Twelve words were picked randomly and a poem had to be created using all of them. These are the

result of several randomly chosen wordles.

Writ in Stone


The agenda was writ in stone,

embossed in letters so bold.

No tyrant on earth was blind

to what he had been told.

Clear the meaning it purveyed.

The ecology of this world

has been intimately surveyed,

and we have to warn you all

the potential for the end

is written on the wall.

The arc of light has shone

upon our destructive ways.

Now the time has gone

And we must change or die.

Attune ourselves to life

by ripping up the lie

that we can live aggressively

using up earth's resources.

The sinister truth is, potentially,

we can close our eyes

and bury our head in the sand

as the earth withers and dies.

But, now, with this agenda,

we just might stand a chance,

to become a mender.


Are you ready to offer your hand

and, in the light of day,

bring healing to the land?

Or turn and walk away.




The Tyrant


The boss was a tyrant

for sticking to the agenda.

He had the potential

to aggressively remove

any more tender

than he. Ripping

into them, blind

with anger, the arc

of his rage leaping

forth to strike

the hapless victim

of his sinister bark.

Nobody had seen

his bite but all knew

blood would flow

if he ever let go.

Oddly, in intimate

moments, he could

attune to those seated

at the table and be

very kind and good.

Unfortunately, embossed

in his ecology

was the fact that he

was boss so this was lost

on those around him

as they tried to be

invisible or shrink

to avoid losing

either life or limb.

Needless to say, this

is not a happy company.




The Toast


It is hard to divine the hour

when the ancient practice

of toasting the grave's resident

with wine took precedent

over a sober farewell

of the dead one within.

When a celebration of life,

with no intent at mockery,

but with age old wisdom,

will give the next of kin

some small taste of relief

from their loss, and know

that the pain of death

will pass away with time

for those now full of grief.




The Taste of Summer


The bees buzzed drunk on nectar

from the flowering trees.

The queen sat in splendour with

sections of her hive rich with honey

from the bottom to the top.

Months of sun and gentle rain

brought lushness to the land

steep of hill and rolling fields

clothed in ripening grain.


The taste of Summer in the air

made the company of souls,

strolling along without a care,

remark that the whole world

could see they had chosen

the perfect spot to wander in.

‘It bears the mark of Eden ,'

said one as the bees buzzed drunk

on the nectar from the flowering trees.




The Swarm


The buzz of the swarm

resounded above the chant

of the shaman as it whirled

and swirled seeking a

temporary abode. A child,

wild eyed with fear, clung

to its mother's skirt while

she, alert to the danger,

enclosed it in her folds

and, standing amongst the

debris of their homes,

sought an answer to their plea

‘Why should this happen here?'

The dead lay their backbone

broken, half eaten, their bodies

scattered in total disarray.

The shaman, blank eyed,

embellished his tale of woe

revealing evidence in ghastly

wails and wept by the dock

where once their village stood

with peace and plenty endowed.

All gone now he cried as the

swarm circled above like

a dark halo seeking a place to hide.




The Supplicator.


The supplicator was a replicator

with a speaker phone for a voice.

It didn't have choice. Its creator

lost the contest and parts cannot be found.

Sheltered in a room, it sat waiting,

its meter ticking, listening to the sea

in the distance produce a lapping sound.

Whimsically, it pondered a fitting

end to its creator's dilemma.

All options strongly considered

came to nought despite its willingness

to try. The ceremonial cup and

monetry award went to another.

Now, it's too much bother for his creator

to get out of bed. The replicator,

no longer of use to anyone at all,

reached a logical conclusion,

it switched off and, in the darkness,

it pretends that it is dead.




The Shoot


A small cough was the guideline

to begin the shoot.

No pornography was specified

though the point was moot

as it was abstract photography

with no flesh in sight,

a fusion of the real with fantasy

shot in the middle of the night.


A plane silhouetted by the moon

was the backdrop.

A clip to hold odds and ends

was the only permissible prop.

In hindsight, the lack of light

and no card to point the way

caused nothing to go right

and all the participants to go astray.


They were the twin reasons

for their defensive position.

The clouds were nobody's fault

but drove all into a dire situation.

Plunged into pitch black,

the participants wandering around,

failed to take a single shot

while the organizers went to ground.




The Abomination


The chalice is not gold or silver

but plastic when he raises it up on high,

a confirmation that this ritual will not die.

No holy palace the dust laden room

where sits a shabby collection

of people clearly close to dereliction.

Skeletal kids fidget and fiddle

on bony laps when parents chant a litany

and some go down on bended knee.

Superstitious tripe many would call it

that only an exclusive few won't let go

finding still a comfort here below.

Once seen as a gift but now a curse

a domain that circled much of the earth

then fell from grace to lose its worth.

A house of card, a paper tiger now,

its foundations gone, its teeth pared down

great was its fall when it lost its crown.

Too much bloodshed, too much pain

as religions clashed in a war for domination

none won but created only an abomination.

