MY COLLECTION OF WORDLE POEMS
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 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.
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.
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 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 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.
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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 blind pretend to see,
their agenda set in stone.
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 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 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 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
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.
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 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.
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.
Crept upstairs barefoot,
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.
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.
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…
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.
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?