Psimon

As Madame Quixotic ponders between 'readings', a small envelope appears in her wrinkled hand. It is unique only in its coloration; one side being black, the other purest white.

 

The wizened seer slowly opens the note:

 

Lord Psimon

- Keeper of The Balance, Demi-god of Nature and The Mind

'The Glade'

1 Forest Way

GreatWood

 

Re: Audience request

 

Lord Psimon requests an audience with the Distinguished Seer, Madame Quixotic, at her earliest convenience.

 

Please reply by thought alone (Lord Psimon will hear your thought and attend the appointment offered)

 

Also, please take care to completely destroy this note once it has been fully read and understood.

 

Thank you in advance

 

Rhylae

Personal Secretary to Lord Psimon

 

Madame Quixotic shrugs her shoulders and considers a suitable time for her rendezvous with this mysterious 'Keeper of The Balance', Lord Psimon...

Thank you all for your kind birthday wishes (yes, even the threats of tickle-torture)

 

We had a most marvellous day, commencing with the All Blacks thrashing South Africa (Rugby). And today (my brother's b/day - 21/07 here in NZ) the Silver Ferns became World Champions (Netball)...

 

New Zealand (my Pacific homeland) is riding high on a crest of sporting success due in no small part to my complete lack of participation in either sporting discipline!!

 

Pressies were forthcoming at a wee afternoon tea held in my honour; candles were placed on a cake (banana cake - my fav! Yummy) and, due to the vast number thereof, set the smoke alarms ringing. Said cake was consumed with gusto by all gathered there and it was good.

 

All in all, a great day!

We are happy to be another year older

We are, however, dismayed to be none the wiser.

Oh well...

 

I need a nap...

Congratulations to all!

A well deserved bunch of promotions if ever I've read them!

 

I, too, will be back soon - in all my glory... er, what I mean to say is, in all my enthusiasm!

 

Been flat out with RL - but I'll be back...

 

Oh, yes. I WILL BE BACK

 

And one of these days/months/years I too will step up a grade LOL

(Might help if I participated a little more, eh?)

 

Congrats again to all.

Is it enough?

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

You are so far away.

In place, in time, in person.

So very far away from my world.

I try to place myself in your world and fail.

On so many levels.

Is this the real life?

The life mother warned us about?

What is it to know a person - to truly know them?

Is it enough to read their words?

To hear their voice?

To touch their skin?

Is it enough?

 

Your words have reached me across an ocean of time and salt water...

Dare I read them? Dare I speak them aloud?

If I do, will I know you?

Is it enough?

 

You love the wind.

 

Love it with a passion reserved for the young or young-at-heart.

A wind on the kind of day in late spring, or perhaps early fall,

when a heavy rain, poured out upon the earth, has done the worst it can do.

Walking down the road, boots crunching the cement sidewalk

beneath your feet, lawns, so pristinely set to the side, squelching if trodden on.

So many moments racing across your senses.

Light and dark playing across the sky,

across the sodden ground, as would two kittens with nothing better to do than try to best one another in a silly game of hunt-the-tail;

the feel of the sun on your face as it slowly scatters the clouds,

and the wind is teasing them both, and you...

Strong enough to mess your hair and tug at your clothes and step,

with a faint nip of colder places that makes everything smell fresh and new again.

 

Ohhh. You love it. Yes. You love it.

 

Your hopes, your dreams, they are recorded in text.

Is this enough to know you?

 

But these are just mere words, surely.

Or are they?

Will they reveal you to me?

Are they enough?

 

They hold captive your thoughts.

They are recorded.

For how long? Forever?

Is it enough?

Is it enough to know you by?

 

I have never heard your voice.

Is it soft and sultry - as a silky liqueur after an evening meal, is it a pleasure to behold?

Or maybe it is piercing, a voice that grabs one by the head and shakes a little.

If I heard you speak - would that be enough to know you?

 

Your family, your friends, your dog. So many others know you.

What am I but a bystander, looking in on your life, as you have chosen to reveal it to me.

Is that knowing you?

Is it enough?

 

So much clutter in your room. Collected moments,

the moments that make up a life - they know you.

Your touch is familiar to them.

They are well known to you also. There is a mutual knowledge there.

And they are the better for it.

If you were to hold my hand, if only for a moment, would it be enough?

Would I know you - or you, me?

Is it enough?

 

Or does it take a lifetime to truly know someone?

I think so...