A ravaged earth, once glorious to behold

lies in ruins. Gaia writhes in agony and pain

beneath a tempest of radioactive rain.

And life so abundant and fecund

withers and dies so one god could be supreme.

Where were these gods when they heard Gaia's scream?




The Rag doll


Drooping over the railings

hung the muddy rag doll.

Bitter tears were shed

as one wee girl

sat on the staircase

weeping at her loss


Reaching to pluck

the purple dress from

the glossy box wherein

her doll had lain,

the wee girl sighed

with grief as she went

to extract the hook

that held the gourd,

ready for Halloween.


In a quiet lane,

another wee girl

ran with glee to see

the muddy rag doll

hung across the railings.

Gently taking it off,

she pressed it to her heart

and, in the evening light,

planted a kiss upon

its head, and carried

it, with tender care, home.




The Proposal


The proposal floated shimmering in the air,

guaranteed to provoke drama and intrigue

when the listeners drank in the words

that suggested peace and harmony

between the warring sides.

Ancient tales of betrayal and death

clothed the mirror of their lives

in a shroud of lies and mischief,

preventing contact with people

alien and strange, where no bridge

could be built and tranquil parks

created wherein all could wander

and heal the wounds of then and now.

A mere trinket would not suffice

to end the conflict, the origins of which

lay hidden by the mists of time

until no one alive today could recall

why they were fighting at all.

The league of nations, weary

of the bloodshed and the strife,

sought a solution that would treat

both sides with equanimity.

End the war between the two

or every resource and amenity

of this earth would be denied them.

The two sides howled in protest

at this proposal, but seeing minds

were set and unity reigned over all,

they laid down their weapons

and signed a treaty to end their war

and a peace park was built in memory

of the dead traversing the border,

a permanent gentle reminder

to never again close the door

of their minds and hearts

by killing generations in another war.





The Political Arena


A smile hiding guile and subterfuge

beams out through paranoid eyes.

So much to hide, so many lies.

When will these questions stop?

They won't, the questioner replies,

we always destroy the ones on top.


Those who think that they can lead

have problems with their egos.

The public who believe their lies

pay highly for being so unwise.

For those who see what's hidden,

the price they pay is their demise.


The problem with all politicians

is that they cause a real dilemma.

If the people as a whole could recall

that every one is responsible for all,

then the need for them would cease,

and no one would be forced to fall.


A new way of living is almost dawning

as people rebel against a taste of hell.

The death of the world is conformity,

constant surveillance brings security,

but, at what a cost to the individual,

nothing less than the loss of liberty.


Nations give their leaders power

beyond their capacity to handle.

What's needed now is renewal,

a rebirth of hope to act as fuel

to a smouldering ember of desire

for a better method of survival.


Only time will tell whether the will

exists to bring about this dream.

Torn asunder by the winds of war,

People shudder at what's in store.

It's time, they know, for healing,

to feed, clothe and house the poor.


It's the only way to close the door

on want, on hunger, and despair.

It's been made politically incorrect

to have pity on economies wrecked

by market forces bent on profit.

Only fools leave that unchecked.


In the polical arena all the parties

falter in the face of constant changes.

They perform their rhetoric on stage

to a world grown weary with age.

A warning, though, all of them know

That what's on offer is just another cage.


The answer lies somewhere in between,

in responsible democracy, not anarchy.

The former's never had a chance to bloom,

the latter's far too dangerous to give it room.

If the answer can't be found, and soon,

it won't matter, the world will be a tomb.




The Party


The child swirled her skirt

and, smiling with joy, twirled

to the chant as it rose and fell.

A swarm of gnats buzzed amid

the debris of half eaten food

of the revellers on the dock.


Bright sun light embellished

the worn out timbers giving

them a temporary sheen

wiping away the evidence

of age and disrepair for a brief

moment in the sultry air.


Laughter mingled with music

while, with backbone straight,

the dancers, hands on hips,

rapped out their rhythm

on the wood of the dock

with their clogged feet.


Tomorrow they would answer

the call to work for a living

but, today was party time

when cares were laid aside

and the spirits were lifted

of the revellers on the dock.




The Parrots


The parrots had a tendency

to swear a lot she said

as she wound the watch

which had come to a stop

in the middle of the concert.


My world is in ruins, she cried.

The parrots drive me mad.

They should have died being

very old, with very few feathers,

they just curse on their perch.


I opened their cage to let them go

but a friend reported them missing.

They were found on a strip of land

cussing, swearing and hissing

at everyone who passed them by.


Years ago, I tried to trade them in

for a budgerigar or two, but Mother

said no, she wanted her parrots

to grow old and die with her.

She died, and I'm stuck with them forever!




The Meteor


The baton of knowledge was raised,

the tempo of her pulse appraised

when she opened the box

after releasing the locks.

Surprised to the core by the content,

she suspended her judgment.


