ran off
Into a tequila sunset
Can’t shake the dark foreboding
Of the coming Armageddon
Do I fight the coming of the night
Or lay down and rest my head
Upon my hands
And wait
Each grain of sand that drops
A minute less of life
A heartbeat closer
The quicksilver slash
Of a scythe
Too close for comfort
Splitting hairs again
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Trap
The restless anarchist
In me
Resists the subtle slide
Of the everyday
Challenges the status quo
And seeks for something
Else
Entirely
A jailbreak from nine to five
Monotony
Imprisoned by the fear
Of the unknown
Repulsed and tempted
By the silken threads of
Nebulous security
Like the hunter
Chewing off his foot
To escape the clutches
Of the iron trap
To set himself
Free
In me
Resists the subtle slide
Of the everyday
Challenges the status quo
And seeks for something
Else
Entirely
A jailbreak from nine to five
Monotony
Imprisoned by the fear
Of the unknown
Repulsed and tempted
By the silken threads of
Nebulous security
Like the hunter
Chewing off his foot
To escape the clutches
Of the iron trap
To set himself
Free
Trap
The restless anarchist
In me
Resists the subtle slide
Of the everyday
Challenges the status quo
And seeks for something
Else
Entirely
A jailbreak from nine to five
Monotony
Imprisoned by the fear
Of the unknown
Repulsed and tempted
By the silken threads of
Nebulous security
Like the hunter
Chewing off his foot
To escape the clutches
Of the iron trap
He set himself
In me
Resists the subtle slide
Of the everyday
Challenges the status quo
And seeks for something
Else
Entirely
A jailbreak from nine to five
Monotony
Imprisoned by the fear
Of the unknown
Repulsed and tempted
By the silken threads of
Nebulous security
Like the hunter
Chewing off his foot
To escape the clutches
Of the iron trap
He set himself
Naval
I’ve contemplated
My naval
To its very depths
And wondered as to the
Evolution
Of that small piece of fluff
That lodges in the belly button
I’ve yet to find the meaning
Of life
Hidden in the folds
Of my abdomen
Yet, I can see the fascination
It holds
For generations of philosophers
The hypnotic contemplation
The Buddha belly
My naval
To its very depths
And wondered as to the
Evolution
Of that small piece of fluff
That lodges in the belly button
I’ve yet to find the meaning
Of life
Hidden in the folds
Of my abdomen
Yet, I can see the fascination
It holds
For generations of philosophers
The hypnotic contemplation
The Buddha belly
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Woes
The roof leaks
And the storm rages
Above my bed
I wake with raindrops
On my eyelashes
The fridge bellows
Or whimpers
Its death throes
No longer cold
It waits for death
No more friendly scent
Of fresh coffee
In the morning
The quiet looms
In the hour before sunrise
The car shudders
At the thought
Of another mile to go
And promises yet
To keep
And the storm rages
Above my bed
I wake with raindrops
On my eyelashes
The fridge bellows
Or whimpers
Its death throes
No longer cold
It waits for death
No more friendly scent
Of fresh coffee
In the morning
The quiet looms
In the hour before sunrise
The car shudders
At the thought
Of another mile to go
And promises yet
To keep
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Shafton Grange
Time out of time we spent
A sanctuary heaven sent
In a valley of mists
A white steed in silhouette
Glimpse of an equine vignette
Framed by my window
Seductive scents weave
Their webs entangle me
Tastes to feed the soul
Laughter from the treetops
Rainbows in the water drops
That flew from golden hair
The rush of the city calls
No more hidden waterfalls
But I know they’re there
A sanctuary heaven sent
In a valley of mists
A white steed in silhouette
Glimpse of an equine vignette
Framed by my window
Seductive scents weave
Their webs entangle me
Tastes to feed the soul
Laughter from the treetops
Rainbows in the water drops
That flew from golden hair
The rush of the city calls
No more hidden waterfalls
But I know they’re there
January
A tenuous grasp on the fast fading sensation of holiday memories
Resolutions fading like last weeks overblown lilies
Sinking fast into the muddy waters of day to day existence
Putting up only partial, half hearted resistance
Stolen snapshots of sunshine senoritas
Bitter aftertaste of too many margaritas
Holiday lights packed away for yet another year
To gather dust on the bottom shelf, a sad recollection of Christmas cheer
Already the colours of that final sunset show
Are fading like a photograph taken far too long ago
But I’ll keep that picture of the sunshine in your hair
And blue eyes laughing, your face so fair
Don’t grow up too quickly, don’t leave me behind
With just the traces of a melody running through my mind
Resolutions fading like last weeks overblown lilies
Sinking fast into the muddy waters of day to day existence
Putting up only partial, half hearted resistance
Stolen snapshots of sunshine senoritas
Bitter aftertaste of too many margaritas
Holiday lights packed away for yet another year
To gather dust on the bottom shelf, a sad recollection of Christmas cheer
Already the colours of that final sunset show
Are fading like a photograph taken far too long ago
But I’ll keep that picture of the sunshine in your hair
And blue eyes laughing, your face so fair
Don’t grow up too quickly, don’t leave me behind
With just the traces of a melody running through my mind
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
A moment
I need a moment to acclimatize
I need a second to close my eyes
Just deafen my ears to the sounds of my screams
Just remember the magic of midnight dreams
I need a song. I need a dance.