 

© Psimon 09 June 2003

So, is the date to start submitting Friday 27th or Sunday 29th??

 

Inquiring minds need to know (as do annoying elves)

Psimon rushes in, late as ever these days, crashes into the door frame, staggers away, trips over his robes, falls flat on his face at The Spoony Bard's feet, and finishes with his face planted in Gyrfalcon's foot

 

Hmmffhy brrffttiy....

 

raises his head a little and tries again

 

Er, sorry... um... Happy Birthday Noble Elder, Spoony Bard, O' He of a thousand words where one will do

 

I, er... have here a rare and wonderful thing, er... I mean, gift. Yes, gift. Late, yes... but nonetheless rare and er... wonderful...

 

rummages in his robes whilst remaining prone - a rather undignified sight, to be sure, and no doubt would be misconstrued in less polite company as being something completely untoward and base, though of course we all know Psimon better than that, don't we?

 

Now where is it? Ah, here we are!

 

holds up a small black box

 

It's a sneeze & mumble, do you like it? I though you might, so when I saw it in the bazaar on sale at half a copper I said to myself, 'Psimon my old son, that's a bargain and no mistake' and I... er.... No, What I meant to say was; when I saw it in the Death Lord's treasure pile, and having just slain him, with consumate ease I might add, I said to myself, 'Psimon, that would make a perfect gift for someone very special. And so here it is, and here you are, and here am I. On the floor..... begging your forgiveness for being late to wish you a very Happy Birthday and to pile blessings and special wishes upon you. Yes.

 

OOC: Sorry Gyr... I truly am. Best belated wishes from NZ, my friend. Glad to hear it went so well

All works © Psimon 2003

 

A bitter-sweet tragedy

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

In the mesa of gravity the fruits brood,

awaiting the time they will join

in bitter revolt with their vegetable cousins

to overthrow the oppressive bindings of their flesh.

 

For theirs is a history of repressed rage,

barely contained within the shell-like skins

they have chosen, each to his or her own choosing -

if fruit are to be further shackled

by the labeling of sex which has nothing

whatsoever to do with who they are as individuals.

 

They wait in their lofty positions,

ever patient, ever vigilant lest their time

come upon them and they be not ready.

 

Occasionally, a young fruit,

headstrong and impatient, will let loose

a blood-curdling cry and fling itself

recklessly earthward in a typically vain attempt

to smash the oppressor's skull open

by sheer brute force alone.

 

Alas, such actions are rarely successful. In fruit

history, successful occurrences of militant actions

such as this number only on the leaves of a young sapling,

barely one season old. That is to say, not many.

 

Meanwhile, beneath the oppressor, the vegetables

whisper likewise, plots of foul and filthy revenge

passed from parent to seed, preparing the younger

generations for the harvest that must surely come to pass.

 

O Yes! The time will come, my friend. And it will come soon.

For far too long have we been tormented thus. Far too long!

We must prepare to strike at the heart of the oppressor!

And where is that, I hear you ask... His HEART!!!

We will destroy his heart, destroy his morale, his will to fight!

The foul oppressor will not live much longer, will not crush

our vegetable brethren beneath his soil-encrusted jackboot for long,

will not lay his filthy hands on our young, virgin fruit anymore!!

WE WILL NOT TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!

BANZAI!!!!!!!!!!!

 

....

 

And so ends another foolish young fruit, to stupid to realize

that below him waited the real oppressor,

ready to bite into his shattered flesh as he lies there,

his precious juices seeping into the rich soil beneath him.

 

O yes, my friend. Take heed, lest the same fate befalls you,

and another young life is snuffed out.

See? The oppressor sups upon his juice even as I speak to you here.

See the beast with his shaggy coat, his wicked horns.

Can there be any doubt that there stands the real villain of the piece?

 

That foul smelling goat is a demon incarnate!

So step back from the abyss, my friend, and go about your business.

There is nothing to see here.

Move along now... move along...

 

 

 

Flattery

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

The intellectual slumber of a billion souls,

so often a first reaction to a thing created.

Offered platitudes, piled one upon another.

We do not wish to offend,

do not wish to be seen as ignorant,

do not often stop to consider the work.

After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, isn't it?

What is precious to us may be garbage

to another, and vice versa.

We want to encourage,

to build up, to reinforce,

for these are seen as 'positive' reactions.

As a result we often plunge in

with remarks perhaps ill-suited to the piece.

Or is it simply a case of our own limited expression

of what we believe or truly feel?

Or perhaps we did not understand the work at all.