The sight had an effect

upon her when the object

came to light, enough to shift

her perspective, and cause a rift

in her sense of propriety,

and undo her normal sobriety,

when faced with a section

cut from the meteor's dissection

that shook the delicate balance,

and make it seem like a dalliance,

to have thought that nothing new

would be able to shake or undo

her previous long held conviction

that life would die under friction

as fragments hurtled through space

but now it was staring her in the face,

a microbe less than a millimetre long,

proving her theory completely wrong.


The baton of knowledge was discarded,

the tempo of her pulse disregarded

as all that she had previously thought

and, for many years, taught

flew out of the window that day,

time to think in a radically new way.




The Meeting


The local council sat around the table.

Mrs. Burgess-Brown was speaking,

while all the members listened,

tight-lipped and quite unable

to stop her flow as her face assumed

a deep and ominous frown. Nobody dared

to interrupt while she was gearing up

with parochial indignation to bare

a fact that she had uncovered while

going about her business in the town.


Staring hard at one and all, she declared

‘Crookedness is afoot in our midst.'

A gasp went round the table and heads

shook in disbelief. ‘We need a combatant

to be chosen who is intelligent and able.'

She said. Not a dissentient was heard.

‘We'll be non-active.' Said a small man

with a frizzy beard. ‘Of course,'

said Mrs. Burgess-Brown. ‘We're not

equipped to bring a criminal down.'


‘Exactly what is this crookedness afoot?'

asked another council member with a scowl.

‘Why, somebody has walked off with

the statue of our Mayor, which is really foul.'

A gasp went round the table and heads

shook in disbelief. The Mayor gave a sigh.

‘Mrs. Burgess-Brown, you missed

our meeting of last week. There, it was

decided that I should have a clean

as there was bird poop on my gown.'


Mrs. Burgess-Brown flushed a furious red.

‘Somebody should have told me.'

She said. ‘I feel such a fool.' ‘Not to worry.'

The Mayor replied. ‘Now, is there any

other business?' He asked looking around.

Every head shook with relief. ‘Well,

I suggest we close the meeting, and

take ourselves and Mrs. Burgess-Brown,

who looks as if she could really do with

a pint, to the local Horse and Crown.'




The Maestro


The maestro lifted his baton,

then lowered it, surprised

by the shift of mood

and the effect his action

had upon the audience.

The ripple of laughter

was without precedence.


The orchestra's perspective

was equally perplexing

when he turned around again.

The sight of them grinning

did nothing to improve

the delicate situation

or decide his next move.


A quiet whisper in his ear

that a section of his behind

was exposed through a tear

made all become clear.

His trousers had split

when he raised his baton,

time to beat a hasty exit.


Returning to the podium

now suitably attired

to a roar of acclaim,

he smiled around and bowed,

raised his baton with care

and, content that all was fine,

conducted the concert with flair.




The Ivory Tower


Her Majesty waved to the gallery ,

surrounded by her entourage

made up of all her cronies.

The State occasion was to be

for all who had forgotten

that the pyramids of power

were still firmly embedded,

and no unrest, sedition or crime

would drive her from her ivory tower.

Seeing nothing wrong

with clinging to the past,

she refused to listen to,

or, in any way, partake

of any suggestion that cast

her royal being down

that put her in a lesser role,

and, with scant disregard

for life or liberty, she chose

to discard the pact as a whole.

Taking back her powers,

she commanded her army

to arrest any who would resist

the new regime she had created.

The generals, seeing, she was barmy,

locked her in her ivory tower.

Now, she sits relegated

to a far lesser role,

knitting doilies for the table,

and relaying the fable that she is delegated

queen of all, and oblivious to the toll

on her cronies who sigh and moan

that, in a moment of sheer madness,

which could not be undone,

she went and lost her throne.




The Ice Rink


With tuck and pleat so neat,

their clothes flattering their curves

wrapped around them

like garlands gracing

dance floors in the Spring.

Fewer than the stars above

but shining just as bright.

Stock still they stand

in the air thick with snow

to gaze at the sheet

of ice poised ready

for the blades upon their feet.

Shared dreams float

as music fills their world.

Icons of perfection pause,

then like linked cells

take flight across the rink.




The Foe


The blind pretend to see,

their agenda set in stone.

Aggressively pursuing

their vision of life,

ripping apart those

who dare disagree.


Embossed in hearts

cold with certainty

that they are intimate

with what is right,

and turn sinister

eyes towards those

not playing their parts.


Tyrants attune their words

to formulaic platitudes.

Their social ecology

contains the potential

to destroy lives,

flowing out in an arc

Of double edged swords.


Beware those who see.

Who hold a blade

in hand and truth

emblazoned in fire

and rhetoric entombed.

They will never rest

Nor let anyone just be.


Fear them who know

where they are headed

when life is over.

Who condemn to hell

those not in tune

with their satanic vision.

Flee, for they truly are the foe.




The Cost of Love


To set Love free

demands true responsibility

in all individuals.

To write life's rule anew,

needs another view

of learning to forgive

and how to give.


It's not an easy task

to peel away the mask

in all individuals.