A rose, a kiss, a little romance
A full moon, a shooting star
A wish granted and a really fast car
I need the wind rushing through my hair
I need an open road to nowhere
I need the pulsing sound of heavy bass
I need a stupid smile to split my face
I need a laugh. I need some time.
A night on the town. A lover of mine.
A full moon, a shooting star
A wish granted and a really fast car
I need a second to close my eyes
Just deafen my ears to the sounds of my screams
Just remember the magic of midnight dreams
I need a song. I need a dance.
A rose, a kiss, a little romance
A full moon, a shooting star
A wish granted and a really fast car
I need the wind rushing through my hair
I need an open road to nowhere
I need the pulsing sound of heavy bass
I need a stupid smile to split my face
I need a laugh. I need some time.
A night on the town. A lover of mine.
A full moon, a shooting star
A wish granted and a really fast car
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Innocence
The gift of a child’s laughter
Clear eyes and happy ever after
Dream impossible dreams
Nothing is at it seems
See the world in Technicolor
Sing out loud lah-di-dah
Temporary grief and sorrow
Play today like there’s no tomorrow
Make a wish and make a fairy
Dance on flowers and eat magic berries
Grown ups filled with sad despair
Faithless whispers of old prayers
No pot of gold at rainbows end
Sprout platitudes and condescend
I’d rather stay a child inside
Then keep my dreams lifelong denied
Clear eyes and happy ever after
Dream impossible dreams
Nothing is at it seems
See the world in Technicolor
Sing out loud lah-di-dah
Temporary grief and sorrow
Play today like there’s no tomorrow
Make a wish and make a fairy
Dance on flowers and eat magic berries
Grown ups filled with sad despair
Faithless whispers of old prayers
No pot of gold at rainbows end
Sprout platitudes and condescend
I’d rather stay a child inside
Then keep my dreams lifelong denied
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Mummy
Mummy, I have nightmares alive inside my head
Mummy, there are monsters living beneath my bed
Mummy, you told me they weren’t really real
Mummy, did you lie to me, because I can feel
Their cold hands around my throat when I try to scream
And hear their laughter in the dark when things are not quite what they seem
Mummy, you can’t protect me with sweet sung lullabies
You can’t keep the lightning from tearing up the sky
Mummy, I know you love me, but its time to say goodbye
Mummy, will the angels come when it’s my time to die?
Mummy, there are monsters living beneath my bed
Mummy, you told me they weren’t really real
Mummy, did you lie to me, because I can feel
Their cold hands around my throat when I try to scream
And hear their laughter in the dark when things are not quite what they seem
Mummy, you can’t protect me with sweet sung lullabies
You can’t keep the lightning from tearing up the sky
Mummy, I know you love me, but its time to say goodbye
Mummy, will the angels come when it’s my time to die?
Insomnia
Sink into oblivion
Dark, dream filled obsidian
There be monsters here
Gentle ogres, tyrant kings
Dragons blowing silken soft smoke rings
What are the things you fear?
Gossamer winged nightmares
Gallop from their lairs
No white knight to save you here
Dark, dream filled obsidian
There be monsters here
Gentle ogres, tyrant kings
Dragons blowing silken soft smoke rings
What are the things you fear?
