And last but not least, this section houses This Section is Well Developed, Rock Your World, She's Best Served Cold, and personal fave, the Impressions of Depression. Thanks for reading!!
This Section is Well Developed
(A Found Poem from Tommy's Real Estate advertisements)
Quite stunning, in fact.
You can't pass this up!
A luscious sum of perfection
from those with impressive lifestyles
you'll blush - it's quite stunning.
In fact, we've found your Nirvana:
inspiring busy flow in a beige dream
makes for very pleasant creative souls.
First time in 20 years, exuding with character
Market: living life - very popular, viewing a must
Lovingly presented space, it too is stunning -
5 bed, 2 bath, 1 gracious mirror with walk-in runway, double
garage offering an intimate and warn new life
You deserve stunning ambiance
this opportunity to enjoy,
you're building a new
style on a stunning sunny section-
all your dreams come true
with eye-watering value.
NB: - if you turn me on my side, I kind of look like a house.
She’s Best Served Cold
Her curves like a road well-traveled,
her top comes off with a plaintive sigh.
She is intoxicating with
her luscious scent,
but she is coy.
Anticipation bubbles like lava
she toys with you, as an autumn breeze
bursting with summer fruits
and a hint of pear.
Her eye sparkles, glints back at
your reflection. She winks -
you are her willing prey.
Magnetic, like a player
to the score line, she’s best served
cold, and a shiver runs down your
spine like an avalanche, as you
traverse towards her inviting throat.
The first gulp, then another.
She tacitly soothes
conscience with honeyed
whispers in your ear.
She engulfs you as you consume her.
She drizzles confidence, sweetens
thoughts, hushes judgments; more!
You the wanton addict-
She is
as provocative as a dare.
Rock Your World
Doormat done - I'm
alive! My earthen belly
rumbles, igneous hunger awoken
Who's up for a little
moving and shaking?
I have felt your jackhammers judder
down and the drills
extricating precious parts. Did you
think that I would
lie down, allow your mole-like mining
ad infinitum?
Let me drill something into
you are mere mites on my surface.
Furious blasting and
tunnelling through - the fault
line has been crossed and I will
not be going back
Pebble to the
metal, crumple the floor. Ground
shakes, souls break
let the boulder
drop as the fields
beneath vascillate with terror of
the tremble, seismic spasm: shock
after shock, after shock
greets hearts that shudder on
pulsating streets.
Tectonic uplift; earth in raucous revolt
Not a slow slip down the sideline
No, my molten might emerges
stirs something deep and dreary within
You 'earthlings' are the epicentre
of my malcontent.
You aren't my master! Not so
grounded now, are you?
I am the DJ dictating your party
Let the boulder drop
I am your rumbling bass drum
time to rock and roll
put your hands in the air
We're getting all Barney Rubble
up in here
Sway with the rhythm
Foot tapping, head banging
Hell raising, drop the beat!
Movers, shakers, motion master
Shocking? It's electrifying
Shake, rattle and roll,
Rocky horror all our own.
The Impressions of Depression
When we were kids we loved
the turns and the dips
and bumps, the click-clack
of the climb, clattering to the
concave bend and the
scream-worthy downhill descent into
the loop-de-loop, the cars following,
like tip-toppling dominoes, then
diving into a corkscrew twist.
Breathless, my brothers and I, our blood
pumped like the brakes as the
cars pulled in, announcing
our cue to exit.
Grin, then repeat, on loop.
After Dad left, the son set
on children's hi-jinx - transformed to
teenage attitude, rode the downhill.
And the rollercoaster was no more fun.
Up the game, up the stakes
Heightened track, he'd be looking
out-in-up-around, squiggling in his chair.
He'd be jiggling the harness, tugging at the belts,
screwing with the bolts, hands securely
outside the car.
There'd been the trek-trippin'
to the top, plateauing to a pathetic malaise
gasp, grin/grimace
uphill harrowed us with the threat:
stable is an unstable thing.
Threat realised and attempted
He'd been rescued from the fall before
Though he had been
trailing in the dips awhile, the trips
back up were alive with promise -
downhill dive less likely -
yet perpetual fear of falling always
a possibility.
Judgement in jeopardy
by a plethora of pills
and verbal spills by the ex
This time he made
sure that rescue was redundant.
He loosened the screws from the track ahead
Stealthy dealings in after-hours handiwork
The rollercoaster car trailed off like a runaway,
He had dismantled the desire to live,
met his end in the downhill, scream.
These were written by Lauren Brooking. (acknowledge where appropriate)
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Poetry Portfolio Part 2
This part contains Losing It, May the First and all that, My Imaginary Friend.
Losing It
My name is Joy. Mum said
she called me that because I smiled
when I was born. She said it was
probably just gas but she was the happiest
mum on the planet. She said more
people should name their children
after a good memory.
There's a girl in my class called Serena.
When she gets mad she throws her hands up,
yells 'God, give me serenity!'
I asked her why
she said that's what her mum says
just before she loses it.
I asked her what 'serenity' meant
She said it was everything she wanted to be.
We're studying the state of Virginia at school
I told my teacher about my Aunt Virginia
Dad said she's was 'a royal
pain in the ass'
I wonder if, in Virginia, she'd be royalty?
I'll google it at home.
I went to type in 'virginia' but accidentally typed 'virginid'
and google asked 'do you mean virginity?'
Maybe I did?
So I read a bit. There were a lot of big
words I hadn't seen before
so I decided to ask mum - she'd know.
"Is Aunt Virginia named after a good memory too, mum?"
Mum was peeling potatoes.
"Mum, what's a virginity? Is it like serenity?"
She dropped the potato she was peeling
"Mum, what happens if you lose your virginity?
Is that what Serena means by 'lose it'?"
Mum's cheeks started going red and
she didn't say anything straight away
My little brother watching TV overheard,
he piped up,
"You go and find it again, silly!"
First May Then All That (Terror Rising)
The Patriot Puppet mesmerizes
the crowd
cries and raises
their star-strangled banner
Freedom sneaks
and Bravery spangles
Taleban flesh pounded
Heady tale, smells like
Pentagonal 9/11 cordite
Events conspired to plan
Benefiting whose insides?
The Prating Puppet proclaims:
"Truth - take it and eat!
It may turn the stomach sour
but it will taste honey-sweet"
Spin into control
Of - by - for the people
but which people?
Those more equal?
An eye for a lie
The Prayer Puppet seeds the march
God bless America
in justice, for taking life
for killing another’s wife
Defeated – but for how long?
Enigmatic enemy
Champion of hide and seek
Found holed up in cave
of luxury
The Print Puppet impresses
leading story, shows
late success
Pressed public weep
with just joy
Magnetic demagogues*
point 'True' North;
but navigating by that compass
leads in fool circles
All the world's a stage
And all the people in it
Merely being played.
*dem·a·gogue/ˈdeməˌgäg/Noun
1. A political leader who seeks support by appealing to popular desires and prejudices rather than by using rational argument.
My Imaginary Friend
When we met you hid
gold rocks for
me, I was Dorothy following
your lion-heart
to the evergreen city
of first times and like/love.
I dreamt about you last
night, as if
the decade between didn't
exist - we were again sixteen.
Even in my dream
I was nervous about saying
the wrong/right thing.
I was sold out on you
I thought, in love. You
an island's length away,
mostly MSN's 2D fantasy - yet real.
Your ghost is a biased truth.