To bring to light the dark

which leaves its mark

in all souls that stumble

as hopes crumble.


There are wounds within

caused by other's sin

in all individuals.

Their scars remain unhealed

Until, in a moment of self-hate,

They show their hidden state.


To let love in to heal

needs a faith that's real

in all individuals.

The way is not always clear

And the cost dear,

but, ultimately, the price is low

when all the pain begins to go.


Nothing happens overnight,

hate will put up a fight

in all individuals.

But, love, if given a chance

will take a stance

and drive away each demon

to restore sanity and reason.




The Contest


The speaker announced the contest

with ceremonial splendour.

The supplicator, who came out best,

could be of either gender.

Those with sheltered lives

proclaimed that wasn't fitting.

and brandished some very scary knives.

The supplicator, who was sitting,

rose to strongly urge a rethink.

With the meter ticking, a delay

would bring them to the brink.

But, he pointed out a way

of diverting this silliness

by stating whimsically,

they should show a willingness

to concede that, intrinsically,

as the produce of a man

could be either male or female,

he didn't think the sea would ban

the telling of the tribe's heroic tale

in a high voice or a low.

It took a moment to register

That this might well be true, so

indeed a brother or a sister

could be the supplicator.


And the speaker announced the agenda,

when the knives were put away,

the contest open for either gender,

and so it remains thus to this very day.




The Choir


The minister, proud as a peacock,

with trimmed beard, and hair

gelled into a curled lock,

set the hearts beating

of the intermediate choir

now occupying some seating,

their nerves taut as wire.


The concert was packing

in the people. With every single

seat sold, it was nerve racking

for the choir as they rose to mingle

while they were waiting

for the call to take the stage,

but, with the noise inflating,

they went and missed the page.


Shaken to the marrow, the minister

set off to seek them out.

He found them by a banister

lounging casually about.

‘You've missed the call,

he said, ‘everybody is seated.'

A gasp of shock came from all,

but they were not defeated.


It was a race to reach their places

before the curtain rose, but,

with dresses hitched, and faces

grim, they burst a gut

to take the stage and stand serene

before their minister as he raised

the baton they had so often seen

and began to sing ‘O, Lord, be praised.'




The Chalice


The gold chalice of the palace

was a gift from a Royal guest

whose domain was vast

and whose collection was exclusive,

a treasure that needed confirmation

because doubt had been cast

on whether most of it was real,

with many pieces merely plastic

and the guest was on the fiddle.

That was a load of tripe,

his viziers proclaimed.

They had papers to prove

it was no diddle.

All the contents had a card

proving authenticity.

It was just a pity

that, over time, the ink

had faded making the reading

of them extremely hard.

The Royal guest went away

in a huff, his honour insulted.

The chalice meanwhile

sat in the Treasury year upon year

gathering dust, but never ever

needed a polish to this day I hear.




The Chain.


What drove him to gin

was the sight of the twin

cavorting about in the plane

wearing only a finely wrought chain.


It wasn't pornography

but artistic photography

he told himself as he lay

masturbating happily all day.


As a guideline, he had tried

to do it one or twice for the ride,

but, in hindsight, that statistic

was lost when his lust went ballistic.


When his card bill came through

he most definitely knew

he must clip his desire

but the twin just set him on fire.


The fusion of passion with lust

At the sight of her gargantuan bust

Was no abstract condition

He had moved beyond normal convention.


The final end of his game

was when the bailiffs came.

Now he dreams of the twin

as he wanders the streets wearing only a grin.




The Call Centre


Oh what a brave new world we live in.

We're now in the age of computerisation.

Our programs are working, our faxes are on,

our phone lines open and we're ready to run,

but where, of where, have our orders gone?


It should be so easy but, sadly, it's not.

The whole damned scheme has gone to pot.

Errors and bugs keep invading the system,

and, try as we might, they will not stop

and, as for the orders, we keep losing them!


We say to the client, ‘we're so very sorry

for the delay, but we're trying our best to see

where your order went, but not for a while

because, at the moment, our screens are down

so we won't be able to access your personal file.'


‘I know we told you that your order would be

delivered today, but, if you can bear with me,

I'll try and explain that it's certainly on its way,

I put it through to the stock room after your call,

so I can't understand how it's gone astray.'


‘I've just got through to the manager on the floor

and, I'm sorry to tell you, I know it's a bore,

but we're out of stock. There was plenty about

but, unfortunately, my screen only shows what

we sell, I didn't know we were all sold out.'


‘Sir, Sir, you sound strange. Are you all right?

I know you're angry, but you gave me a fright.

The gurgles and gasps drowned what you said.

Do you want to re-order or leave it for now?

Sir, I can't hear. Oh, damn, the phone's gone dead.




The Bridge


The bridge shimmering in the light

witnessed the proposal as the lover

knelt before his beloved.

As a mirror reflects so did she his

love when her reply carried

on the breeze murmured assent.

His joy guaranteed to colour

the world around in rainbow hues

brought music to the parks.