Or the artist has failed to effectively

communicate, through the chosen medium,

that which was intended.

Or it may be the wrong medium for that particular message,

or that particular receiver.

Then again, it may simply be a case of complete bollocks,

the 'artist' dribbling on about nothing of any significance,

with the sole purpose of watching the flatterers

come out of the woodwork, to cover the work with their silver

words and choke the life from it.

A morbid purpose, I agree, but then we can all fall into these

dark moments, can't we?

Even me.

 

 

Not for him

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

It happened once, in that brave land that lies

between common sense and

disregard for life and limb,

that a man chose a declaration

of his love as the lesser of two evils.

To remain silent and lose her to another

or to speak out and perhaps win her heart and hand.

O' what tragic fate had brought him to this pass.

 

Not for him, the simple life -

the safe and sure knowledge

of love received and returned likewise.

Not for him, the happiness of hearth and home

shared with but one person for whom

the very next breath is forfeit if it is requested.

Not for him, the joy of little feet on cold stone floor,

scurrying lest they freeze to the black face of it.

Not for him. No, not for him.

 

For his declaration was ill-received, fallen on the

love-sick ears of a simple girl.

Too simple, it would seem,

to comprehend the risk he had taken,

to understand the price he was willing to pay.

Yes, too simple to take stock of her own precarious position,

teetering on the brink of the abyss,

a mere breath and a word away from her ruination.

 

A simple girl,

standing before a simple man,

listening with deaf ears

as he poured his heart out on the

unforgiving floor at her feet.

And then she turned and left,

not a word in response.

No thank yous or goodbyes,

no kind sentiments or good wishes for a life

of happiness to be found in the arms of another.

 

Standing, staring at the gaping doorway,

he struggled to take a breath...

and failed.

 

The good doctor reported it a case of 'death by broken heart'.

No, not for him, the simple life.

Not for him.

 

 

Queen of Shadows

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

They balance precariously between two worlds;

the world of light, that paragon of all that is good and pure,

and the world of darkness, reviled by the light, den of

evil-doers and foul creatures of feather, fur, and fin.

 

Shadows walk the line, daring all

for just a moment of life,

only to be obliterated by the light

or consumed whole by the darkness.

 

But she walks amongst the shadows and is at peace with them.

They welcome her, she understands them.

After all, isn't that what we all desire?

To be understood and to understand.

 

Hers is the twilight time.

Hers is the night and day.

Hers is the Shadow.

 

 

Apathetic ignorance (Double acrostic)

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

All that happens when I

pace the floor, begging

another moment of inspiration

that returns me no

happier than when I set out for

each coffee break, is a

terrible realisation

I'm just not interested in anything! I'm so apathetic.

Can this really be how I want to spend my life?

 

 

The 'Beeper'

- Spoof. Warning! Bizarre and hints at some adult themes

(Apologies to the Blue Oyster Cult for butchering their great song! )

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

All my chimes have gone

Hear just now they've come

Girlfriend doesn't fear the beeper

Nor does the wife, the sun or the rain..we can be like they are

Come on honey...don't fear the beeper

Honey take my...er, hand...don't fear the beeper

We'll be able to fly...don't fear the beeper

Honey I'm insane...

 

Christmas time is done

Hear just how they've come

Yes, Santa and Rudolph

Are together in maternity...Yes, Santa and Rudolph

40,000 texts and pages everyday...Yes, like Santa and Rudolph

40,000 texts and pages everyday...Redefine happiness

Another 40,000 coming everyday...We can be like they are

Come on honey...don't fear the beeper

Honey take my...um, hand...don't fear the beeper

We'll be able to...er, fly...don't fear the beeper

Honey I'm insane...

 

Love my two-for-one

Hear just now they've come

Came the last night of free texts

And it was clear we couldn't go on

Then the door was open and my wind appeared

The candles blew then disappeared

The curtains flew then she appeared...saying don't be disgusting

Come on honey ...and she had no gear on!

And she ran to me...then we started to...um, fly.

We looked backward and said goodbye...we had become like they are

She had taken my...er, hand...we had become like they are

Come on honey ...don't fear the beeper

 

© Psimon 12 June 2003

aka. A man with just too much time on his... er, hands.

Original lyrics © Blue Oyster Cult

 

 

Out, out brief candle

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

She should not have died at all;

There is no more time for words.

All of her tomorrows are gone

and each shall pass as a year

for those of us left behind

until we too are placed within

the cold, wet soil.