The fact to my fiction is:
Awake, you teeter the corners of reason
Asleep, you invade my dreams
True/False - you loved and
left me well.
Now, I'm captive to an idea/l.
I want to see you,
shatter the perfect picture,
I crave that the fantasies end,
Come, return reveries into reality;
Whatever that may/may not be.
Losing It
My name is Joy. Mum said
she called me that because I smiled
when I was born. She said it was
probably just gas but she was the happiest
mum on the planet. She said more
people should name their children
after a good memory.
There's a girl in my class called Serena.
When she gets mad she throws her hands up,
yells 'God, give me serenity!'
I asked her why
she said that's what her mum says
just before she loses it.
I asked her what 'serenity' meant
She said it was everything she wanted to be.
We're studying the state of Virginia at school
I told my teacher about my Aunt Virginia
Dad said she's was 'a royal
pain in the ass'
I wonder if, in Virginia, she'd be royalty?
I'll google it at home.
I went to type in 'virginia' but accidentally typed 'virginid'
and google asked 'do you mean virginity?'
Maybe I did?
So I read a bit. There were a lot of big
words I hadn't seen before
so I decided to ask mum - she'd know.
"Is Aunt Virginia named after a good memory too, mum?"
Mum was peeling potatoes.
"Mum, what's a virginity? Is it like serenity?"
She dropped the potato she was peeling
"Mum, what happens if you lose your virginity?
Is that what Serena means by 'lose it'?"
Mum's cheeks started going red and
she didn't say anything straight away
My little brother watching TV overheard,
he piped up,
"You go and find it again, silly!"
First May Then All That (Terror Rising)
The Patriot Puppet mesmerizes
the crowd
cries and raises
their star-strangled banner
Freedom sneaks
and Bravery spangles
Taleban flesh pounded
Heady tale, smells like
Pentagonal 9/11 cordite
Events conspired to plan
Benefiting whose insides?
The Prating Puppet proclaims:
"Truth - take it and eat!
It may turn the stomach sour
but it will taste honey-sweet"
Spin into control
Of - by - for the people
but which people?
Those more equal?
An eye for a lie
The Prayer Puppet seeds the march
God bless America
in justice, for taking life
for killing another’s wife
Defeated – but for how long?
Enigmatic enemy
Champion of hide and seek
Found holed up in cave
of luxury
The Print Puppet impresses
leading story, shows
late success
Pressed public weep
with just joy
Magnetic demagogues*
point 'True' North;
but navigating by that compass
leads in fool circles
All the world's a stage
And all the people in it
Merely being played.
*dem·a·gogue/ˈdeməˌgäg/Noun
1. A political leader who seeks support by appealing to popular desires and prejudices rather than by using rational argument.
My Imaginary Friend
When we met you hid
gold rocks for
me, I was Dorothy following
your lion-heart
to the evergreen city
of first times and like/love.
I dreamt about you last
night, as if
the decade between didn't
exist - we were again sixteen.
Even in my dream
I was nervous about saying
the wrong/right thing.
I was sold out on you
I thought, in love. You
an island's length away,
mostly MSN's 2D fantasy - yet real.
Your ghost is a biased truth.
The fact to my fiction is:
Awake, you teeter the corners of reason
Asleep, you invade my dreams
True/False - you loved and
left me well.
Now, I'm captive to an idea/l.
I want to see you,
shatter the perfect picture,
I crave that the fantasies end,
Come, return reveries into reality;
Whatever that may/may not be.
Poetry Portfolio Part 1
So following will be the 10 poems that I've submitted for my poetry portfolio this term just gone, haven't gotten marks back from it, kinda don't want marks back from it - it's all just a bit scary to have that kinda thing strongly critiqued or what have you, but something about this is what I signed up for, so deal. Some of the poems have slightly adult themed content, what can I say, I like the shock factor. For the record, none of these are based on any of my actual experiences, just an overactive imagination.
This part contains Dream Girl, See a Penny, Pick it Up, Fondu
Dream Girl
Tonight it chimed in when she tuned out
Girl Friday, all there, waiting, just for a moment
there was a nanosecond between her and defeat
as she stood there shaking to the beat.
Girl Friday, all there, waiting, for just a moment
she wanted to shine, stop traffic
as she stood there shaking to the beat
her grip on reality was poles apart from his
She wanted to shine, to stop traffic
attention seeks wallflower, notice finally given
her grip on reality was poles apart from this
and she flung herself into her routine, full swing
Attention seeks wallflower, final notice given
high ideals, heels to match
and she flung herself into her routine, full swing
she bent over backwards to please.
High ideals, heels to match
assume the role, get a grip
she bent over backwards to please
herself. She grinned her satisfaction
Assume the role, get a grip
there was a nanosecond between her and defeating
herself. She grinned her satisfaction -
tonight it chimed in when she tuned out.
See A Penny, Pick It Up
She called me back! Opportunity for a life
with style. Interview with the fashion
goddess! The secretary's voice pinballs through my
mind - 'Important', 'must be there', 'can't be late'
It's like the rabbit's important date
Late - 12 minutes to be precise.
Fucking public transport!
Finally, the bus comes -
number 7 - to carry me to this
potential metamorphosis,
idle to fashion idol
Penny v 2.0
My Snapper card out, I rise to the occasion
I shadow the bus stop, foot claps
concrete, wave until I lose a button,
earnest eyes fasten the driver.
He smirks, drives on
until my flailing fingers
turn to one.
I missed the bus,
(just like dad said I would.)
But this isn't over yet.
The driver must make his next stop;
I must make him stop.
Yes! Pedestrians!
A quick sprint down to the paused bus
knuckles rap at the door
I try to pry it open -
this interview is worth a broken nail.
The driver ignores me
So I mimic a pedestrian, sidle out in front
I drop my Snapper which I must pick up
The 'bend and snap' gives
me more than I bargained for.
The top one, two, three buttons ping off
and with more than cleavage in sight
the driver's jaw drops and
behind him, the passengers whistle, cheer.
My face, radiant scarlet, matches the berets
of the officers that fill the bus.
I see the number 7 and
read 'Trentham Military Camp',
a laminated NZ Army logo mocks
from the dash.
One gallant soldier sees me - damsel
undressed - pushes the emergency
button, door opens,
"Where are you headed?"
Fondu
The mottled melting pot
of colour and taste
bubbles invitingly
flame tickles bulbous pot
wanting in on the action
skewers awry, stabbing
fruit specimens into molten
chocolate develops a skin if left
too long. Kiwifruit plunged
beneath into the creamy rich depths
Fondu for two,
Pacific flavour if you please.
Peruvian mangoes
Philippine bananas,
Hawaiian pineapples and a bit
of coconut rough.
Fusion of flavours
from all corners of the globe.
What is a kiwifruit these days?
Previously a chinese gooseberry
now synonymous with Zespri -
holding global hands
or just political handstands?
The settlers have settled
and now when others claim 'kiwi'
feathers get ruffled.
Us 4th, 5th, 6th generation kiwis
know the lay of the land -
we can help you find where
you stand.
Welcome to New Zealand
The oceania melting pot
Here, delectable and delightful
fresh fruit, F.O.B.
Skewer them into the white
chocolate sea,
heated by the gentle flames
of passive aggression
a side-plate of racial tension
sprinkled with tainted tolerance
Technicolour multi-cultural fruit
salad in the making
baked with a few other bits,
it may become a rich paradise, tart.