No trinket was his ring of gold

and diamonds clustered three

that he placed upon her finger.

A league above the rest was she

when first he set eyes upon her,

a treat to behold.

Seeking contact with tasteful tact,

he went not for drama bold,

but gentle wooing.

No tales of scandal marred

their courtship for a year today

and now their bond was sealed.

Together, they stood in sweet

contemplation of what would be

when they were joined as one.

They kissed but once before

proceeding on their way,

and the bridge sighed softly.




Star dust.


If astronomy was set into the constitution

as a subject worthy of recognition

providing information for the masses

that we're made of star dust and gases,

the axiom of which can be seen at night

as a wondrous and awesome sight

twinkling merrily in the firmament

instead of, as now, said in a brief comment

to a mate lying on your back after a drunken bash

or gazing upwards smoking some hash,

or when in a jam with no way out,

you suddenly twig what life is all about.




Star Dust 2


The axiom was self evident,

no need for comment.

The constitution declared

that astronomy bared

the facts and set

them down in recognition

that we came to fruition

when star dust and gases

turned into the masses

whose only desire

is to make lots of cash

have bash after bash,

each providing a date,

with whom they can mate

and, after a brief fling

produce a cheap ring

or escape from the jam

by not giving a damn

and, with no responsibility,

and total insensibility,

multiply across the earth,

disregarding its worth

until it can no longer sustain

life's urge to reproduce again

and again, and again.

The axiom was self-evident,

but the reality of the firmament,

cannot be replicated here,

the cost is simply too dear.






Spell H O M E

and it is what I see

when I open the door.

A space for me,

and for my family.

A place to call my own,

where love is born

and hopes are sown.

Whether brick or wood,

they're both as good.

Protection from all ills,

in time of perils,

a safe abode.

A place where young

and old can close the door

and let the walls

embrace their dreams.

And, sometimes, ease

their screams when life

is filled with pain or strife.

But, in the end,

it is not bricks or mortar

that make a home.

It is the hearts of those

within that answer the call

to be there when one

has need of love sublime,

and, in their giving, make

a home for all.




Through rose tinted Specs


Strutting along in her peacock feathers,

the minister's eyes were popping.

It wasn't her attire that caught his attention

but her perfect boobs and tight behind

which made him fit to burst

as he beheld the awesome sight

of Sexy Susie Lindy hopping.


Packing his dreams inside his brain,

he had but a single aim.

Right down to his marrow, he knew

he would get her into bed.

Until that time, his intermediate plan

was put on hold while he sought

a way to the heart of this dame.


Thrown by her beauty and allure,

he watched as she trimmed

the feathers to reveal even more.

In concert with his burning desire,

he saw her through rose tinted specs,

and missed something vital

when the lights were dimmed.


The minister, his obsession complete,

would seek her out every night.

With lavish gifts and roses by the score,

he sought to gain her interest,

but she returned them all

until one day, a message was left,

‘I am a he not a she, all right!'


On reading it, he fainted clean away,

and people swear, from that day,

stage right front row, some saw

a man seated there with pale face

and sunken eyes, but it can't be so

because Sexy Susie left the show

long ago and now all is gone to dust,

but still, a waft of rose drifts over the decay.




Rubbish Life.


Crept upstairs barefoot,

feeling trapped

hands blue with cold.

Forever trying to still

the tempest within.

A rubbish life born

in pain calling to

be free, a fruitless wish,

it will never be.




Romance and the Moon.


Romance and the moon

entwined, moved by its

aura, lovers are pulled

by its mystic light.

On a special night

meteors from the stars

rain down from above

to hit the atmosphere,

so bright they seem near

but still far away,

detectable by our radar,

assuring us we're safer

in our beds than we thought

and, curled in our shell,

dream of many things

as we escape on wings

of fantasy, riding the wind

in balloons of desire, pierced

as the night turns into dawn,

and sunlight chases away

the moon and meteors

with the birth of a new morn.




The Pharoah's curse.

Amid the gleaming pyramids
enthroned in majesty, the pharaoh
rose to partake in the affairs of state.
Blissfully unaware, his cronies
fermented unrest and sedition,
turning his people's love to hate.

His advisors and wise men
with his generals and priests,
aware of the crime behind his back,
played to the gallery, forgotten
their vows to protect their lord
as the wolves gathered in a pack.

Grave the wrong perpetrated
against their god and king.
Prepared to drive him away,
to discard him without regard.
They bayed for his blood
as the price he had to pay.

Too late, the God king saw
his fate was sealed in stone
when he drank of the wine
poured by the High Priest of Ra.
The poison was no respecter
of his ancient blood line.

With his last breath, he swore
that his curse would endure
through the aeons of time,
until those who killed him
had paid ten fold and more
for their most heinous crime.

From that day forth, not one
had offspring that survived,
who had connived against him.
The Pharoah, buried without pomp,
his great sin, he believed in one god,
anathema to his people, a wonder to him.




Pass the Baton


Pass the baton was the order of the day.

