WORDLE POEMS 2

 

 

The Film

 

A muddled monster can be catastrophic,

and with a nervous blink, might be euphoric

for a film maker with a small budget

and almost nothing in his wallet.

To avoid a parody, and to accomplish

a gory movie not for the squeamish,

an antidote is to find the nearest track

and put a bet on a horse that's not a hack.

Alternatively, get rid of all your worldly goods,

and when you've scored some coke, find hoods

to sell it on the open market for a tidy sum

then create a monster that's truly awesome.

 

**********

Try again

 

The desire to accomplish something great

is commendable, but can turn out to be a parody

verging on the catastrophic if left to fate.

To flex the muscle of your creativity,

and to avoid being embarrassed with a muddled

mess upon your plate, needs a calm head

if you're not to end up with a monster shovelled

into the waste bin ready to be shred.

The antidote is not to blink, to get rid of defeat,

and take off like a horse from the starter's gate

then you will have scored a goal by staying upbeat

while refusing to allow your get up and go to deflate.

 

**********

 

The Kiss

 

It was an accident pure and simple,

he meant to kiss her on her dimple.

He missed, diverting his lips

to another place when he trips

and they land, just like a punch,

with a nasty sounding crunch

flattening her pretty, upturned nose.

A shocked wail from his darling arose.

 

Like a laser her knee came up

striking his manhood with a wallop.

It was his turn to let out a wail.

Now both were in great travail.

She had definitely had enough,

a broken nose merited her rebuff,

while he was bent right over

his tackle swelling ever larger.

 

That a stray kiss caused such pain

was hard to pin down or explain,

but they had coped with worse

just not a situation so perverse.

He loved her and she loved him.

They were a perfect match,

each for the other, an ideal catch.

 

It would not patronize him or her

to refer to both as the perfect lover.

Now though, they thought it tough

that a gentle act had turned so rough,

and neither of them knew what to say

now that their date had gone this way,

leaving them in great pain and distress,

a very troubling and unpleasant mess.

 

Eventually, he could stand up straight

while she had got the bleeding to abate.

They stared at each other with dismay,

their feelings now in total disarray.

It had been an accident he knew

but her reaction was totally undue.

They parted miserably aware

it was a sad end to their affair.

 

*************

 

The Cage Fight

 

Don't patronize me, he said,

as I tried diverting the subject

from the accident to something

less painful, that being my object,

but failing when I chose to refer

to the stray punch during the match,

and how he'd coped with the finger

in his eye when a unintentional scratch

from his opponent's sudden attack

hit his eyeball like a laser stick.

His girl had tried to kiss it better

but he'd been rough with her and caustic.

She had told him he was just a brawler

which didn't help the situation at all.

So now we're off to the hospital

to get it checked if he's to keep his eyeball.

He asked that his darling should be there

but she's off sulking, which is a bore.

I've told him when she's calmed down

They'll get together for sure once more.

 

**************

 

The Exchange

 

Difficult to convince the investigating reporter

the exchange of envelopes was innocent.

They contained a list of dubious characters

reflecting the businesses they were in.

Orbital in their circle, they were a clique.

A group of friends intent on creating a design

not seen before upon the cat walks of the Capitals.

A genre strange and bizarre, so heavily into metal gear,

the models needing extra incentives to dress up

in the fantastic and very weighty creations.

The aim was to promote a sense of awe and fear

in those around the wearer, giving them a boost

to their often fragile egos while making them

the centre of attention in all situations.

The reporter left with a story but not the truth.

 

**********

 

The Exhibit

 

The design was orbital.

Reflecting light as it spun.

Its gear clicking softly

in the light of the sun.

 

It was easy to convince

friends it was a genre

favoured by artists while

investigating its sacred aura.

 

Critics were more dubious.

In an exchange of views,

comparing them in a list,

with most failing to enthuse.

 

Not deflected, the artist,

insisted his work was fine,

it was the critics who were

so short sighted and malign.

 

Sadly, all was not fine.

The display was only shown

for a very short time,

its sacred aura forever unknown.

 

******

 

The Bad Buy

 

‘Wrapped in misery, she longed to be warm,

held in his arms so tender and caring.'

She yawned, finding the story tedious,

to be exact, extremely boring!

In public, she had to hide the book,

embarrassed that such printed trash

be seen, should somebody sneak a look.