This part contains Dream Girl, See a Penny, Pick it Up, Fondu
Dream Girl
Tonight it chimed in when she tuned out
Girl Friday, all there, waiting, just for a moment
there was a nanosecond between her and defeat
as she stood there shaking to the beat.
Girl Friday, all there, waiting, for just a moment
she wanted to shine, stop traffic
as she stood there shaking to the beat
her grip on reality was poles apart from his
She wanted to shine, to stop traffic
attention seeks wallflower, notice finally given
her grip on reality was poles apart from this
and she flung herself into her routine, full swing
Attention seeks wallflower, final notice given
high ideals, heels to match
and she flung herself into her routine, full swing
she bent over backwards to please.
High ideals, heels to match
assume the role, get a grip
she bent over backwards to please
herself. She grinned her satisfaction
Assume the role, get a grip
there was a nanosecond between her and defeating
herself. She grinned her satisfaction -
tonight it chimed in when she tuned out.
See A Penny, Pick It Up
She called me back! Opportunity for a life
with style. Interview with the fashion
goddess! The secretary's voice pinballs through my
mind - 'Important', 'must be there', 'can't be late'
It's like the rabbit's important date
Late - 12 minutes to be precise.
Fucking public transport!
Finally, the bus comes -
number 7 - to carry me to this
potential metamorphosis,
idle to fashion idol
Penny v 2.0
My Snapper card out, I rise to the occasion
I shadow the bus stop, foot claps
concrete, wave until I lose a button,
earnest eyes fasten the driver.
He smirks, drives on
until my flailing fingers
turn to one.
I missed the bus,
(just like dad said I would.)
But this isn't over yet.
The driver must make his next stop;
I must make him stop.
Yes! Pedestrians!
A quick sprint down to the paused bus
knuckles rap at the door
I try to pry it open -
this interview is worth a broken nail.
The driver ignores me
So I mimic a pedestrian, sidle out in front
I drop my Snapper which I must pick up
The 'bend and snap' gives
me more than I bargained for.
The top one, two, three buttons ping off
and with more than cleavage in sight
the driver's jaw drops and
behind him, the passengers whistle, cheer.
My face, radiant scarlet, matches the berets
of the officers that fill the bus.
I see the number 7 and
read 'Trentham Military Camp',
a laminated NZ Army logo mocks
from the dash.
One gallant soldier sees me - damsel
undressed - pushes the emergency
button, door opens,
"Where are you headed?"
Fondu
The mottled melting pot
of colour and taste
bubbles invitingly
flame tickles bulbous pot
wanting in on the action
skewers awry, stabbing
fruit specimens into molten
chocolate develops a skin if left
too long. Kiwifruit plunged
beneath into the creamy rich depths
Fondu for two,
Pacific flavour if you please.
Peruvian mangoes
Philippine bananas,
Hawaiian pineapples and a bit
of coconut rough.
Fusion of flavours
from all corners of the globe.
What is a kiwifruit these days?
Previously a chinese gooseberry
now synonymous with Zespri -
holding global hands
or just political handstands?
The settlers have settled
and now when others claim 'kiwi'
feathers get ruffled.
Us 4th, 5th, 6th generation kiwis
know the lay of the land -
we can help you find where
you stand.
Welcome to New Zealand
The oceania melting pot
Here, delectable and delightful
fresh fruit, F.O.B.
Skewer them into the white
chocolate sea,
heated by the gentle flames
of passive aggression
a side-plate of racial tension
sprinkled with tainted tolerance
Technicolour multi-cultural fruit
salad in the making
baked with a few other bits,
it may become a rich paradise, tart.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Some more diamonds in the rough...
Hey guys,
Thought I'd just share a few of my recent creations. They're far from 'complete', but they're - well - here, have a look for yourself.
Drive
You are traversing
on me, your road
to recovery
Will you drive?
And if so, where
Do I lead?
Down a garish bank
Slippery when wet
Over the edge
Clutch, brake, triggering
Some acceleration
Rediscovering destination
You journey
Hope to recover some
embers of dreams
still glimmering in the corners
of your mind.
I am the flint
You are the would-be
fiery creature, driven
catalyst to a cautious
anti-climax.
Free Choice
The effervescent question
I want, greed to know
why
you know the hearts of men
why
then, you must have known his and
why
he was in such a state and
why
he planned and plotted
why
and how he'd end his life,
why
multiple times even
why
I prayed and begged
why
did you listen?
why
didn't you do something?
Why
couldn't I have stopped it?
Why
couldn't you?
So then why didn't you?
Big Bang Theory
When I was a kid I loved
rollercoasters, the turns
and the dips and bumps and click-clack
of the climb, clattering to the
concave bend and the
scream-worthy downhill descent into
the loop-de-loop, the cars following,
like tip-toppling dominoes, then
diving into a corkscrew twist.
Breathless, my brothers and I, our blood
pumped like the brakes as the
cars pulled in, announcing
our cue to exit
So we'd run around, repeat, on loop.
Children's hi-jinx changed to
teenage attitude. Objectional opinions
music of the mood, golden solitude.
The violent inner veering, mix of
angst and low riding pants.
And he went downhill.
And then the rollercoaster was no longer fun.
There'd been the preamble, the little
dips to get the butterflies stirred up
in your gut. Now the stakes were higher -
as were his ideals - and the track
his rollercoaster car careered off:
there was danger of a dive.
We'd been trekking the uphill before
climbing the climax, breathing
getting shorter, grin/grimace of
tense ecstacy. I
was hoping it would
be smooth for a bit, just a touch -
uphill had harrowed us with the threat
that what goes up must come down
He'd been rescued off the tracks
once before. Though he had been
trailing in the dips awhile, the trips
back up were alive with promise -
downhill dive less likely.
This time he made
sure that rescue was redundant.
He loosed the car
from the rollercoaster train, and like a run
away, it was soon overcome.
He met his end in the downhill, scream.
Polished versions to come!!
Thought I'd just share a few of my recent creations. They're far from 'complete', but they're - well - here, have a look for yourself.
Drive
You are traversing
on me, your road
to recovery
Will you drive?
And if so, where
Do I lead?
Down a garish bank
Slippery when wet
Over the edge
Clutch, brake, triggering
Some acceleration
Rediscovering destination
You journey
Hope to recover some
embers of dreams
still glimmering in the corners
of your mind.
I am the flint
You are the would-be
fiery creature, driven
catalyst to a cautious
anti-climax.
Free Choice
The effervescent question
I want, greed to know
why
you know the hearts of men
why
then, you must have known his and
why
he was in such a state and
why
he planned and plotted
why
and how he'd end his life,
why
multiple times even
why
I prayed and begged
why
did you listen?
why
didn't you do something?
Why
couldn't I have stopped it?
Why
couldn't you?
So then why didn't you?
Big Bang Theory
When I was a kid I loved
rollercoasters, the turns
and the dips and bumps and click-clack
of the climb, clattering to the
concave bend and the
scream-worthy downhill descent into
the loop-de-loop, the cars following,
like tip-toppling dominoes, then
diving into a corkscrew twist.
Breathless, my brothers and I, our blood
pumped like the brakes as the
cars pulled in, announcing
our cue to exit
So we'd run around, repeat, on loop.
Children's hi-jinx changed to
teenage attitude. Objectional opinions
music of the mood, golden solitude.
The violent inner veering, mix of
angst and low riding pants.
And he went downhill.
And then the rollercoaster was no longer fun.
There'd been the preamble, the little
dips to get the butterflies stirred up
in your gut. Now the stakes were higher -
as were his ideals - and the track
his rollercoaster car careered off:
there was danger of a dive.