The delicate balance between right and wrong

was in disarray.

Nobody knew anymore when the shift

occurred or when the tempo increased

to send morality adrift.

With the perspective skewed, the content

of mind and heart was out of kilter

and what was error now became intent.

The effect caused some surprise

in the section clinging to what they knew

was good but now could barely surmise.

If there was any hope to improve,

the sight of human barbarity

ensured that no such wish was on the move.

When responsibility for one another

ceases to have a meaning,

so goes the idea of all being sister and brother.

The concept of the family of humankind

dies before our eyes,

and drives wisdom and love from our blinded mind.

With our judgment clouded

we will blunder from war to war

until the whole earth is shrouded.

Then will darkness swallows us all

as nation battles against nation

and great will be humankind's fall.


Raise up the holy grail of peace

for the sake of all here and to come

and, finally, across the earth, let war cease.




The Rock.


First the meteors came in the night,

streaks of light pierced the darkness

as people lay curled in their beds,

oblivious to the danger, they

slept wrapped in their dreams.


Then a wind rose across the earth

giving birth to a tempest wild

and the people stirred saying

they were safer in their homes

when the radar detected the rock.


Pulled by the moon, it came

with unerring aim, it traversed

the stars curved like a shell

its trajectory certain it fell

from the skies in sheaves of flame.


Its descent, in a paroxysm of pain,

brought fiery rain when it hit

smashing its way through the earth

bringing in its train a wail not heard

since the last extinction came.




Lost Love


Come join the dance, said he.

A flattering look in his eye

brought an unwanted flush

to her cheeks to give the lie

that she had no interest

in the invite offered so casually.


As icons go, he was a dream.

Cells of girls shared their fantasies

Gearing their clothes to reveal

Their goods as guarantees

That he would notice one

And make their joy supreme.


Each conquest he would tuck away.

Written on a sheet of scented paper

to remind him of the pleasure felt

with each and every caper.

But one eluded him and she

refused consistently to play.


Now, she stood before him

with a blush upon her cheek.

He, with hands firm gripped

so as not to appear too weak,

for he trembled with fear

she would reject him on a whim.


His invite ringing in her ears

made the air feel thick

with expectation and desire.

A bead of perspiration slick

trickled down his forehead

and drove away her fears.


She turned her head and sighed.

Fewer conquests had you had

I might have been glad to go,

but, she said, you must be mad

if you think you'll woo me now.

I won't ever be your bride.


Bright garlands hung overhead

ready for the dance,

but he heard only her rejection

and with it, his last chance

to say she was his dream,

as he heard what she said.


No one saw him leave in the night

though rumours went around

that his heart had been broken

by a girl they never found.

But his lovers wept bitter tears,

for one, now gone, who burned so bright.




Justice in the balance


The delicate balance between justice

and injustice set the tempo

for a judgement to be seen

as fair and not, as has been,

slanted in its perspective

tipping unfairly the scales

towards those with wealth

while the poor only by stealth

could receive such as they.

This trial added to the confusion

with one section of society

making the perpetrator a priority,

the rest were for the victim.

In effect, the sight of both

participants surprised one and all,

‘A' had been baton thin and tall

while ‘B' was very fat and short.

The main content of the charge

was that ‘B' hit ‘A' on the head

and killed him stone dead.

‘B's' defence that his stature

was such that he could not reach

‘A's' head even with a weapon

and had an airtight alibi to rely upon.

The judge advised the jury

to consider what they had heard

and then return with their decision.

Three hours passed with their position

somewhat confused by the alibi.

‘B' seemed to prove he was elsewhere

at the time, but he had sworn

to kill ‘A' which had them torn.

In the end, they were forced

to bring in a verdict of ‘Not Guilty'

and ‘B' grinning with glee,

shook his lawyer's hand to walk free.

‘A's' kin shook their heads

in disbelief and some wept

for ‘A' had died and the crime

had taken his life while in his prime.

Now, it remained unsolved

so justice had not been done.

‘B', three days later, was found

stone dead on some waste ground.

Rough justice had been carried out

when the kin pursued the witness

proving ‘B's' alibi was a lie,

after that, the perpetrator had to die.


The moral of this sorry tale

is not to believe everything you hear

or Justice could be led astray

and the guilty walk away.




High Class Art


The plane landed on time.

The photographer was there,

somewhat defensive she thought,

but, perhaps, she had just caught

him at a bad moment.


In hindsight, she should have known

something wasn't quite right.

He had described his art

as a fusion between part

abstract and real life.


He had a cough it seemed,

because each time she posed

it appeared. As a guideline,

he held up a card which was fine,

until she saw the sign.


Pornography Inc. it said.

He asked if she had a twin.

She said she was an only child.

‘Shame,' he said ‘I'd styled

this shoot for two.'


Angry now, she'd clip his wings.

Calling a taxi which drove

her to the airport at high speed.

She had been duped indeed!

This was not high class Art!




Death of the State


Many said it was a crime

to discard the State

without a better option,

simply because of unrest,

sedition and corruption.