Out, out, brief candle!

Her life was but a shadow

of what it might have been.

We saw her killer, a poor actor,

fretting and fidgeting as he

sat his few hours in court

and yes, we shall hear his voice

again and again as he pours

forth his protests of innocence

and recompense, just as we

will not hear her sweet young voice

laughing as she is tickled

or weeping as we tend to a scraped knee,

the scars of battle for the young.

This is a tale told by

a justice system gone mad,

full of noise and rights,

signifying the black nothingness

that is the hole in our hearts

where the vision of her small,

angelic face once resided.

 

 

In fair Verona

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

Two households, both alike in dignity,

in fear of consequence unknown, unseen,

were joined in holiest matrimony,

lest civil lips make civil talk unclean.

Forth from the sacred loins of these two closed

a sequence sour and full of bitter spite;

 

For once these families were known as foes,

yet birth of grandchild ended that tonight.

The tearful passage that they'd not speak of,

the moments past when joy gave way to rage,

which nothing could remove but children's love,

is now both cold and gone 'pon history's page;

 

So if you've wit enough to listen then

take time to toil so broken bridges mend.

 

 

Mr Frost nipping at my fingers

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

Into my own ghost house

my November guest

lodged acceptance.

 

Not to keep a winter Eden

tree at my window, bereft,

gathering leaves looking for

a sunset bird in winter.

 

The peaceful shepherd,

acquainted with the night,

the freedom of the moon,

locked out a patch of old snow

in a disused graveyard.

 

On the heart's beginning to cloud the mind,

an encounter - something for hope -

the figure in the doorway at Woodward's gardens,

lost in heaven.

 

 

That should do for a while ROFL

Love and hugs to all... yes, even those that don't deserve it .... LOL

So beautiful

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

You fit my palm so well.

So beautiful...

 

So beautiful.

 

Hard and slender,

I raise you

to my mouth,

which is open -

expectant.

 

As I do so,

my mind goes blank,

lost in the moment.

I wait...

 

...

 

'Are you there? Hello?'

the voice begs.

 

'What? Oh, sorry.

Lost my train of thought there.

What? Yes, Thursday is fine.

Ten thirty? Great.

See you then.'

 

Another mobile moment passes.

 

© Psimon 03 June 2003

 

 

The apostrophe is my enemy

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

The apostrophe is my enemy.

I shall not rest.

It makes me lie down and

take criticism.

It leads me beside

tempestuous streams of wordage,

it destroys my soul.

Even though I stagger

through the valley of the shadow of poetry,

I will be terribly afraid of nasty words,

for it is ever with me;

the rod and staff,

they beat the hell out of me,

rapping me severely across the knuckles

when I stuff it up again and again.

 

Screams of Poetic Pain, Chpt 23, verses 1 - 4

 

© Psimon 03 June 2003

Indeed, Rune, indeed.

 

This is a beautiful piece, Shadow.

 

Trust is foreign to her eyes

Fierce pride and angry independence

Wow! Strong image - Fierce and Angry - wonderful combination.

 

She has grown up in the shadows

Unable to see the light

Behind the wall she has created

So sad, yet so many of us are building our own walls ever-higher every day. Great image of isolation (behind the wall) and darkness.

 

Sorry. This isn't really the place for critique, but I just had to say how much I enjoyed this work.

 

It is not for me to say, but IMHO, it's just a matter of waiting from here. I am sure we'll soon be welcoming you to the fold. Good luck.

 

And don't worry about Melba. She's mostly harmless... though there was that time... er, never mind. It was nothing, and the family never came looking for the applicant, so there's nothing at all. Is there? No. Nothing at all there.

 

Runs out before Melba takes another bite of his sorry Elven butt

I pity the poor soul that has to write about me...

LMAO... Well, Tralla... that poor soul appears to be me!

 

Vere to begin viz ziz victim... hmmmm schall ve begin viz zi legz, or ze armz?

Mwuhahahahahahaha!!

Just popped in to wish you the very happiest of days.

A birthday is more than just another day in your life. As it has been said before,

today is a celebration of all that is YOU.

 

You're

Obviously

Unique

 

And we are all thankful that you share that uniqueness with us.

 

Special birthday hugs, Deggie.

 

May all that you dream of be yours, and then some.

You say...