We'd been trekking the uphill before
climbing the climax, breathing
getting shorter, grin/grimace of
tense ecstacy. I
was hoping it would
be smooth for a bit, just a touch -
uphill had harrowed us with the threat
that what goes up must come down
He'd been rescued off the tracks
once before. Though he had been
trailing in the dips awhile, the trips
back up were alive with promise -
downhill dive less likely.
This time he made
sure that rescue was redundant.
He loosed the car
from the rollercoaster train, and like a run
away, it was soon overcome.
He met his end in the downhill, scream.
Polished versions to come!!
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Random Unpolished Non-sense!
My First
By Lauren Brooking.
You were - are - my first draft
I like you just as you. Are
you aptly splayed on my page,
with verve and wit?
Yea, you don't need an edit-
I like you, just.
As you are crude, coarse
adequate, you gleam unpolished
Chisel or refine? Expose?
Oh no! You are all my own, I like
you, just as you are.
Maybe I'll come back to you
in six months, or years
will have changed you, or
I? And my fancy may sour
but you will always be my first
draft, ghost of writer's past.
So like faded photographs
of fair days farewelled, I will
fondly roam through your adverbly
verbs, your wordy winks at
the lurid language, you, first
draft will always be
with, in, throughout, me.
Finally flee-flying in the wind
I free you, littered literature
You are the first chapter
Let the novelty wear and the book
begin. You are a mere introduction
Will you stay thus splayed
on my page?
Even if I move on?
And editor or none,
there you'll be
verbose, smiling inanely
back at me.
My adventure of lexicon lassoing,
harness then herd into lines
sometimes words work
and when uncooperative
the author's revenge:
cross, delete, bin.
But for now, I like you
Just as you are.
She’s Best Served Cold
9 May 2011
Her curves like a road well-travelled,
her top comes off with a plaintive sigh.
She is intoxicating with
her luscious scent,
but she is coy.
Anticipation bubbles like lava-
She toys with you, as an autumn breeze.
Her sparkling eye glints back at
Your reflection, crystallized beside
Her wink, you her willing prey.
She’s magnetic, like a player
to the score line.
She’s best served
cold, and a shiver runs down your
spine like an avalanche, as you
traverse towards her inviting throat.
The first gulp
Then another. She tacitly soothes
conscience with seductive
whispers in your ear.
She engulfs you as you consume her.
She drizzles confidence, sweetens
thoughts, hushes judgments; more!
You the wanton addict-
She is as provocative as a dare.
Slip of the Tongue
I’m sorry, I said it
It just tripped out
It wasn’t blurted or overt,
just a whisper, a syllabic
s
l
i
p
Did I mean it? Did I?
Is that relevant?
I said it, you quit, and I
regret it.
Or I’m supposed to.
Happy?
I know you told me not to
But I did
I know you said you hate birthdays
But you can’t really, not really
I know you told us no gifts
But we couldn’t help ourselves
I know your eyes trilled rage
But you broke my foot.
By Lauren Brooking.
You were - are - my first draft
I like you just as you. Are
you aptly splayed on my page,
with verve and wit?
Yea, you don't need an edit-
I like you, just.
As you are crude, coarse
adequate, you gleam unpolished
Chisel or refine? Expose?
Oh no! You are all my own, I like
you, just as you are.
Maybe I'll come back to you
in six months, or years
will have changed you, or
I? And my fancy may sour
but you will always be my first
draft, ghost of writer's past.
So like faded photographs
of fair days farewelled, I will
fondly roam through your adverbly
verbs, your wordy winks at
the lurid language, you, first
draft will always be
with, in, throughout, me.
Finally flee-flying in the wind
I free you, littered literature
You are the first chapter
Let the novelty wear and the book
begin. You are a mere introduction
Will you stay thus splayed
on my page?
Even if I move on?
And editor or none,
there you'll be
verbose, smiling inanely
back at me.
My adventure of lexicon lassoing,
harness then herd into lines
sometimes words work
and when uncooperative
the author's revenge:
cross, delete, bin.
But for now, I like you
Just as you are.
She’s Best Served Cold
9 May 2011
Her curves like a road well-travelled,
her top comes off with a plaintive sigh.
She is intoxicating with
her luscious scent,
but she is coy.
Anticipation bubbles like lava-
She toys with you, as an autumn breeze.
Her sparkling eye glints back at
Your reflection, crystallized beside
Her wink, you her willing prey.
She’s magnetic, like a player
to the score line.
She’s best served
cold, and a shiver runs down your
spine like an avalanche, as you
traverse towards her inviting throat.
The first gulp
Then another. She tacitly soothes
conscience with seductive
whispers in your ear.
She engulfs you as you consume her.
She drizzles confidence, sweetens
thoughts, hushes judgments; more!
You the wanton addict-
She is as provocative as a dare.
Slip of the Tongue
I’m sorry, I said it
It just tripped out
It wasn’t blurted or overt,
just a whisper, a syllabic
s
l
i
p
Did I mean it? Did I?
Is that relevant?
I said it, you quit, and I
regret it.
Or I’m supposed to.
Happy?
I know you told me not to
But I did
I know you said you hate birthdays
But you can’t really, not really
I know you told us no gifts
But we couldn’t help ourselves
I know your eyes trilled rage
But you broke my foot.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Unmissable - for Peter
This poem was written after years of watching my brother, Peter, trying to forge a place in the world for himself. He struggled with depression, with above-average-ness and with being misunderstood. Some might say he lost that struggle - I think otherwise...
Unmissable
Yet unnoticeable.
I see you.
Tender is off
Your agenda,
Gentle giant
Turned defiant,
Society
Didn’t respect your piety:
Wanted more variety.
Put off
When they scoffed.
Conformity
Was absorbency,
Sponging,
Plunging you
Deeper into
Their conditions,
Darker seemed
Your ambitions,
The harder
They tried,
The faster
You defied,
The further
You sank
Down, down, down
The rank.
Rebelled
Or repelled?
Depressed
Or repressed?
Your affliction
Or society’s contradiction?
Expecting
But never accepting
Infecting
But never deflecting
Wanting
But never giving
Dying
Without really living.
Disappointed
By the disjointed
Frustrated
By the futile,
You feel fragile,
Intimating the intimate
But you’re intimidated
Instead of love
War,
Instead of fun
Bore,
Instead of respect
Neglect,
Instead of life
Strife.
You suffer
Through a buffer,
Content with discontentment,
You strive for nothing more
Than being alive.
Your potential
Is exponential
I wish you could see
How great you could be
If you’d let yourself
Do more than just mess yourself
Up.
You could erupt, escape
From the deep, dark depths,
Find the hero inside you
And muster the strength
To be happy,
To be free,
Come and live
On the fun side
(With me! :) )
Unmissable
Yet unnoticeable.
I see you.
Tender is off
Your agenda,
Gentle giant
Turned defiant,
Society
Didn’t respect your piety:
Wanted more variety.
Put off
When they scoffed.
Conformity
Was absorbency,
Sponging,
Plunging you
Deeper into
Their conditions,
Darker seemed
Your ambitions,
The harder
They tried,
The faster
You defied,
The further
You sank
Down, down, down
The rank.
Rebelled
Or repelled?
Depressed
Or repressed?
Your affliction
Or society’s contradiction?
Expecting
But never accepting
Infecting
But never deflecting
Wanting
But never giving
Dying
Without really living.