The mailing had said ‘cut price',

and being somewhat short for cash

she succumbed thinking it might be nice.

It wasn't. She'd thrown away good money

on a selection of florid love stories

where most of the women were called ‘Honey'.

Had she examined the ad more closely,

she would have seen Bills and Moon

written across the bottom very clearly.

It was probable that her mood was to blame

caused by her hormones being up the creek

or low self esteem, either making her fair game

for an ad that promised total satisfaction

by taking the reader into a world of love.

In her efforts to contain her frustration,

and a dose of the latter, she had fallen

for the oldest trick in the world today,

‘get ‘em when they're feeling down'

mention ‘cut price' and its money all the way.

The recycling bin was full this morning

when the dust cart took it away.

 

**********

 

For a small fee.

 

Have you a mill stone round your neck?

For a small fee, you'll have the satisfaction

of its removal that won't leave you a wreck.

Feel the thrust, the stimulation of a resolution.

The certainty of forecasting this is assured.

Hang the doubt outside, it's challenging

but that's what life is all about, to be endured,

though in degrees admittedly quite varying.

Leave it at our door and we'll do all

to solve your problem without delay.

You've settled the bill, fine, it's been a ball

doing business with you, expect a call in a day.

Now, close the door on your way out, please.

 

****************

 

The Art of Complaining

 

There is stimulation in complaining,

as well as often being challenging.

Forecasting the outcome is impossible,

an immediate success implausible.

If you want certainty, or an urgent reply,

a run of the mill complaint will deny

you that satisfaction. Thrust is needed

or your communication will go unheeded.

For extra insurance, try varying

your input with a degree of grumbling

about poor service and too high a fee,

and don't hang about, send it promptly.

Then sit back and wait for the company

to send you replies, the first of many!

 

**************

 

Winter's Hold.

 

A tedious period of grey and cold

increases human misery in manifold

ways, the exact description

has to be examined for a prescription

to these dark and dreary days.

It could contain escaping in ways

that might be probable if rich

or in a printed mailing with a pitch

about finding a holiday abroad,

though the latter might be a fraud.

The desire to hide is natural,

to be precise, actually factual.

The best solution in such weather,

is to hunker down together

or, if alone, light a cosy fire

and wrap yourself in warm attire.

until the Winter releases its icy hold

and Spring with warmth the lands enfold.

 

***********

 

Right Now

 

He examined the printed word,

finding the exact one desired

to contain his thoughts,

one appropriate to him right now.

 

‘Misery' encapsulated him,

but it was probable that word

barely touched the true depth

of his state of mind right now.

 

He longed to feel warm

to bathe in the sunlight of her smile,

not to want to run and hide,

but the latter eluded him right now.

 

Nowhere could conceal him.

Prying eyes would seek him out

and drag him from the hole

he found the only comfort right now.

 

Mailing her a final letter,

he pleaded for forgiveness.

The wait for a reply was tedious,

akin to agony for him right now.

 

It failed to appear leaving him alone

to consider his predicament,

one he never even envisaged

he would ever be in right now.

 

Now, he would have time

to see how foolish he had been

following his desires, abandoning

her who he longed to hold right now.

 

He could wish with all his heart

for a second chance, but none would come

for she had gone so far away

to a place he couldn't reach right now.

 

At this moment, he had a choice

survive or die, two options

he had never considered

before but facing him right now.

 

He sat wrapped in his misery

wondering if he'd ever feel warm again

now she was gone from his life,

then decided living was for him right now.

 

Rising he walked outside to feel

the sun kissed air upon his face,

and a hope was born anew in him

though, inside, grief still held on right now.

 

*************

 

The Kill

 

Tasting the air with its forked tongue

the serpent slithered over the ground,

no spite in its action as it paused.

It was a modest meal, no great loss,

justified as it hadn't eaten for a week.

The chase had been long but the prey

was now within its grasp, no untidy

kill. Its allocation for defence, a toxic bite,

nothing technical, a matter of poison

injected and then closure, death

would be quick, to delete a life

to survive was the law of the jungle.

It didn't write it but is forced to live

by it. The strike was fast. Dragging

the catch into the shadows, the serpent

consumed the rodent whole, and then

curled up contented to digest its meal.

In this incarnation, it had survived

to live for another day. Above it,

the sun beat down mercilessly.

 

**************

 

In pursuit of something good.