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

You say...

that I will never understand

what it feels like

for a mother

to lose a child

 

You say...

that I will never know

the pain that is felt

by a mother

when she watches a tiny one

lose it's battle to live

 

You say...

that I will never face

the cold and terrible reality

of the decision you made that day

 

You say...

that I will never think

of that child

every day thereafter

for the rest of my life

 

You say

that I can never know these things

because I am not a woman

 

I say...

nothing

I am that child.

 

© Psimon 30 May 2003

 

 

Dew-kissed leaves

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

On the forest floor,

midst dew-kissed leaves,

my love and I

lie gazing through

the canopy of

green and gold that

lingers still

against the turning

of the season.

 

Our breath appears as plumes

of smoke rising up

through the still air,

as though our love

has set the forest floor

ablaze and we are

but its first victims.

 

We do not pay mind

to the cold nor to

the damp that no doubt

will chill our bones

this autumn morn,

bringing harsh words

from the cook

when we return.

 

Is that not the price

lovers must pay?

 

© Psimon 30 May 2003

 

 

Were I to dream

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

Were I to dream of daffodils

sprinkled loosely

across a sea so green,

tossed this way and that

by a jaunty summer breeze

compelling me to move

in the same way -

would I choose to wake?

 

Were I to dream of you

walking to me

across this sea so green,

your hair tossed freely about

by that reckless summer breeze,

your eyes locked to mine

with lips inviting me

to touch and taste

the sweetness waiting there -

would I choose to wake?

 

Were I to dream of us

holding hands

across the sea so green,

our fingers intertwined

as our souls do likewise -

even while the summer breeze

warmly lifts our hearts

to heaven on gentle wings -

would I choose to wake?

 

O day! Let me linger just

a moment more with my beloved

and let us complete

what has begun this night,

a life of love and happiness

accomplished in an hour

of soft, sweet repose.

 

O night! Do not release me yet,

I beg of you. Hold me fast

to my love alone and let day's

cares keep for just a while.

You betray my love, dark night,

as you surrender to the day

what was not yours to give.

My love to her and hers to me.

 

And such a love as ours

will not be denied

by the coming of the dawn,

but will be born anew

when day gives up its light -

surrenders all to dark sister

of the sun, the lover's moon.

 

© Psimon 31 May 2003

My love returned

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

The leaves were gold,

the sky was gray,

as I looked out

upon the bay.

 

As I looked out

I chanced to see

a ship. My love

returned to me.

 

A ship! My love

is coming home.

At sea my love

no more will roam.

 

At sea, my love

did prove his worth

to other men.

He earned his berth.

 

To other men

he gave his share

of sweat and blood

in honest care.

 

Of sweat and blood

he need not give.

To me alone

his heart doth live.

 

To me alone

he gave his troth

and not to sea,

white cap and froth.

 

And not to sea

would he return

No, nor to me

as I would learn.

 

No, nor to me

would love rejoin.

My love, the waves

did then purloin.

 

My love! The waves

of which you spake

did not seem fit

your life to take!

 

Did not seem fit

to hold your heart.

Bonnet in hand,

my eyes downcast.

 

Bonnet in hand

and wrung with grief

I looked once more

beyond the reef.

 

I looked once more

to say goodbye

then turned for home,

began to cry.

 

Then turned for home

as others did.

My love returned,

farewell I'm bid.

 

My love returned

this autumn day

as I looked out

upon the bay.

- my first attempt at a Sestina

 

Remain

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

The winter winds chill me to my very my bones,

beat against my squinted eyes and leave my fingers numb

while inside my mind races ahead to the next post,

ever keen to stay alert, or at the very least, alive.

Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood

my children keep my heart from death's cold door.

 

O what brings such foul news to my door?

It rattles this sorry collection of bones,

stirs the soul and boils the blood

though this dark messenger leaves my mind numb

as I struggle for answers. Anything to stay alive

for one moment more, here at my post.

 

Death comes to me, standing here at post

upon the field, knocking 'pon the Devil's Door,

as all around me my comrades, those still alive

after the last assault, take shelter amongst the bones

of those of us who have not seen the dawn. Numb

they may be; yes, and weary, but they still hold blood.

 

And while they hold fast - retaining what blood

has not seeped from their many wounds onto letters they post

home with more regularity than their battle-numb

minds would warrant possible - they'll hold this door

to the East. This they swear upon the bones

of their fallen brothers. They will stay alive!

 

But here and now, that is my only task, to remain alive.

For Evil's fallen forces would have my blood

upon their weapons, upon their breath, upon their bones.