Disappointed
By the disjointed
Frustrated
By the futile,
You feel fragile,
Intimating the intimate
But you’re intimidated
Instead of love
War,
Instead of fun
Bore,
Instead of respect
Neglect,
Instead of life
Strife.
You suffer
Through a buffer,
Content with discontentment,
You strive for nothing more
Than being alive.
Your potential
Is exponential
I wish you could see
How great you could be
If you’d let yourself
Do more than just mess yourself
Up.
You could erupt, escape
From the deep, dark depths,
Find the hero inside you
And muster the strength
To be happy,
To be free,
Come and live
On the fun side
(With me! :) )
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Binned
I
Men, brave, sneak in
War, waged on exposed woman
Unarmed man shot. Killed.
Buried at sea
(Conveniently)
Hurrah!
II
The Pied Puppet leads the march
Justice has been done
God bless America!
For justice, for taking life
For killing another’s wife.
An eye for a lie
The Pied Puppet mesmerizes
The crowd
Cries and raises
Their banner - star-spangled
Freedom sneaks
And bravery strangles
The Pied Puppet proclaims:
"Truth - take it and eat!
It may turn the stomach sour
But it will taste honey-sweet"
III
Defeated.
Who?
Enigmatic enemy
Flesh pounded
Aromatic tale, like
Pentagonal cordite
Demagogues point
True North;
Though navigating by that compass
May lead in fool circles
Spin into control
Of - by - for the people
but which people?
Those more equal?
All the world's a stage
And all the people in it
Merely being played.
Men, brave, sneak in
War, waged on exposed woman
Unarmed man shot. Killed.
Buried at sea
(Conveniently)
Hurrah!
II
The Pied Puppet leads the march
Justice has been done
God bless America!
For justice, for taking life
For killing another’s wife.
An eye for a lie
The Pied Puppet mesmerizes
The crowd
Cries and raises
Their banner - star-spangled
Freedom sneaks
And bravery strangles
The Pied Puppet proclaims:
"Truth - take it and eat!
It may turn the stomach sour
But it will taste honey-sweet"
III
Defeated.
Who?
Enigmatic enemy
Flesh pounded
Aromatic tale, like
Pentagonal cordite
Demagogues point
True North;
Though navigating by that compass
May lead in fool circles
Spin into control
Of - by - for the people
but which people?
Those more equal?
All the world's a stage
And all the people in it
Merely being played.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Glitter
(Rated M - contains sexual references, graphic mental images, adult content and explicit language)
By Lauren Brooking.
You fling off your shimmering clothes faster than an eager whore and inspect your hands again, turning another light on and bringing them closer to get another look. You roll your hand over and over in the light to see if any sparkle can be seen. There's an entire patch still in between your fourth and fifth fingers! You start the tap raining down upon your hand again, hoping it'll be like a chemical shower after acid rain.
You're conscious that you're overreacting and you're not entirely sure why. The little shiny squares are starting to make your skin crawl! Just a fall, just a handshake! How could it have affected you so?
You're flagrantly aware that your son's embarrassed eyes are watching you from a safe distance down the hall.
Your son had been at his easel this morning when you'd come home for your weekly Monday afternoon tennis match with him. You looked over his shoulder at his newest work,a ferocious tiger. You'd done a good job of imparting what it meant to be a man. You'd thought to yourself that a tiger personified many of the qualities that you and he shared - tenacity, ferocity, competitiveness, fearsomeness. You were proud your son had inherited these qualities, to be able to pass them on. He would go far.
You and your son had battled on the tennis court as you imagined creatures with such veracity might have in the wild. He'd won - just - 6-7. You clapped him on the shoulder in a good-natured congratulatory way, admitting defeat. Tennis, like tigers, preys on the weaknesses of others. 'That's my boy' you'd thought, reconciling the loss to yourself.
"Guess I better go and get dinner." You embrace the tradition of loser buys.
"Yeah, lets crank up the barbie, dad! Can you grab some of those lamb and mint sausages?' Your son replies with a smug grin tickling the corners of his mouth.
"Sure, did you want to invite some of your mates over? May as well have a few beers and make a night of it."
"Dad, it's only Monday!" Although he's already pulled out his phone to take you up on the offer. You drop him home on orders to prepare everything for a feast while you go into town, fill up the gas bottle and pick up supplies from the butcher and the supermarket.
"Hey Dave!" Greeting the childhood friend who doubles as a service station attendant "Fill her up mate" hoisting the gas bottle onto the stand.
"Pete, mate, how ya doing?" Dave grinned "I hear that son of yours is doing an art course this year."
"Yeah, not really sure how he got to be so good at that - must be from his mother. He tells me it's just a gap year until he decides what to do with himself."
"Does that mean he gets to do paintings of naked chicks like all those old dudes?" Then Dave mused, "I guess I never see Jamie with any girls, you ever get a bit concerned about that, Pete?"
"I think he's just a bit shy, you know, just a bit of a late bloomer. He has beautiful paintings of women all over his room though, so not really losing sleep over it, eh mate."
Dave places the gas bottle back in the muddy four wheel drive.
"He can still whip my butt on the tennis court and I think the hunter in him is starting to come out - there was a massive canvas with a tiger painted on it in his room this morning! You can see the prey reflected in the tiger's eyes."
"So when he cuts your hair, you're okay with that?"
"If we can have a female prime minister, female CEOs and female managers, I'm sure my son cutting my hair is not that big a deal," you say, nonchalantly returning the back-hander. You shake your head at Dave's ignorance and small-mindedness. Getting a sociology lecturer to bite on a personal note seemed to make Dave's day. You crank up AC/DC as you rev your engine and head for home, leaving behind all jeers and sly insinuations.
The house is devoid of the hum of hungry activity you were expecting. Unloading the BBQ meat pack, lamb and mint sausages and the beer into the fridge, you see if Jamie has done the prep. He looks to have dug up the other gas bottle that you couldn't find in your flurry before. O well, at least there'd be more for later. The BBQ appears to be going - unmanned - and there's onions frying away. You turn it off and muse that this is very out of character - your son wouldn't normally be so absent-minded. Where is Jamie anyway?
Something catches your eye. There's a trail of glitter leading inside from the back doorstep. It dazzles in the sunlight with its autumnal tones, a fusion of pumpkin orange, gold-medal yellow and Moulin-rouge red. You follow it, curiosity climbing as you do, up the glitter-coated stairs to Jamie's loft, past the en suite and to your son's room.
Knocking briefly, you swing open the door. Your eyes are affronted by your naked son and another naked someone in what you can only hope is a wrestling move. Frozen in the doorway, you unwillingly watch as your son's buttocks flex and hips thrust rhythmically with the blasting Metallica. Both Jamie and the someone are adding to the shrill screams filling the room. Jamie's someone has long shaggy blonde hair covering their face, and a very masculine back. You hope against hope that this is some sort of training that is going to improve Jamie's tennis game, not ready to believe the reality your gut is trying to enforce. After the seconds it's taken for reality to sink in, a scream emits from deep in your belly. Their faces turn to meet yours - you see the blonde's stubble. Their obvious horror mirrors yours.
Sense melts the snap-frozen effect of shock, allowing you to slam the door. You race back downstairs, but in your haste you trip, and tumble down the shimmering boards. You try to break your fall by commando rolling and you land in a glittering heap at the bottom of the stairs. "Fuck, Dave was right?"
You fetch the meat from the fridge, re-ignite the BBQ, open a beer.