Gossamer winged nightmares
Gallop from their lairs
No white knight to save you here
Monday, December 7, 2009
IOU
It was a week of madness
Marked by medical ineptitude
And patience stretched beyond limits
A fortress of maternal solitude
Where only a mother’s love would soothe
The raging fever of the youngest son
It was a week of testing
How far would a mother go
To protect her child from harm
An army of silent strength
Gathered at her back
So she could hold a child in her arms
It was a week of fever
Where blood ran to boiling
And the flames licked the rafters
A debt of gratitude
Owed to those to stood firm
And shouldered the weight of one who lay fallen
Marked by medical ineptitude
And patience stretched beyond limits
A fortress of maternal solitude
Where only a mother’s love would soothe
The raging fever of the youngest son
It was a week of testing
How far would a mother go
To protect her child from harm
An army of silent strength
Gathered at her back
So she could hold a child in her arms
It was a week of fever
Where blood ran to boiling
And the flames licked the rafters
A debt of gratitude
Owed to those to stood firm
And shouldered the weight of one who lay fallen
Thursday, November 19, 2009
The little engine that could
The little engine that could
Well I wish that little engine would
Put on a hefty burst of speed
And huff and puff away from me
So far it’s cost me days of sleep
And mountains of promises of keep
I haven’t seen my kids in days
For which they plan to make me pay
In Barbie Dolls and Ben Ten toys
Little pink ribbons and stuff for boys
I need to sleep perchance to dream
But oh how far away that seems
Well I wish that little engine would
Put on a hefty burst of speed
And huff and puff away from me
So far it’s cost me days of sleep
And mountains of promises of keep
I haven’t seen my kids in days
For which they plan to make me pay
In Barbie Dolls and Ben Ten toys
Little pink ribbons and stuff for boys
I need to sleep perchance to dream
But oh how far away that seems
Armageddon and the Gerbil
All nighters
Time is relative
Hour long meetings that stretch for days
Weekends that flash by in seconds
And deadlines that loom with intensity
Starting slowly and building to speed
Faster than a speeding bullet
When sleep becomes superfluous
Exhaustion passes after 24 hours
Running on caffeine, nicotine and junk food
What day is it?
I can’t remember
They merge and blur into single seething mass
And when the time comes to lay my head to rest
I cannot stop the relentless mental churning
A hamster caught on a spinning wheel
Running faster and faster
When the wheel stops his legs keep on running
And running
Towards a finish line
That exists only in his dreams
Hour long meetings that stretch for days
Weekends that flash by in seconds
And deadlines that loom with intensity
Starting slowly and building to speed
Faster than a speeding bullet
When sleep becomes superfluous
Exhaustion passes after 24 hours
Running on caffeine, nicotine and junk food
What day is it?
I can’t remember
They merge and blur into single seething mass
And when the time comes to lay my head to rest
I cannot stop the relentless mental churning
A hamster caught on a spinning wheel
Running faster and faster
When the wheel stops his legs keep on running
And running
Towards a finish line
That exists only in his dreams
Friday, November 6, 2009
Silkworms
A treatise on the phenomenon of silkworms. These creepy crawlies form the longest lasting true underground currency in schools across the country. You can’t purchase silkworms at pet stores, silkworms are handed down from schoolboy to schoolboy in clandestine playground negotiations. Hence the shoebox currently in my kitchen.
As an adult I cannot understand my childhood fascination with these most tedious of pets. Nonetheless I recently found myself responsible for the well being and continued existence of twenty odd worms housed in an old shoebox. I wonder if my parents chose the houses in which we lived based on their inclusion of a mulberry tree on the premises. I think I shall add it to my house hunting wishlist.
Currently I leap from my car in the middle of rush hour traffic to madly attack Mulberry trees that border on highways, byways and in other people’s gardens. I have denuded my neighbour’s Mulberry tree, probably planted for the express reason of feeding silkworms’ voracious appetites.
Now I have become a nighttime Mulberry tree raider. Passersby watched me puzzled. Neighbourhood security guards have graduated from watching me with suspicion to outright amusement.