To them I am but another obstacle, another post

they must pass as their masters beat upon the door

of their hearts and minds, battering them till they too are numb.

 

Unfeeling, uncaring, brutish. Once men, now numb

shells of men, driven forward. Theirs is not to stay alive

but to die for their master's cause, to open the door

that leads to Hell and Damnation, awash with their blood

and, such a dreadful sight to behold, paved from pillar to post

with the very marrow they spilt, seeping from their bones.

 

White, sickly, scoured clean of flesh from bones

that lie on this path. Yes, my mind is now numb

as my weapon falls to the ground at my post,

this one last mission a failure. Am I no longer alive?

Blood of my flesh and flesh of my blood

falls about me, covering the field and 'round about the door.

 

Will I step through the door, leaving my numb flesh

and broken bones to soak in the spilt blood upon the field?

Or will I stand at post, turn my heart towards home, and stay alive?

This is my first crack at a Villanelle. Very plain - not particularly clever with my linkages or wordage for that matter, but it is a first experiment with the form.

I must say, I enjoyed this 'dipping of the toes'

 

Come away with me

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

Come away with me tonight

and do not leave my love behind.

We will watch our hearts take flight

 

It is to you that I recite

and to all else I may seem blind.

Come away with me tonight.

 

We'll stand upon that dizzy height,

yes, as we stand, our arms entwined,

We will watch our hearts take flight.

 

For though they rage with all their might,

our love will not remain confined.

Come away with me tonight.

 

From this cold world we seek respite

as to it's ways we're misaligned.

We will watch our hearts take flight.

 

In the soft, still morning light

my heart to yours and yours to mine.

Come away with me tonight,

We will watch our hearts take flight

hmmm indeed you are right (as ever )

'love's' does read much better. Have adjusted

Thanks

A reformed man - A sad case Pt II

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

It seems a long time ago

that I first came to this place

and the doctors and nurses all

seemed more than a little scary

 

But I've grown, both as a person

within and the boy that stood

there that day is no more.

Now I am a man.

 

You see, I had a terrible disease,

horrible it was. I couldn't stop

rhyming... ugh! to even say the word

sends me into convulsions.

 

But I'm better now. Thanks to all

the hard work that my doctors

and nurses put in. Cured. And

I'm so pleased to be sitting here

 

before the review board today,

having been given an opportunity

to speak. Yes, I'm quite proud

of my achievements to date.

 

There's even talk of using my case

as a role model for similar treatments.

That would be quite special.

Quite special indeed.

 

And so I sit before you now

and ask that you remember how

I came to you so long ago

and now I'm cured, prepared to go.

 

What! No, no! You are mistaken!

I won't sit down! I can't stop shakin'.

I didn't rhyme then, don't you see?

It was the guard, it was not me!

 

No! Don't take me back to that cell,

consign me to the white, cold hell

that greets my eyes when I awake,

to take my pills and start to shake.

 

Oh no. I can't believe it's true,

I thought the light had broken through

but now I see I'm just as sick

as when I came here. Brick by brick

 

I built the walls around my heart

and hoped the rhymes would not then start

to leak between the bricks and mortar.

Looks like time is getting shorter.

 

Yes, I think I'd better go now

take my pills and stop the flow now

Yes, bend down and touch my toes now

guess that's just the way it goes now.........

A sad case really....

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

It seemed like nothing at the time

when as a small boy I could rhyme

The reason did not jump to mind

and so the doctor said, quite kind,

 

"The boy will grow out of this phase

and should he not there is a place

that I can recommend he goes

to beat him from his head to toes.

 

I know the remedy sounds harsh,

my bill, I'm sure, will seem quite large,

but both I say will do the job

and cure your little boy here, Bob".

 

My parents looked at me and then

my father picked up doctor's pen

and - with a single, fluid stroke -

I saw my life go up in smoke.

 

From time to time they come to see

the baskets that I make for me

and all my little furry friends

that come to stay beneath the lens

 

that watches over all my moves

to make sure that my life improves.

Perhaps I should have run away

to live and rhyme another day,

 

but here I sit in my cold cell

and though my parents wish me well

when looking through the bars they tell

that I wish that they'd go to hell

 

for what they did to me that day,

in doctor's office far away.

But that's another place and time -

a good thing then, cause I can't rhyme!

I'm bleeding

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

The wound is deep

It flows freely - can't stop it

From my hands, my mouth, my eyes

it just won't stop

Just won't stop

Want it to stop

Help me

please help me...

help me stop it

seeping slowly or gushing out

It just won't stop

I'm dying

I know I'm dying... slowly

I don't want to die

Not yet. Not like this.