As the sausages are browning and the porterhouse steaks are getting to their medium-rare best, Jamie appears hand in hand with someone who he introduces to you as Taylor. They look like they've had a similar journey down the stairs, as they're both covered in the fiery colours of glitter which you've been brushing off yourself for the last twenty minutes.
You unconsciously eye Taylor up and down. He looks like a respectable enough character, well-presented, though your memory will be forever tattooed with the vision of his naked body interlocked with your son.
Jamie smiles hopefully, and Taylor presents his hand. His calloused hand has more shine than a mardi gras. Manners dictate that you shake it, and you do so, though unsure what is currently driving your movements. You return their smiles half-heartedly and go on a mental orienteering course to recover your wits.
It feels like a chemistry lab has exploded on your insides.
Just breathe.
It's fine.
This is totally fine.
Really!
My son is gay.
My son is gay?
My son is gay?
I'm a sociology lecturer. I take lectures about being and becoming homosexual and homosexual sub-culture. I have umpired the Out Games tennis matches. I have been to the gay rights march in my younger days with my uncle who's flagrantly gay. Homosexuality is an acceptable lifestyle choice. There are plenty of people out there of every kind of orientation that lead happy, successful lives and contribute positively to society.
But this is how he tells me? Really?
Aced.
Has it really never occurred to you that Jamie could be batting for the other team? Why does it matter? He's still your son. Except now you feel Jamie has put a glittering ten foot baton between you.
The steaks are done. Robotically, you bring them in and set them on the table. Jamie and Taylor follow bringing plates, cutlery, and condiments. As you settle yourself at the head of the table, you see the trail of glitter has progressed into the living room. Following it, your eye lands on the tiger painting, nestled majestically on the easel. Every facet of the tiger's burly countenance is covered in glitter, striking sparkling contrasts between orange, black, white, red and yellow.
Jamie follows your eye.
"Sorry Dad, I brought the painting down here to dry. The air flow is better and the canvas dries more thoroughly when it's out in the open."
You hope there's nothing else that your son is planning to bring out into the open today. When you look more closely, the prey reflected in the tiger's eyes seems to almost take on the image of a man.
"You okay, Dad?"
"Yeah son, I'm fine, fine," smiling weakly at Taylor, "Did Jamie tell you about our tennis game?"
As Taylor replies, you reach for a steak. You look down at your hands, aghast! They're resplendent, glitter everywhere, shimmering in the sunlight coming in through the window behind your chair.
By Lauren Brooking.
You fling off your shimmering clothes faster than an eager whore and inspect your hands again, turning another light on and bringing them closer to get another look. You roll your hand over and over in the light to see if any sparkle can be seen. There's an entire patch still in between your fourth and fifth fingers! You start the tap raining down upon your hand again, hoping it'll be like a chemical shower after acid rain.
You're conscious that you're overreacting and you're not entirely sure why. The little shiny squares are starting to make your skin crawl! Just a fall, just a handshake! How could it have affected you so?
You're flagrantly aware that your son's embarrassed eyes are watching you from a safe distance down the hall.
Your son had been at his easel this morning when you'd come home for your weekly Monday afternoon tennis match with him. You looked over his shoulder at his newest work,a ferocious tiger. You'd done a good job of imparting what it meant to be a man. You'd thought to yourself that a tiger personified many of the qualities that you and he shared - tenacity, ferocity, competitiveness, fearsomeness. You were proud your son had inherited these qualities, to be able to pass them on. He would go far.
You and your son had battled on the tennis court as you imagined creatures with such veracity might have in the wild. He'd won - just - 6-7. You clapped him on the shoulder in a good-natured congratulatory way, admitting defeat. Tennis, like tigers, preys on the weaknesses of others. 'That's my boy' you'd thought, reconciling the loss to yourself.
"Guess I better go and get dinner." You embrace the tradition of loser buys.
"Yeah, lets crank up the barbie, dad! Can you grab some of those lamb and mint sausages?' Your son replies with a smug grin tickling the corners of his mouth.
"Sure, did you want to invite some of your mates over? May as well have a few beers and make a night of it."
"Dad, it's only Monday!" Although he's already pulled out his phone to take you up on the offer. You drop him home on orders to prepare everything for a feast while you go into town, fill up the gas bottle and pick up supplies from the butcher and the supermarket.
"Hey Dave!" Greeting the childhood friend who doubles as a service station attendant "Fill her up mate" hoisting the gas bottle onto the stand.
"Pete, mate, how ya doing?" Dave grinned "I hear that son of yours is doing an art course this year."
"Yeah, not really sure how he got to be so good at that - must be from his mother. He tells me it's just a gap year until he decides what to do with himself."
"Does that mean he gets to do paintings of naked chicks like all those old dudes?" Then Dave mused, "I guess I never see Jamie with any girls, you ever get a bit concerned about that, Pete?"
"I think he's just a bit shy, you know, just a bit of a late bloomer. He has beautiful paintings of women all over his room though, so not really losing sleep over it, eh mate."
Dave places the gas bottle back in the muddy four wheel drive.
"He can still whip my butt on the tennis court and I think the hunter in him is starting to come out - there was a massive canvas with a tiger painted on it in his room this morning! You can see the prey reflected in the tiger's eyes."
"So when he cuts your hair, you're okay with that?"
"If we can have a female prime minister, female CEOs and female managers, I'm sure my son cutting my hair is not that big a deal," you say, nonchalantly returning the back-hander. You shake your head at Dave's ignorance and small-mindedness. Getting a sociology lecturer to bite on a personal note seemed to make Dave's day. You crank up AC/DC as you rev your engine and head for home, leaving behind all jeers and sly insinuations.
The house is devoid of the hum of hungry activity you were expecting. Unloading the BBQ meat pack, lamb and mint sausages and the beer into the fridge, you see if Jamie has done the prep. He looks to have dug up the other gas bottle that you couldn't find in your flurry before. O well, at least there'd be more for later. The BBQ appears to be going - unmanned - and there's onions frying away. You turn it off and muse that this is very out of character - your son wouldn't normally be so absent-minded. Where is Jamie anyway?
Something catches your eye. There's a trail of glitter leading inside from the back doorstep. It dazzles in the sunlight with its autumnal tones, a fusion of pumpkin orange, gold-medal yellow and Moulin-rouge red. You follow it, curiosity climbing as you do, up the glitter-coated stairs to Jamie's loft, past the en suite and to your son's room.
Knocking briefly, you swing open the door. Your eyes are affronted by your naked son and another naked someone in what you can only hope is a wrestling move. Frozen in the doorway, you unwillingly watch as your son's buttocks flex and hips thrust rhythmically with the blasting Metallica. Both Jamie and the someone are adding to the shrill screams filling the room. Jamie's someone has long shaggy blonde hair covering their face, and a very masculine back. You hope against hope that this is some sort of training that is going to improve Jamie's tennis game, not ready to believe the reality your gut is trying to enforce. After the seconds it's taken for reality to sink in, a scream emits from deep in your belly. Their faces turn to meet yours - you see the blonde's stubble. Their obvious horror mirrors yours.
Sense melts the snap-frozen effect of shock, allowing you to slam the door. You race back downstairs, but in your haste you trip, and tumble down the shimmering boards. You try to break your fall by commando rolling and you land in a glittering heap at the bottom of the stairs. "Fuck, Dave was right?"
You fetch the meat from the fridge, re-ignite the BBQ, open a beer.