 

The pursuit of something good

should bring forth a positive result.

But the combination of trash

and trivia tends to end as an insult

with the apathetic rising like scum

whose conduct is bizarre or lewd.

No musical or artistic talent, just flotsam

remaining afloat on a sea of banality

with only the brainless able to relate

to the mind numbing triviality.

Whereupon it is announced

that the winners are celebrities

and fine culture is renounced

to be replaced by the utterly mundane.

Alas, a sad day for a civilization

when society no longer needs a brain

as demonstrated by the creators of sensation.

 

**********

 

The Success

 

A combination of cheek and trash

demonstrated that something

could be brought forth from nothing.

In pursuit of spontaneity, the musical

maestro ignored the apathetic,

the bored, the stupid, being only

able to relate to the aesthetic.

The conduct of the audience,

remaining the epitome of patience,

when he presented his new piece.

Whereupon they rose enraptured,

praising loudly his new creation,

the like of which they had never heard

before as they sat in silence astounded.

Purely natural body sounds had resounded

round the hall ending in a mighty eruction.

The maestro bowed, waved and smiled

The orchestra rose and took a bow

buoyed up by the success of this brainchild.

The critics didn't know what to say,

it left them dumbfounded to this day.

 

**********

 

The Paragon

 

He was the incarnation of a god,

modest of nature, handsome

of face, and with a body

honed to perfection.

In the allocation of gifts,

he had a surfeit of talents,

a plethora of good qualities,

a voice so pleasing to the ear

it sounded like music, eyes

of blue that regarded only you.

To see him was to chase him,

but to catch him was the end.

Tasting him was ruinous,

for to touch perfection

destroys the pleasure of all

others. None could ever

live up to him so none

would ever satisfy as he

had done. This paragon

was guilty of dragging

lives from the mundane

into ecstasy then leaving

again. Not done in spite

but justified in moving on

because innocent of guile.

There was never closure

for none would accept

it was over. Impossible

to delete from a life.

No technical readjustment

to a life could eradicate him.

He saw nothing untidy, callous

or cruel in loving and leaving.

Nor the ravaged hearts left

behind as he wandered

the earth in search of his soul.

 

**********

 

The Performance

 

The voices were hoarse with fear

as the statue began to topple.

With a crack, the ropes broke loose,

and swift was the result as it fell

on the end of the wooden pier

making it vanish into the sea,

crushed under the weight of the obtuse

sculpture, and, with it, some members

of the audience too. The performance

was over with the survivors fleeing

to the safety of the shore.

It had been a tight squeeze

to get everybody in seating

where they had been promised

an experience able to immerse

them in something utterly new.

It had, but, not to be disloyal

to the sculptor, it was the reverse

of what he had wished to occur.

The engine hauling the ropes

still purred softly in the dark.

While, in the basement, below

the stage, now almost in the sea,

a slight voice called ‘Will somebody

throw me a rope, I can't get

out. There's water coming in.'

Nobody heard him with the whole

place resembling a horror set.

He called twice more then silence

came as the sea took its toll.

 

**********

 

The Geek

 

He was an incarnation of a geek.

Untidy, dragging his feet,

wouldn't think to chase a girl,

brilliant in his technical skill.

When life's allocation of gifts

was given out, he got a modest

share of looks and size,

and a total absence of spite.

Tasting the good things on offer

rarely if ever crossed his mind.

It was possible to delete most.

But, give him a computer and find

him a space to live and you had

closure. He was complete,

one very happy, contented geek.

His existence justified and replete.

 

*******

 

The Future

 

The quality of living quarters

was modest to say the least.

It was just the nature of the beast,

to delete names from lists as housed

Yet another allocation achieved.

The technical term were pods

in which huge numbers would live

all trying their best to get by

on what was around until they die.

 

You could try to chase a bigger one,

but closure of any deal was a bore,

with no appeal to courts of law,

no solicitors to plead your cause,

dragging on for years and ending

with some people treated like cattle

or with an untidy bloody battle

where, however justified you were,

you were doomed to failure

or even, occasionally, incarceration.

Certainly in this incarnation,

tasting success was the lot

of the connected but none

if you were not. In spite

of their total lack of natural light,

ten billion people of every nation,

had their names on the lists,

and most accepted them with civility,

each pod ensuring personal security.