Now I stand and stare hopelessly at a box filled with moths and about 10 million eggs. Perhaps they have a high infant mortality rate? Otherwise silkworms look set to take over the world. Google is filled with comments from anxious parents on how to rid their homes and gardens of the silkworm invasion. I vaguely remember when I finally bored of mine, setting them free on our Mulberry tree. This is apparently NOT a good thing to do. Now you know.
As an adult I cannot understand my childhood fascination with these most tedious of pets. Nonetheless I recently found myself responsible for the well being and continued existence of twenty odd worms housed in an old shoebox. I wonder if my parents chose the houses in which we lived based on their inclusion of a mulberry tree on the premises. I think I shall add it to my house hunting wishlist.
Currently I leap from my car in the middle of rush hour traffic to madly attack Mulberry trees that border on highways, byways and in other people’s gardens. I have denuded my neighbour’s Mulberry tree, probably planted for the express reason of feeding silkworms’ voracious appetites.
Now I have become a nighttime Mulberry tree raider. Passersby watched me puzzled. Neighbourhood security guards have graduated from watching me with suspicion to outright amusement.
Now I stand and stare hopelessly at a box filled with moths and about 10 million eggs. Perhaps they have a high infant mortality rate? Otherwise silkworms look set to take over the world. Google is filled with comments from anxious parents on how to rid their homes and gardens of the silkworm invasion. I vaguely remember when I finally bored of mine, setting them free on our Mulberry tree. This is apparently NOT a good thing to do. Now you know.
Enter Sandman
Small boy aged 7 has developed a strong affinity for hard rock. In an attempt to educate him on the nuances of musical influences we cranked up the volume on Metallica Enter Sandman. “As I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep…” “Now,” said I, “This part of the song is actually a prayer.” Little did I know where that would lead.
Small boy aged 7 spent several days playing the song over and over on the iPod. This afforded me some quiet in the car and I wasn’t about to complain. And then… I got the call every parent fears, “This is the headmistress. Could you come and speak to me please?”
Teachers, especially headmistresses, have a way of asking you to do something that leaves you no option but to meekly comply. This is how I found myself facing Mrs. Popplewell and the school priest, Father Ian, across the immense expanse of her table.
“We encourage the boys to suggest prayers for us to include in the services,” said Father Ian. I must have looked a bit confused here, but Mrs. Popplewell jumped into what was becoming less of a dramatic pause and more of an uncomfortable silence. “Your son came in with a prayer yesterday.” I nodded helplessly, my stomach sinking slowly down into the depths of my body seemingly attached to a giant iron anchor more at home from the Titanic.
Apparently, small boy aged 7 requested the prayer “As I lay me down to sleep.” If he had left it there it would have been fine. However, he put on a deep voice a la Metallica and once he had finished the prayer then launched into an a capella version of Enter Sandman complete with head banging and air guitar accompaniment.
Mortified doesn’t do it justice. Neither did the mildly hysterical amusement that bubbled through my system. I readied myself to launch into empty promises of boy bands and nursery rhymes when I realized both Mrs. Popplewell and Father Ian were shaking in laughter themselves.
Things sure have changed. My headmistress was a humour amputee. There’s hope yet. Nonetheless, I think we’ll be listening to Gregorian Chants from now on.
Small boy aged 7 spent several days playing the song over and over on the iPod. This afforded me some quiet in the car and I wasn’t about to complain. And then… I got the call every parent fears, “This is the headmistress. Could you come and speak to me please?”
Teachers, especially headmistresses, have a way of asking you to do something that leaves you no option but to meekly comply. This is how I found myself facing Mrs. Popplewell and the school priest, Father Ian, across the immense expanse of her table.
“We encourage the boys to suggest prayers for us to include in the services,” said Father Ian. I must have looked a bit confused here, but Mrs. Popplewell jumped into what was becoming less of a dramatic pause and more of an uncomfortable silence. “Your son came in with a prayer yesterday.” I nodded helplessly, my stomach sinking slowly down into the depths of my body seemingly attached to a giant iron anchor more at home from the Titanic.
Apparently, small boy aged 7 requested the prayer “As I lay me down to sleep.” If he had left it there it would have been fine. However, he put on a deep voice a la Metallica and once he had finished the prayer then launched into an a capella version of Enter Sandman complete with head banging and air guitar accompaniment.