The political cronies disagreed

as they played to the gallery.

With its majesty long gone,

they said it was wrong

to partake of a system

no longer serving the land.

Better it be forgotten,

and left, like the pyramids,

to sink into the sand.


Now anarchy reigns supreme,

the worst of all options.

The old system of the State

seems like a dream

with its unrest,

sedition and corruption

that worked, up to a point,

until the leaders forgot

the State must never be extreme.

It's there to serve the people,

anarchy does not.

It, as it spreads across the land,

will bring chaos to the world,

until, like the pyramids

it, too, will sink into the sand.




Neptune 's mercy


The speaker sought a fitting meter

for the ceremonial ritual.

A supplicator for the people,

the winner of the contest

to plead with the gods on high

that they be kept sheltered

from all harm and allowed

to live upon the shores

of Neptune 's mighty realm.



Strongly his voice rang out.

Whimsically, he bowed and sang

before the god in his domain.

Praising his willingness to heed

his pleas. Thanking him

for his bounteous gifts

and produce from the sea.

Then rose and cried out

in a clarion call, ‘All hail,

Lord of the waters of the earth,

you, who gave us birth,

all hail.' And the people cried,

‘All hail, great Lord, all hail.'



And great Neptune stayed his hand.

Stilling the wave that rolled

from a distant shore carrying death

for all in its way. ‘Not today',

He sighed, ‘not today.

And the sea murmured in

watchful adoration as the god

sank beneath the waters

to return to his watery throne.




Come into the Light


Have you got a domain name?

You will need confirmation

of your account and password.

Bit of a fiddle, but for an exclusive

site that does away with card and paper,

and where you can play at being lord

of all with your palace and your chalice

filled to overflowing, what more

could you want in a world where

the internet is king, and to get your share

of the treasures therein, all you need

is a domain name and, from there,

you can sell, buy, weep, laugh and fight

within the limits of the allotted megabyte.

We just need your card number, sir or madam,

to open up your whole world to the light.




Caught red handed.


In hindsight, he was too defensive

when she found pornography

on his machine. It's photography

he claimed. Abstract images

of women in a fusion of delight

which makes it perfectly all right.

The clip round the ear

should have been a guideline

and if not, a very clear sign

that she was showing him

the red card, throwing him out

of that there was no doubt.

When angry she would cough,

a tickling irritating sound

when she didn't want him around.

Twin signs that he was out of season,

but between the plane of reason

and insanity, he lost the plot

and, believing he was for the chop,

fell weeping on the floor

begging her for mercy

It wasn't him but Percy

who drove him to such ends.

She coughed and pulled the plug

on his machine, being no mug,

and wiped his hard drive clean.

Then ordered him to make a cup of tea

to stop her cough, while she had a pee.






The population was in a panic,

bread had become very limited.

At the first window of opportunity

queues formed to buy a loaf,

or bun, or baguette.

It wasn't very glorious to see

national pride cast aside

as the people jostled and shoved

to get their foot in the door

of every baker in town

who hadn't closed down.


A lad stood on each corner

who was very good at whistling.

Whenever there was a chance

to get some bread, he'd whistle

loud and clear, and everybody

would come running. They would

throw decorum to the wind and

disregarding falls, they ran

with wild abandon and hope

that it would be agreeably different

when they had reached the shop.


For a month the bread was short

and the population cried,

‘our politicians have let us down

in every city and every town,

we demand to know why our bread

has gone'. The politicians sighed,

‘it's not us but the farmers', they said.

And the farmers said, ‘it's not us,

it's the weather'. The weather

gave a frown, ‘it's not me it's God'.


And God said, ‘it's not me, it's…it's…

Oh, bugger…'




The Gamblers


The urge to increase wealth

brought humans crowding

into cities in search of a salary

through honest toil or stealth.

Armed with computer hardware

running every kind of software

cash flowed in and out.

Though, when reality was laid bare,

that criminality was not rare

but very common, it took

the people some convincing

that the government did care,

and was doing its best,

to paraphrase a sound bite,

‘To find a way forward'

into which it would invest

every fibre if its being.

The misuse of public money

broke the rhythm of worldly life

now everything is teetering.

Countries reel beneath the weight

of gargantuan debts,

while the criminals escape

leaving the world to its fate.


Nobody said life was just,

but nobody said that bankers

could run a gambling den

built on odds of shit or bust,

which is exactly what they've done.

Still living lives of luxury,

they pay themselves huge sums

instead of being in prison or on the run.

The price we pay it seems

for making money god,

and those who serve it,

demi-gods with teams

of acolytes to bend and bow,

and carry out their will

through stocks and shares

not asking why or how,

and now, the rest of us are up the creek

without a paddle as they say,

trying to keep afloat

in a boat with a massive leak.