As the sausages are browning and the porterhouse steaks are getting to their medium-rare best, Jamie appears hand in hand with someone who he introduces to you as Taylor. They look like they've had a similar journey down the stairs, as they're both covered in the fiery colours of glitter which you've been brushing off yourself for the last twenty minutes.
You unconsciously eye Taylor up and down. He looks like a respectable enough character, well-presented, though your memory will be forever tattooed with the vision of his naked body interlocked with your son.
Jamie smiles hopefully, and Taylor presents his hand. His calloused hand has more shine than a mardi gras. Manners dictate that you shake it, and you do so, though unsure what is currently driving your movements. You return their smiles half-heartedly and go on a mental orienteering course to recover your wits.
It feels like a chemistry lab has exploded on your insides.
Just breathe.
It's fine.
This is totally fine.
Really!
My son is gay.
My son is gay?
My son is gay?
I'm a sociology lecturer. I take lectures about being and becoming homosexual and homosexual sub-culture. I have umpired the Out Games tennis matches. I have been to the gay rights march in my younger days with my uncle who's flagrantly gay. Homosexuality is an acceptable lifestyle choice. There are plenty of people out there of every kind of orientation that lead happy, successful lives and contribute positively to society.
But this is how he tells me? Really?
Aced.
Has it really never occurred to you that Jamie could be batting for the other team? Why does it matter? He's still your son. Except now you feel Jamie has put a glittering ten foot baton between you.
The steaks are done. Robotically, you bring them in and set them on the table. Jamie and Taylor follow bringing plates, cutlery, and condiments. As you settle yourself at the head of the table, you see the trail of glitter has progressed into the living room. Following it, your eye lands on the tiger painting, nestled majestically on the easel. Every facet of the tiger's burly countenance is covered in glitter, striking sparkling contrasts between orange, black, white, red and yellow.
Jamie follows your eye.
"Sorry Dad, I brought the painting down here to dry. The air flow is better and the canvas dries more thoroughly when it's out in the open."
You hope there's nothing else that your son is planning to bring out into the open today. When you look more closely, the prey reflected in the tiger's eyes seems to almost take on the image of a man.
"You okay, Dad?"
"Yeah son, I'm fine, fine," smiling weakly at Taylor, "Did Jamie tell you about our tennis game?"
As Taylor replies, you reach for a steak. You look down at your hands, aghast! They're resplendent, glitter everywhere, shimmering in the sunlight coming in through the window behind your chair.
Goodbye Tarzan
Who thought of putting the word 'fun' in funeral? you think as you mull over the programme. And how do you condense someone onto a double-sided A4 page? He was 'just' a friend, but he'd been your best friend. You scan the page for your opportunity.
One of the first to arrive, you take a pew, three rows back, to the right, seeking the shelter of the wall. You notice two knots in the wood just above your right shoulder; they're like your eyes, watching, but not seeing.
You gaze as the church seems to elasticize to accommodate the burgeoning crowd. A steady trickle of people flow in down the aisle, tears streaming down their face. The rain on the nearby window, explosive as a firecracker, is how you would like to cry.
You are unfamiliar with the church setting but follow the cues of those who've come to comfort and cry, though they've invaded your pew.
You join in the sombre hush that settles over the building as the oak coffin is carried in.
You were part of the woodwork of his life, present as the rings formed. You saw him grow tall and seemingly strong,
Why? Why didn't I see this coming? But you didn't. You didn't see how the invisible insidious rot consumed his vitality. The roots of your lives had been so intertwined that when he fell, it was impossible for you not to be uprooted too.
Open mic. Each step to the lecturn is the longest of your life; Ent-like lumbering. You present a bottle of Lift Plus and a Smashbrothers Gamecube game - homage to the countless hours that were spent in friendly rivalry; paintballs or pixels. You begin speaking and a landslide of stories cascade out - building ponga-branch forts, stick fighting on precarious ledges, rebuilding speakers and LAN parties, gaming for whole weekends! You smile as you mention the oak in Bertram's Reserve that was home to the tree swing, turning little boys into Tarzans.
"I wish you'd called me, man, I wish you'd called me."
You touch the head of the coffin where Peter lies, lingering for a moment. You leave the bottle and the game nestled in the bouquet of lilies, retreating back to the shelter of the wall.
As the funeral comes to a close, five people emerge to carry Peter out. Five people surround the coffin. Five. There's a gap. It needs to be filled. But you weren't asked.
What if the sixth person's just in the loo?
The family in the front row look around in anxious anticipation, obviously waiting for another person to fill the void. It is out of character for the family not to have organised this earlier; but what about today is normal?
You unintentionally catch his mother's eye and she silently pleads with you.
You can't do it, getting up once was hard enough. You try to quell the nagging voice in your head, Steven will do it, surely!
But you see Steven visibly shaking with sobs. They were brothers; but they were so much more than 'just' brothers.
His mother's eyes still have you pinned like an arrow to a target - bright blue flashes that ask, what would Peter have done for you?
The answer is not as amicable as she thinks, but it hits a bullseye. You unconsciously replace it with the now all-too-familiar question: what could I have done for him sooner?
You grasp the handle and shoulder Peter's girth.
The tender oak returns to the forest.
No more Tarzan.
RIP Peter Brooking 15.3.1989-3.6-2010
One of the first to arrive, you take a pew, three rows back, to the right, seeking the shelter of the wall. You notice two knots in the wood just above your right shoulder; they're like your eyes, watching, but not seeing.
You gaze as the church seems to elasticize to accommodate the burgeoning crowd. A steady trickle of people flow in down the aisle, tears streaming down their face. The rain on the nearby window, explosive as a firecracker, is how you would like to cry.
You are unfamiliar with the church setting but follow the cues of those who've come to comfort and cry, though they've invaded your pew.
You join in the sombre hush that settles over the building as the oak coffin is carried in.
You were part of the woodwork of his life, present as the rings formed. You saw him grow tall and seemingly strong,
Why? Why didn't I see this coming? But you didn't. You didn't see how the invisible insidious rot consumed his vitality. The roots of your lives had been so intertwined that when he fell, it was impossible for you not to be uprooted too.
Open mic. Each step to the lecturn is the longest of your life; Ent-like lumbering. You present a bottle of Lift Plus and a Smashbrothers Gamecube game - homage to the countless hours that were spent in friendly rivalry; paintballs or pixels. You begin speaking and a landslide of stories cascade out - building ponga-branch forts, stick fighting on precarious ledges, rebuilding speakers and LAN parties, gaming for whole weekends! You smile as you mention the oak in Bertram's Reserve that was home to the tree swing, turning little boys into Tarzans.
"I wish you'd called me, man, I wish you'd called me."
You touch the head of the coffin where Peter lies, lingering for a moment. You leave the bottle and the game nestled in the bouquet of lilies, retreating back to the shelter of the wall.
As the funeral comes to a close, five people emerge to carry Peter out. Five people surround the coffin. Five. There's a gap. It needs to be filled. But you weren't asked.
What if the sixth person's just in the loo?
The family in the front row look around in anxious anticipation, obviously waiting for another person to fill the void. It is out of character for the family not to have organised this earlier; but what about today is normal?
You unintentionally catch his mother's eye and she silently pleads with you.
You can't do it, getting up once was hard enough. You try to quell the nagging voice in your head, Steven will do it, surely!
But you see Steven visibly shaking with sobs. They were brothers; but they were so much more than 'just' brothers.