 

**********

 

The Kill

 

Tasting the air with its forked tongue

the serpent slithered over the ground,

no spite in its action as it paused.

It was a modest meal, no great loss,

justified as it hadn't eaten for a week.

The chase had been long but the prey

was now within its grasp, no untidy

kill. Its allocation for defence, a toxic bite,

nothing technical, a matter of poison

injected and then closure, death

would be quick, to delete a life

to survive was the law of the jungle.

It didn't write it but is forced to live

by it. The strike was fast. Dragging

the catch into the shadows, the serpent

consumed the rodent whole, and then

curled up contented to digest its meal.

In this incarnation, it had survived

to live for another day. Above it,

the sun beat down mercilessly.

 

**************

 

The Performance  

 

The voices were hoarse with fear

as the statue began to topple.

With a crack, the ropes broke loose,

and swift was the result as it fell

on the end of the wooden pier

making it vanish into the sea,

crushed under the weight of the obtuse

sculpture, and, with it, some members

of the audience too. The performance

was over with the survivors

fleeing to the safety of the shore.

It had been a tight squeeze

to get everybody in seating

where they had been promised

an experience able to immerse

them in something utterly new.

It had, but, not to be disloyal

to the sculptor, it was the reverse

of what he had wished to occur.

The engine hauling the ropes

still purred softly in the dark.

While, in the basement, below

the stage, now almost in the sea,

a slight voice called ‘Will somebody

throw me a rope, I can't get out.

There's water coming in.'

Nobody heard him with the whole

place resembling a horror set.

He called twice more then silence

came as the sea took its toll.  

 

**********

 

The Taboo

 

The bulletin on the board

began with ‘break a leg'

ending with ‘cracking show'

then went on to name it!

If I were to compose one

I'd have found it worrying

to be so obvious about the play

and bothered why none

seemed to care or even know

it was near to sabotage

to name it to this day.

The next one doesn't matter

being ‘Dr. Caligari's Cabinet'.

There's no taboo placed on it.

Nobody cares an iota

if you name it, but, occasionally,

it would be great if the taboo

on the ‘play' could be lifted

and we could say its name

out loud and spontaneously.

But, it can't be ruled out

that a prankster wrote this

to see what would come about.

 

I turned away, tripped on a tile

and broke my leg, so while

the cracked bone is mending,

the leading role has gone

to my understudy causing

unending stress to me that he,

the slimy toad, deliberately

put up the bulletin to bring

about the curse so that I would be

replaced and he would be the star.

I asked if anybody else had seen it

and nobody said they had so far.

So can only presume, the nasty git

took it down again once I'd tripped.

I hope he breaks his leg like me

because I've sent him an email

Saying ‘break a leg too, and

good luck playing Macbeth

tonight and I'm praying now

the blasted curse won't go and fail.

 

******

 

Conspiracy theory?

 

The bulletin reported a case of sabotage.

NIMBYs had overstepped the boundary,

so many cracking under a barrage

of resentment of wind farms in the country.

The Cabinet that ruled were plugging leaks

of alleged corruption and mismanagement.

Chaos began to break out, continuing for weeks,

worrying the people that the government

had not bothered to cover their ground

and take steps to restore order and sanity.

It appeared to be at a loss all round.

It would compose speeches about morality

and, occasionally, issuing commands,

all turned away with stone deaf ears,

or to make impossible or absurd demands.

But, so great were the people's fears

that nothing would be the same again,

they retreated inside and shut their doors.

 

In fact, nothing would be the same again.

Chaos was spreading across the globe

Unstoppable in its destructiveness

like some virulent and lethal microbe.

The intent of some to bring about hopelessness

heralded a period of mayhem and discontent.

Then, like a messiah, a new elite

would arrive calling for all to reinvent

the world. Out with old, they would entreat,

in with the new, and the nations,

wearied by years of troubles and strife

and decades of maladministrations,

all longing for a better way of life

would embrace the New Order, and throw

out the baby with the bath water

to allow this nascent Eden to grow.

 

Only time will tell whether this situation

will ever become a reality or remain paranoia,

but it's worth resisting the temptation

and casting a jaundiced eye on anything

that implies this new order is good for all,

apart from the elite and the ‘gifts' they bring.

 

**********

 

The Speech Writer

 

Occasionally, a bulletin bothered him,

like those on sabotage, or more worrying,

a Cabinet member misbehaving.

