neighbours play loud music, it's
not a track you like!
The sneeze
The sneeze is a feral creature
to see it is very rare.
You'll hear them out in the wild; so
You'll hear them out in the wild; so
...you'll know a sneeze is there.
You'll start to feel a tickle
deep inside your plumbing
You're going to need a tissue; 'cos
...you know a sneeze is coming
for your head is sure to explode.
You must let this sneeze run free
to help your nose unload.
They begin by tickling your passages
You've many tucked out of sight
that often fill with thick green slime
But that's a poem I've yet to write
The best suggestion I would say
is to fill your lungs with air
and celebrate the impending sneeze
and go for it - without a care!
If you've heard a sneeze from a along way distant
whilst walking - what can I say?
It's probably me;
setting one free
from many miles away!
The Schoolyard General
The hunger is the same:
a fragile ego wrapped in an offensive T-shirt,
the science of dominance where
one man’s status requires another’s silence.
It’s all a learned rhythm—
the pulse of insecurity disguised as strength,
a desire to own the air all others breathe.
Look closely at the General’s stars,
and you will see the classroom ghost.
The big kid, the "mouthy" one,
trading the tarmac of the playground for a country’s border,
the grass for a graveyard.
It begins with a clenched fist
and a slow diktat muttered through clenched teeth:
“It’s my ball, so I decide who plays.”
It ends with a finger on a trigger:
“It may be your land, but my gun is bigger.”
From the playground scuffle to the scorched earth,
the logic never matures.
What was once minor friction
swells into a worldwide dispute
a fight over oil, or water, or land.
The world is just a bigger playground to lord it over,
a larger area to hold dominion.
It’s my playground. It’s my ball.
History remembers the names:
the bossy children who never grew up,
who bullied siblings in quiet hallways
before they silenced cities with harsh,
soul-less warnings.
The "perfect storm" is rarely a mystery;
it is just the shadow of a small boy
stretched across the world’s surface,
turning all into night.
Aggression is a hollow victory;
an imposition is never a resolution.
Whether in the soil or on the map,
the bully wins the game
but loses the world.
Wasps I don't like
Despite the rain
I couldn't take the train
the man; softly-spoken
wouldn't take my token
so was walking from Dorkingthough I might have be seen
on those miles in between
for then; that sound
made me look around
but I carried along
under the bird-song
then a buzzing commotion
me; out with no lotion!
What will I do
if this nightmare came true
monitoring the sky
something caught my eye
once more the sound
so tumbled to the ground
hiding by the track
feering an attack
a wasp and his mate
there laying in-wait
I rose began screaming
the sky began teaming
this advanced crew
knew exactly what to do
'must have ordered back-up
time to pack-up
with my arms up; screaming
thought I was day-dreaming
my old legs a blur
away from this whir
like helicopter blades
nightmare in the everglades
I tripped and fell
this was complete hell
those biting little things
with noisy little wings
wasps are my foe
wherever I go
I don't mind a bee
or a fly following me
a worm in my hand
or a crab on the sand
A car or a train
a bus or a plane
I don't mind a bike
...but wasps I don't like!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)