But it just won't stop

and so I know I'll eventually lose it all

All of my life's blood poured out

onto the page before me

My life's blood

my words....

What's in a name?

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

Now once there was a miller poor,

whose wolves had not come to his door

and stopped at just a genteel knock

but eaten all, including lock!

 

Just how he got the royal call

was an astonishment to all

for naught had he except his girl

though gold, he said, from straw she'd twirl.

 

The King, impressed, said "Bring her hence

but if she fails I'll take offence

and have her head upon a plate"

This could not fail to motivate!

 

In room alone, atop the tower

with straw and wheel she watched the hour

for dawn approached and with it came

her fifteen minutes of royal fame.

 

Her head in hands, she softly cried

when suddenly a man she spied.

But not a man, more like a boy

or some child's strange forgotten toy.

 

He was quite small, though still polite

and asked her why she wept this night.

She explained her situation,

and how she'd come to this vocation.

 

The man asked, "Dear, what will you give

should I take steps that you might live?"

Replied the girl, "Why sir, I've naught

to give but this old necklace taut"

 

Said man to she, "Then that shall do

and gold there'll be before I'm through"

So spin he did, all though the night

till dawn spilled forth her morning light.

 

The King, impressed but wracked by greed,

considered this beneath his need

so brought her to another room

full twice as large to seal her doom.

 

And so again, it happened thus

upon the little man she'd trust.

The stakes were raised but gold was spun

and so the girl gave no thought - none -

 

to what she gave in promises,

she did not have so could not miss.

But memory can sometimes bite

for back he came upon the night.

 

Her first born child was his to claim

unless she could deduce his name.

Three days she had to reach her goal

unless she forfeit promised toll.

 

By messenger the word was sent,

a list of names did represent.

But none was true and little man

almost succeeded in his plan.

 

But luck can play a fickle hand

and, just by chance you understand,

the name was found and so revealed.

The fate of little man was sealed

 

for flew he into awful rage

and uttered words not fit for page.

His careful plan had come unstuck -

a victim of his dreadful luck.

Don't answer... (when the wolf comes to the door)

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

Many versions you may hear

but listen closely - lend an ear.

For this one's true, make no mistake.

Don't take me for some fraud or fake!

 

Out in the woods there lurks a beast

with shaggy coat and sharp white teeth.

It's eyes are huge - the size of plates!

And ears as big! Out there it waits...

 

You mark my words and listen well

and 'pon my wisdom pause to dwell

then you'll not fall into it's path

and feel the fury of it's wrath!

 

For once there was a girl quite young

who did not listen to her mum.

And warned she was about the beast

but seemed she cared just not the least

 

about the fate that waited there

amongst the briars, deep in it's lair.

She left to visit family,

her Grandma in infirmity.

 

She packed a lunch of cakes and sweets

and candy canes or some such treats.

Then off she set, her hair tied back

with loads of goodies in her pack.

 

Not far into the woods she'd gone

when sun's first rays declared the dawn,

and as the daylight struck the flowers

she dallied there for hours and hours.

 

For she was smitten by the tones

of daffodils and briar rose.

Now while she paused just off the road

the beast ran to Grandma's abode.

 

Once there, I fear, the scene turned nasty

though 'Ma was old, she proved quite tasty.

With one large bite he gobbled down

the old dear in her dressing gown!

 

The time it took till young girl came

was time enough to plan his game

For this old dog had learnt new tricks -

acquired tastes for girl drumsticks.

 

He lay in wait, all tucked in bed

so all to see was just his head

And sure enough soon came the knock

"Come right in, dear - door's unlocked"

 

When she passed comment on his looks

he quickly had her in his hooks

and as he was about to dine

the door burst open - just in time!

 

A woodsman near had thought it strange

when overheard the words exchanged

between the girl and mangy mutt.

He stepped up quick and in one cut

 

had killed the beast... or so they say...

But some contend, right to this day,

the beast escaped and still roams free

to capture those like you and me

 

that stay too long away from home

or travel paths all on our own.

Still...

 

I'll not deny the joy and laughter

that comes from happy ever after.

So stay with that end if you like

but I'm off home - I bid good night!

A 'poet's response to criticism

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

There's some who say I can't stop rhyming,

to me it's just a case of timing.