Today he had to get cracking

with three speeches to compose.

He needed a break, but his work ruled

so allowed himself to be fooled,

ignoring the warning signs that arose.

He drank his fourth espresso of the day

felt his heart pounding away

and began to imagine a great oration

before dying of a fatal myocardial infarction.

 

**********

 

The Lesson

 

With trousers hitched, his credibility sound,

the agent moved across the compound.

The topic of conversation in the precinct

was all about control, while settling the score,

and knowing which side you were fighting for

when it came to infringements of the law.

He came to a sudden halt, and swore,

his gun was still in his drawer by the door.

He had learned one very hard lesson.

If you're going to look heavy, don't go

prancing about without your weapon.

 

*****

 

The Stranger

 

The command to halt

rang out across the compound,

audible to everyone around.

The sentries were alarmed,

the stranger might be armed.

Silently, he stood there

without an obvious care.

While they, mired in confusion,

wondered if he was an illusion,

shaking their credibility

at this stranger's ability

to appear out of thin air

leaving them to stand and stare.

It seemed an infringement

of all they knew, bafflement

turned to anger and fear

as they felt control disappear.

His trousers and jacket glowed

and his skin rippled and flowed

when they set their guns to kill

to score a hit just a matter of will.

Side by side they stood,

Each an agent for good,

The stranger suddenly said

‘Fire and you're dead.

I come in peace. A topic

about which you seem myopic.'

The sentries' fingers twitched

then, as if bewitched,

they froze, a sense of dread

turned their bodies heavy as lead.

All in the compound hit the ground

as the stranger let out an unearthly sound

and it and they were gone and so was he.

 

How such a thing came to be,

remains a mystery to this day,

which nobody can explain away.

 

****

 

The Agent

 

With his credibility in question,

the agent hitched his trousers up,

before he emptied his coffee cup.

The topic on the radio was heavy

with promises of doom and death.

He switched it off, took a deep breath

and strode across the compound

determined to take control,

settle the score and call a halt

to the infringement of the law.

He paused before the open door,

while he took stock.

Knowing which side he was on

kept him steady as a rock,

the perpetrator was in the wrong

and he would be in custody before long.

He charged, adrenalin firing,

tripped over a brick and knocked

himself clean out. The perpetrator

stared down at the agent lying there

and fell about laughing then walked away

to continue his thieving for another day.

The next morning, with his credibility nil,

the agent sent a note in saying he was ill,

and that he was offering his resignation,

his boss accepted it without procrastination.

 

*******

 

The End of the Day

 

Falling to the ground,

the copper gave a moan

his support of the fascists

his downfall all round.

The people were crying

from a surfeit of gas

their activity quelled

while some lay dying.

Peace was their quest

with some tacking on justice.

The government chose

to ignore their behest.

With tear gas and charges

batons and shields,

the guardians of peace

ordered water barrages.

In the turmoil along the way

order turned to chaos

and violence was the victor,

a sad and terrible end of the day

 

*****

 

Not a mice moment

 

The teacher gave a moan

When falling flat on the ground

after slipping and sliding

tacking and gliding

over a snow covered mound.

All activity came to an end

when his bum hit the ice

in his quest to achieve

success and retrieve

the escaping school mice.

They had sneakily fled

down the copper piping.

Freed by a ten year old boy

who knew every ploy

of teacher bating and sniping.

 

He heard ‘fascist gasbag' echo

behind him as he hurried

along a corridor's tiled floor

to the playground's door

and went outside worried

that the mice would die

of cold once they were free.

28 pairs of eyes stared down,

plus the Head in his gown,

from the classroom to see

who would win, the mice,

now out of the pipe, or he.

Lying prone, he sighed

as tails in the air, they defied

the ice and ran for the nearby tree.

 

Now, near the end of his tether,

he hauled himself upright

brushed himself down,

saw the Head's weary frown

and the boy's grin. The sight

of him was the final straw,

after twenty years of endeavour.

He gave a furious scowl

followed by a loud growl

and walked out the gate forever.

 

***********

 

 

The loss

 

I forgot the bag of equipment

left hanging on the barrier,

and not wishing to inflict

my mate with his carrier

half way up the motorway

with such dire news

thought it illogical

to inform him of my views.

When pulling into a nearby Greasy spoon

for some liquid refreshment and a pie.