Mortified doesn’t do it justice. Neither did the mildly hysterical amusement that bubbled through my system. I readied myself to launch into empty promises of boy bands and nursery rhymes when I realized both Mrs. Popplewell and Father Ian were shaking in laughter themselves.
Things sure have changed. My headmistress was a humour amputee. There’s hope yet. Nonetheless, I think we’ll be listening to Gregorian Chants from now on.
The wrong side
Small girl aged 3 requested toast with Bovril on top for an after dinner snack. As her maternal parent, I obliged and threw in an extra piece for small boy aged 5 for good measure.
Small girl aged 3 narrowed her baby blues as she reviewed the toast laid before her. “Mummy,” stated small girl aged 3, “This is not right. I told you to put the Bovril on top of the toast.” Bemused I looked down at her golden head and explained that as she could clearly see, the Bovril was in fact on the top of the toast. “No! No! No!” small girl aged 3 cried as huge tears filled up her eyes.
This is when I looked to the paternal influence for guidance. Displaying a unique talent for understanding the rationale of small girl aged 3, he bent down and asked, “Did Mummy put Bovril on the wrong side?” The sense of relief in small girl aged 3 as palpable. “Yes!” she exclaimed as the tears rolled in great pearls down her cheeks.
I was floored. This was where I walked away to leave the father to make a new piece of toast with the Bovril on the top. In retrospect I wonder small girl aged 3 has conducted an experiment vis a vis dropping a piece of toast on the floor to see that it landed Bovril side up ergo her mother had put it on the wrong side.
Small girl aged 3 narrowed her baby blues as she reviewed the toast laid before her. “Mummy,” stated small girl aged 3, “This is not right. I told you to put the Bovril on top of the toast.” Bemused I looked down at her golden head and explained that as she could clearly see, the Bovril was in fact on the top of the toast. “No! No! No!” small girl aged 3 cried as huge tears filled up her eyes.
This is when I looked to the paternal influence for guidance. Displaying a unique talent for understanding the rationale of small girl aged 3, he bent down and asked, “Did Mummy put Bovril on the wrong side?” The sense of relief in small girl aged 3 as palpable. “Yes!” she exclaimed as the tears rolled in great pearls down her cheeks.
I was floored. This was where I walked away to leave the father to make a new piece of toast with the Bovril on the top. In retrospect I wonder small girl aged 3 has conducted an experiment vis a vis dropping a piece of toast on the floor to see that it landed Bovril side up ergo her mother had put it on the wrong side.
Monday, November 2, 2009
New Day
Sitting here just wasting time
Guess I’m doing just fine
For a first day
A new way
I miss your voices
Wonder at my choices
Miss the scent of cigarettes
Miss the friends well met
New names, new faces
New pens and parking spaces
It’s quiet in here
A breath of fresh air
No idea of where it’ll take me
All I can do is wait and see
A tingling expectation
Waiting at the station
For my train to come
Guess I’m doing just fine
For a first day
A new way
I miss your voices
Wonder at my choices
Miss the scent of cigarettes
Miss the friends well met
New names, new faces
New pens and parking spaces
It’s quiet in here
A breath of fresh air
No idea of where it’ll take me
All I can do is wait and see
A tingling expectation
Waiting at the station
For my train to come
Oink
When last time I heeded the call to try something new
I made a mistake that caused amusement to all but a few
I’m glad to say that all seems to be well
Not another descent into polyester hell
No-one died to give me a parking spot
It’s got my name on it and that’s saying a lot
I don’t wish that I were there
But I do wish that some of you were here
I think you’d like the quiet of the place
A different kind of change of pace
There’s a baby pig that walks around
A porcine mascot from lost and found
God knows how large he’ll grow to be
I guess I’ll have to stick around and see
I made a mistake that caused amusement to all but a few
I’m glad to say that all seems to be well
Not another descent into polyester hell
No-one died to give me a parking spot
It’s got my name on it and that’s saying a lot
I don’t wish that I were there
But I do wish that some of you were here
I think you’d like the quiet of the place
A different kind of change of pace
There’s a baby pig that walks around
A porcine mascot from lost and found
God knows how large he’ll grow to be
I guess I’ll have to stick around and see
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