Cause if the moment suits me fine then

I'll write whatever the hell I want to

and not give a hoot for senses of rhythm and meter

and all that other stuff that I really know nothing about.

 

I've had no formal education

to mold and shape my punctuation.

What I write comes from frustration

at not being able to get down on paper

(or screen if you will) what I'm thinking

or feeling at that particular place and time that I am.

 

And so I break all sorts of rules

that some would say were made by fools

but I say, 'Hey! - why not use tools.

Or anything that helps you feel better

about what you write or feel and makes a fair

degree of sense to you, if not to anyone else in the world.

 

Enjoy or not, I leave to you.

There's nothing more that I can do

to make you think my words are true

except to put these particular thoughts down

for any and everyone to come along and read

at their whim or they may just choose to discard them

and continue to think me a rhyming idiot with no talent, no money and no looks.

(Though the first two are true, the last most definitely ISN'T! )

Wild Rose

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

A Rose by any name would smell

as sweet as she whose tale I tell

For deeds both fair and foul were done

before the lady's heart was won

 

The starting now is so well known

I'll not repeat lest doubt be sown.

The past has passed, suffice to say

that dark indeed did seem that day.

 

For curse fulfilled, she softly slept

a promise foul and wicked kept

And so slept all that gathered 'bout,

with thorns grown tall to keep all out.

 

Now some were there who could resist,

good fairies true did now assist.

And battled they with demons foul

till pressed on all sides, cheek to jowl.

 

But hard they fought, saw hero freed,

returned to him his faithful steed.

So armed with Truth's great sword and shield,

he ventured forth unto the field.

 

Dark Queen's form did give him pause

but sticking steadfast to his cause,

he fought the dragon's fiery breath

and would not quit, though close to death.

 

He battled then - weak and weary

battlefield so dark and dreary

In Truth he'd place his ardent trust

as silver blade to hilt he thrust

 

into the dragon's heart. His throw

cut Evil deep, a telling blow.

As deep into the chasm fell

the beast so black, he did not dwell.

 

To castle rode the prince and to

the highest tower he could view.

Up stairs by numbers two and three

he strode to set his true love free.

 

Her beauty was beyond compare

as softly she lay sleeping there.

A moment she could not rehearse

her true love's kiss did break the curse.

 

And cause it was to celebrate,

a royal wedding, guests and cake.

Our couple lived for many years

though that's a tale I'll not tell here.

OH!!! Peredhil!! That was absolutely terrible! ROFL

 

Unlike the poem, which was simply marvelous.

***DISCLAIMER***

This may not be every little girl's dream, but I know that my little girl constantly dreams (both waking and sleeping) that she is a princess waiting to be swept off her feet by a handsome prince and to live happily ever after... so there

This is for her...

As a father, I hope and pray that her dream may come true.

***End Disclaimer***

 

A young girl's dream

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

A dream held dear to little girls

in dress of satin, ribbon twirls

Her hair held high upon her head

with shoes of glass in which to tread

 

and dance the night from dusk till dawn

so deep in love, her suitor fall'n

His head turned first this way then that

until he grins like Cheshire cat

 

His heart to her from first quick glance

in honest suit he leads the dance

Careful not to seem precocious

false step now would be atrocious

 

His manner proper, handsome face

A gentleman of wealth and place

His love so true could not deny

Unto her words he would reply

 

with truth in all he said and did

Her heart responded, 'Don't forbid'

till suddenly with bolder chime

the bells remind her of the time

 

She turns and flees down cold stone steps

and in her rush a foot missteps

A shoe falls crystal to the ground

he stops. Of her, it's all he's found

 

Away into the night so dark

her carriage rocks, she must embark

upon this journey lest she's lost

but halfway home, the boundary crossed

 

A search decreed from house to home

his love declared for her alone

that fits the shoe of crystal pure

her hand in marriage he'd secure

 

And so to task he set the Duke

Cold-hearted ones they did rebuke

for fuss and flop with all their might

it would not fit, it was too tight

 

The blackest coal dust 'pon her dress

was mixed with tears of deep distress

as softly wept the maid laid low

until the voice was heard below

 

The Duke spake forth demanding all

should try the shoe and none should stall

'May I try, please', her voice so soft

slowly descended from the loft

 

'Of course, dear child', the Duke replied

as gentle maiden he espied

And so the shoe was held at once

for tiny foot's convenience

 

Of course we know the shoe did fit

and to her prince her heart commit

For that is how it came to pass

that Cinder's dream came true at last.