I decided to be frank and considerably brave

and told him about the bag with a deep sigh.

He was mad as hell and berated me

and said he'd tell the boss.

Wish I'd kept my mouth shut now

because I'm sure to lose my job, the loss

of which would finish me off

Unless, perhaps, there's an accident

on the way and my mate

will forget all about the incident.

Trouble is the bag of equipment

contains all the tools I'd need

to put a spanner in the works,

fancy that, what rotten luck indeed.

 

**********

 

One Drink too Many

 

To inflict pain on yourself

is illogical, and to be frank,

not something I'd fancy

at all, but I forgot the barrier

was down when I rushed at it

hoping to exit via the nearby

gate. With carrier bag in hand,

I was sure the equipment

in it was safe and sound when

I collided with the bar and

knocked myself clean out.

My case comes up in court

in three weeks, considerably

later than I'd hoped for,

but I'm pleading mitigating

circumstances, probably

caused by liquid refreshment

of the alcoholic kind and

not knowing where the hell

I was or why I stole a DVD,

an IPod and a frigging doorbell???

 

********

 

A song

 

I'll sing a song

to touch the stars.

Don't give a damn,

I lost the path

a long time ago.

Really hard to get

back on track again,

but I don't care

won't bore you

with my sad story

that touched

the lavatory of life

for a while.

I've a secret lamp

to light my way.

If I compare it

to the light

I had before

it's all consuming

in its glow.

I'll finalize my life

with a triumphant

hymn and won't tire

of reaching out in joy.

In darkness

or in Light,

it's all the same to me

because there's a rock

I stand upon

which will carry

me into eternity.

It came when in need

and stayed there

when the Universe

reached out to me

 

***********

 

Passing time

 

It really is a bore

when the necessity

to finalize a life

comes knocking

on your door.

 

With a lamp aglow

you see with dim eyes

the track you took,

the beginning appears

an eternity ago.

 

Now you tire

more easily,

sing off key,

and your damn

memory's dire.

 

You can lose your way

to the lavatory.

If you compare what is

with what was,

it'll be a sad day.

 

But you've made it

thus far so rejoice

for each day is a gain

to be filled with fun

good humour and wit.

 

Laughter keeps you

young, a medicine

to drive age away

so laugh till you cry,

what better thing to do.

 

 

*******

 

In a rut

 

Do you sing in the lavatory?

Bore yourself to death?

Spend time consuming sweets?

Keep track of TV soaps?

Say ‘Damn' when annoyed?

Tire of everything too easily?

Compare yourself to others?

Spend an eternity before the mirror?

Finalize your life as a failure?

 

If all or any of these are true, maybe

it's really time to climb out of that rut,

and see all the things we could be

and are not, because we've let

life pass us by, and try to discover

when our get up and go got up and went

then we might uncover what we're meant

to be in the short span of time we have left.

And not depart this mortal coil bereft

of our dreams, hopes and joys but ever

to celebrate it with ‘better late than never'.

 

************

 

Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

 

Damn the all consuming fire,

the lamp that lights the way to hell.

What a bore to keep track

of all the supposed sins

we have committed and then

compare them to the virtues

we really wanted to have

before we fell.

To sing of those in the heavens

would finalize our eternity

in the realms of bliss

instead of consigned to the lavatory

of the sulphurous pit

where it's so easy to lose track

of time when singeing your soul

on a demon's barbeque.

How we'd tire of all that pain

so best to discard the urge to sin

and cast it in the eternal dustbin.

Virtue is much harder but think

of the reward when you die.

On second thoughts, maybe

we should refuse that option

and raise merry hell on earth

before we cease to be.

Either way, you're damned if you do,

and damned if you don't.

 

**************

 

The Typo

 

The essence of religion is submission

diversity is frowned upon

and most have a habit of barring

anything to do with fun.

In general, they abandon the earth

for a destination unproven

and, with pity, look upon

those who have transcended them

and found that wailing and crying

for what can never be

is a total waste of life

which should be celebrated

before we leave it by dying.

 

If a deity typed the code

of life on a heavenly keyboard,

the original blob producing

all that came to be had to be a typo

because what type of deity

would cheerfully create

a dinner plate where everything

consumes everything else

to survive? No denying

this is what life is, but so much more

besides when we look around

and see the wondrous Universe

that managed to produce

tiny little old you and me!