The Rhythm of life


And the rhythm of life flows ever on

in spite of people crowding into cities

where poverty and slums and the never ending

threat of anarchy is always in the air;

when the poor demand a share of the wealth

made by the few whose salaries

are quite obscene if compared to the majority

who need convincing that their wages

are sufficient as politicians paraphrase

and spin words to bemuse and confuse,

while constantly they misuse terms

to show that they have, in common

with their people, just as hard a time.

Shortage of cash is the lot of most,

while hardware runs software

guaranteed to bring happiness and relaxation

to world weary workers, parents

and the ever growing band of cynical young.

We feel it in the fibre of our being,

somewhere along the line, we took

a wrong turn and, in the dark,

we cannot find the path again.






It was common to see crowding

into the streets, an unruly rabble

set on anarchy, and convincing

those with wealth that a salary

so deficient as to allow no spare

cash was a misuse of power.

Testing the fibre of the elite,

the rhythm of the chants

with paraphrase and insult

‘Out, out, out' sent them

scurrying to their hardware

scanning faces in the crowds

to identify the ringleaders

and cut the rebellion off

at its roots.






The hardware was there waiting for software.

On hand were worlds where anarchy reigned,

where nothing was common, no salary

required to fit in. Wealth was acquired

by stealth and cash flowed like a river

in spate, no need to paraphrase sayings,

blunt truths were punched into the air

like a boxer sparring in the ring.

The rhythm was set by the player

with speed, agility and cunning,

and nothing was more convincing

than a character armed with an array

of weaponry and bold beyond compare.

Testing the fibre of the player

was the aim of every new game.

How rapidly would each be immersed

in a world of sci-fi, fantasy, myth or magic?

No misuse of psychology here,

just entertainment off the racks

for anyone to buy who had the hardware

into which to slot the software.

The punters crowding into the shop

to acquire the latest game made it plain,

addiction came in many shapes and sizes.

And the tills clicked happily away

every much vaunted launch day.




The Pit


It was forklifted out of the pit.

A meteor rock, only half a foot,

turned out to weigh a ton

when it made a direct hit

on the outskirts of the town.

There was a massive clunk

and all the lush grassed area

burned when it came down.

The whole town was awake

with shaking hand on heart

they thought a boiler

had exploded to cause a quake.

Regarding the cupped hole,

they hung about the edge

peering at the damage

and declaring, upon their soul,

it was a fortunate escape.

With nib poised, the mayor

smiled then signed the cheque

and cut through the red tape.

The road had to be resurfaced

because this was the only one

so nobody could get out,

and he would be disgraced

if it was left undone.

With an election coming up,

the people cheered him on

and assured him he had won.

Just another day in a small town

where nothing much happens

except, occasionally, a meteor

suddenly comes crashing down.




The Cricket Practice


It was the Vicar's turn to bowl

when, from nowhere, came a noise.

It was so strange the ladies

grabbed the nearest men to stand

trembling on the grassy knoll.


One made an effort to dial

for help but all access

had been severed. Fear featured

on the faces of one and all

as a mound began to pile

up on the village green,

and a bang then thump, thump,

lasting for a minute or two,

starting fast then slowing down

but still nothing could be seen.


Suddenly, an umpire, keen of eye,

let out a shout and pointed

to the hillock, and poking out

for all to see was the head

of one who had come to spy

on this year's cricket team.

Digging a tunnel long and thin

from the neighbouring village,

he had stumbled in on practice

and exposed his cunning scheme.


Pat, the bowler, recovering from shock,

quickly took aim, and running

bowled a fast and furious ball

at the spy as he clambered

from the hole to take stock.

It felled him to the ground

and the villagers and cricket team

sent up a mighty cheer

which made the tunnel walls

cave in with a rumble all around.


Now, there won't be practice on the green

until the neighbouring villagers

have paid full compensation

for all the damage done, and the spy, nursing

a sore head, has vanished from the scene.




Death of a sun dial


There was a humming noise not lasting

long but enough to make the vicar

jump and hold on to the baptismal bowl.

It came while he was rehearsing

his sermon which he had almost off pat.

A loud bang, sounding like blasting,

and following soon after, came from nowhere.

Running outside, he spotted the sun dial, featured

in the local magazine as a village treasure,

lying broken on its side. The vicar

hurried over, slowing down only when he saw

a cannon ball lying near by, clearly fired

by the local battle re-enactment group

fighting in the field next door.

He did not tarry long because, whistling overhead,

another one came hurtling through the air.

so grabbed his cassock and scampered back inside

to stay there until the bloody battle ended,

praying that none would strike the steeple

beloved of the people and many centuries old.

With his mobile back at home, he could not

access help, so put his feet up on a pew

and prayed to God his church would be defended.




Where did my life go?


Pat the dog, bang the wife,

do the washing up in the bowl.

Dial a taxi, going nowhere.

All is noise, can't access

the computer, it said

lasting a lifetime, but

it's slowing down,

featured as the best around

The vicar has just been

wanting a donation for the roof.

Grabbed him and threw him out.

I had no proof of a leaking roof.

At this rate, I'll soon dead

Where did my life go?

Will it be more peaceful in the ground?