 

***********

 

The Fatal Flaw.

 

The alien resembled a blob

with tentacles that swept across

the keyboard as it coded

a program and sent it

to its destination light years away.

 

Barring accidents along the way,

it had programmed diversity

into the code so the essence

of the new life should be free

and no submission was required.

 

It watched with pity and dismay

when religions arose to display

ignorance of the true reality

and write programs of their own

based on illusions and a lie.

 

The sound of crying could be heard

across the idyllic, peaceful world

of the ancient alien species

when they had to abandon their dream

and pressed delete, which was their law

if a program clearly had a general fatal flaw.

 

************

 

Jack of all Trades

 

Diversity is my forte, he typed

on his wireless black keyboard.

In essence, he was a Jack

of all trades, Master of none,

but, in general, he could

turn his hand to anything.

Barring the obvious, he put

what he thought everybody

wanted to hear to assure

them he was employable.

A blob of broken biscuit

on one of his keys made him

stop and flick it away.

There were times when he felt

like crying, when self-pity

overwhelmed him, but today,

he was told by his priest

that God would not abandon him.

He was grateful he had found

religion now that he was lost.

Submission to its dogma

was demanded, but he was

willing to give up his will

and take on God's and it was free.

Putting the CV in an envelope,

he wrote on its destination

then went down on bended knee

before he walked to the post box

to send of his 350th give me work's plea.

 

*************

 

All in a day's work

 

Pity creased her brow

as she picked up the stray.

The dog's submission was clear

it had been beaten and cowed,

but to abandon it here

in a derelict site with nobody near

was too cruel and intended

to cause it even more pain.

It whimpered with fear

when she picked it up.

She felt like crying,

but had to be tough.

Barring the tears,

she carried the animal

into the van, it was the first

of the day to be found.

Typing her report

on her laptop keyboard,

she accessed their next

destination. Two miles away,

her partner nodded

saying he knew the way.

She had a religion of sorts

that is, she prayed for animals

they found because it felt

like the right thing to do.

The next was more of a blob,

filthy, flea-ridden and starved.

The essence of cat was all

that was left, and dead.

It was the diversity of animals

they discovered that amazed

and horrified her to the core.

As a general rule, she presumed

you took a pet in and cared

for it but many had ceased

to do so. Since the cuts hit home,

they were picking up more

and more strays, abandoned

and left to die. She wiped

a tear from her eye, and told

her partner their next destination.

 

***********

 

The Destination

 

His destination was a war zone.

Armed with his laptop and keyboard,

he sat filled with trepidation

and excitement and wondering

whether he'd get to meet a war lord.

 

His general orders were to report

on the situation on the ground

but not to abandon the hope

of getting contact with the foe

providing he could get around.

 

The essence of his task was simple.

Bring back a human story of the war.

Put a face to those involved, acts of pity,

some people crying would help

to prevent the reports becoming a bore.

 

The land below had turned from a blob

to desert and mountainous terrain.

Then they were disembarking.

He stood blinking in the bright sun

with a million thoughts in his brain.

 

Barring any delays, he would be

on his way within a hour or so.

After the submission of his papers

to none to friendly officials,

he hitched a lift with orders to lie low.

 

He could tackle diversity and tribes,

but of religion, there was to be no mention.

A month later, he was back at home,

with his sleep filled with nightmares.

His report though was quite a sensation.

 

*************

 

Jack of all Trades

 

Diversity is my forte, he typed

on his wireless black keyboard.

In essence, he was a Jack

of all trades, Master of none,

but, in general, he could

turn his hand to anything.

Barring the obvious, he put

what he thought everybody

wanted to hear to assure

them he was employable.

A blob of broken biscuit

on one of his keys made him

stop and flick it away.

There were times when he felt

like crying, when self-pity

overwhelmed him, but today,

he was told by his priest

that God would not abandon him.

He was grateful he had found

religion now that he was lost.

Submission to its dogma

was demanded, but he was

willing to give up his will

and take on God's and it was free.

Putting the CV in an envelope,

he wrote on its destination

then went down on bended knee

before he walked to the post box

to send of his 350th give me work's plea.

 

*************

 

Blank screen.

 

The keyboard sat beneath

his fingers waiting for inspiration

to strike, and his submission

to take shape for the competition.

 

In general, the ideas were there,

but expressing them in words

eluded him. The screen remained

blank, the words flown away like birds.

 

He picked idly at a blob of goo

stuck to a key and got a ‘u'

on the screen, he flicked it off

and tried to think of something new.

 

It had to be about religion

and diversity, which was a crying shame

because not a subject he knew much about

since he'd missed the courses so only him to blame.

 

With nothing coming to mind,

he decided to abandon it as a lost cause.

It had been, in essence, a noble effort,

But now he just wanted to be outdoors.

 

Barring other options, his destination was the pub.

Self-pity required a beer, or two or even three.

As he walked along, he couldn't help but think

he might have chosen to take the wrong degree.

 

**********

 

The Arks

 

Religion feeds the soul

say the spiritual leaders

of yesterday and today.

The price, submission of your will

to the deity of their choice.

The essence of their beliefs

are derived from ancient texts

handed down the centuries,

allegedly the word of their god,

but, in general, clearly written

by men to control the people,

to retain diversity as a barrier

to true unity, and barring

all those who do not adhere

to the dogmatic truths written

in their holy books. The unbeliever

will find themselves relegated

to hell, to burn forever

in agony and pain, crying

out to the deity who would abandon

them because not adored

when in the flesh so rejected

for eternity. No pity there,

no recognition that gross injustice

lies at the heart of this decree.

All the god's wills are final

and just because the texts

tell us so. We're each a mere blob,

smaller than a pinhead

in the vastness of the Universe,

texts once written by hand

now copied on a keyboard,

printed by the million,

and spread to the masses,

the opiate of the people,

today, there's a religion

to suit everyone, slanted

to the congregation's needs,

to the adherents, the disciples,

the many clinging to the Arks

waiting for the rain to cease,

their destination to be revealed,

and the sunshine return once again.

 

************

 

The Destination

 

His destination was a war zone.

Armed with his laptop and keyboard,

he sat filled with trepidation

and excitement and wondering

whether he'd get to meet a war lord.

 

His general orders were to report

on the situation on the ground

but not to abandon the hope

of getting contact with the foe

providing he could get around.

 

The essence of his task was simple.

Bring back a human story of the war.

Put a face to those involved, acts of pity,

some people crying would help

to prevent the reports becoming a bore.

 

The land below had turned from a blob

to desert and mountainous terrain.

Then they were disembarking.

He stood blinking in the bright sun

with a million thoughts in his brain.

 

Barring any delays, he would be

on his way within a hour or so.

After the submission of his papers

to none to friendly officials,

he hitched a lift with orders to lie low.

 

He could tackle diversity and tribes,

but of religion, there was to be no mention.

A month later, he was back at home,

with his sleep filled with nightmares.

His report though was quite a sensation.

 

*************

 

The Dilemma

 

Crying over her keyboard

was going to short it out

she knew, so she sat back

in a position of submission.

The general situation was simple,

her lover was going to abandon

her, and she could sense

her destination was downhill

from now on. The essence

of the problem was he had

a religion while she did not.

A blob of man she'd met

last week said she had to sign

papers promising to bring

their children up in the tenets

of the Church, and she could not.

Barring a miracle, there would

be no marriage now, no hope

of a reprise. The blob had been

singularly without pity for her

dilemma allowing no diversity.

She blew her nose, and began

to type a last email to her lover.

If the Church believes in miracles,

just maybe she can.

 

**************

 

The Revolutionary

 

Barring the door was an act

of defiance for Mortimer Smith.

Submission was not in his nature.

A general once who refused

to abandon his men. He lived

a life not of fiction but fact.

 

His wife, Clarissa, was in essence

the opposite of him, dependent,

placid, full of pity, prone to crying,

firmly attached to her religion,

and who adored her husband

with his solidly powerful presence.

 

The conflict between the council

and Smith had come to a head.

It demanded payment of its tax,

while Smith had sent them a fax

typed out on his keyboard that,

from him, they were going to get nil.

 

A blob of a man stood outside,

an official from the council.

Calling through the letter box,

he'd wheedled and cajoled,

threatened, demanded and failed,

now he stood nursing his hurt pride.

 

Diversity wasn't in Smith's dictionary,

straight as a dye. His destination fixed.

Tell it how it is, no beating about the bush.

The damned council tax was an outrage,

and he wasn't going to pay it. It was

the day, he became a revolutionary.

 

**********

 

 

 

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