His mother's eyes still have you pinned like an arrow to a target - bright blue flashes that ask, what would Peter have done for you?
The answer is not as amicable as she thinks, but it hits a bullseye. You unconsciously replace it with the now all-too-familiar question: what could I have done for him sooner?
You grasp the handle and shoulder Peter's girth.
The tender oak returns to the forest.
No more Tarzan.
RIP Peter Brooking 15.3.1989-3.6-2010
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Feel the Freedom of Feeling
In a world of cold hard steel,
Machines and squares,
People are expected
To conform, to be
Boxed in, with laws and rules
Emotions are shunned
Passion is put down
And almost punished
Heaving, heartfelt yearning
Is criticized for burning
Suppressed, bottled up,
People who are defined
By how they feel
Are confined in a world
Where others can’t deal
With them
With their fervour
Their flavour
The spice of their life
Irrational, illogical, impulsive
Belittled, undermined, deterred
By legalistic regulations
And bureaucratic cogs
In a maze of strangling clockwork
Routine extinguishing impulse
The mundane killing excitement
Everything litigated
Anticipated, eventually hated
With happiness compromised
For efficiency
It’s like living
Without being alive.
Cold as ice
Hard as rocks
Tough as nails
Bullet proof
Smile proof
The filter stops
Good and bad
Happy and sad
Let the guard down
Take the good
With the bad.
Remove that carrot from
Its current position
Let your hair down
Do something daft,
Don’t fear the label crazy
(Creatively Releasing All Zaney Yearnings!!)
Before it’s replaced by insane
Don’t bury emotions
Hold them in check,
Relinquish them at your discretion
Jump for joy,
Cry, weep, grieve,
Muscles are there
For smiling and frowning
Validate yourself
Express emotion
Purvey passion
Be the person
You were created to be!
Feel the freedom of feeling.
Machines and squares,
People are expected
To conform, to be
Boxed in, with laws and rules
Emotions are shunned
Passion is put down
And almost punished
Heaving, heartfelt yearning
Is criticized for burning
Suppressed, bottled up,
People who are defined
By how they feel
Are confined in a world
Where others can’t deal
With them
With their fervour
Their flavour
The spice of their life
Irrational, illogical, impulsive
Belittled, undermined, deterred
By legalistic regulations
And bureaucratic cogs
In a maze of strangling clockwork
Routine extinguishing impulse
The mundane killing excitement
Everything litigated
Anticipated, eventually hated
With happiness compromised
For efficiency
It’s like living
Without being alive.
Cold as ice
Hard as rocks
Tough as nails
Bullet proof
Smile proof
The filter stops
Good and bad
Happy and sad
Let the guard down
Take the good
With the bad.
Remove that carrot from
Its current position
Let your hair down
Do something daft,
Don’t fear the label crazy
(Creatively Releasing All Zaney Yearnings!!)
Before it’s replaced by insane
Don’t bury emotions
Hold them in check,
Relinquish them at your discretion
Jump for joy,
Cry, weep, grieve,
Muscles are there
For smiling and frowning
Validate yourself
Express emotion
Purvey passion
Be the person
You were created to be!
Feel the freedom of feeling.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
My Imaginary Friend
You are a figment of my fantasy
A vapid imagining, a wish, a dream,
An ideal, parallel to reality.
I’m in awe at the depth of my feelings,
My yearning to see, hear you, has not quelled with time
These feelings counteract logic,
You exist in the corners of my consciousness, lurking
On the fringes of my thoughts, there.
A constant in my sentimental contemplations,
My silly school-girl swooning.
You are shrouded with questions,
Of wondering, whys and what ifs
I wish reality was present to challenge the whimsical fantasy,
My mind has given you virtue, attributes, life; undeserved.
I try to ignore, I try to forget
But so strong is the ghost of memories bittersweet,
Intangible, lingering; there, but not.
I want the fact to defeat the fiction
My mind has put you on a pedestal, perfect.
And now worships you, fantasy.
The subconscious standard used to measure others,
What I wouldn’t give to free my mind from your shackles!
Your ghost is an imbalanced, biased version of the truth,
Warped and demented by naivety, time and romantic delusions
I long for release
It haunts me, taunts me,
Nothing else can quite measure up.
When I’m awake you plague my thoughts,
You intrude on my dreams in sleep.
So great is the passion with which I both love and hate you!
I am a prisoner to memories and imaginings of you,
Your apparition holds me captive.
I long to see you, to shatter this perfect picture,
I want the fantasies to end,
Come, return romanticized reveries into reality;
Whatever that may be.
- By Lauren Brooking
2007
A vapid imagining, a wish, a dream,
An ideal, parallel to reality.
I’m in awe at the depth of my feelings,
My yearning to see, hear you, has not quelled with time
These feelings counteract logic,
You exist in the corners of my consciousness, lurking
On the fringes of my thoughts, there.
A constant in my sentimental contemplations,
My silly school-girl swooning.
You are shrouded with questions,
Of wondering, whys and what ifs
I wish reality was present to challenge the whimsical fantasy,
My mind has given you virtue, attributes, life; undeserved.
I try to ignore, I try to forget
But so strong is the ghost of memories bittersweet,
Intangible, lingering; there, but not.
I want the fact to defeat the fiction
My mind has put you on a pedestal, perfect.
And now worships you, fantasy.
The subconscious standard used to measure others,
What I wouldn’t give to free my mind from your shackles!
Your ghost is an imbalanced, biased version of the truth,
Warped and demented by naivety, time and romantic delusions
I long for release
It haunts me, taunts me,
Nothing else can quite measure up.
When I’m awake you plague my thoughts,
You intrude on my dreams in sleep.
So great is the passion with which I both love and hate you!
I am a prisoner to memories and imaginings of you,
Your apparition holds me captive.
I long to see you, to shatter this perfect picture,
I want the fantasies to end,
Come, return romanticized reveries into reality;
Whatever that may be.
- By Lauren Brooking
2007
Beauty Is In The Eye Of The Beholder
Blonde, skinny, blue eyes,
The Aryan dream
Doesn’t really matter
What’s on the inside
That parts unseen
She’s the trophy,
Yea, she’s the prize.
‘You are what you eat’ they say
She must be nothing,
Just empty, full of fluff and stuffing
Is this the ideal?
This what you want us to be?
Blonde Barbies
Who only look intelligent
With a script on TV?
What you gonna do?
Dress her up?
So you can rip it off
Then insert you
Can you insert a brain too?
Doesn’t really matter does it?
Brains don’t turn you on,
You’d much rather go
For one of the morons
Easy picking,
Finger licking
Later flicking
For the next one
No waiting round
You’re off like a gun
Sallow, mellow,
Excuses, excuses
You’re just shallow
As thick as a puddle
…As thin as a whistle
That’s how you like them,
That’s what does it for you
And just like the wind
You shoot right through
There one moment,
Gone the next
You left satisfied?
Was she really the best?
O no, wait, there’s still the rest
Of the bimbos
And blondes alike to do
You’ll never know
Until you screw all of them too!
Trust your lust,
They tell you,
‘Listen to your heart’
Give you a little hint:
Your heart doesn’t have a mouth!
You silenced it
That little voice is coming
From a little further south!
Look, listen to yourself
You’ve fallen hook, line and sinker
Into their trap
You’re another unthinker
Just look, want and chase
‘Look at that ass!’
Try looking at her face!
‘Wonder if she’s wearing silk or lace?’
There goes another personality
Gone to waste!
Just another tip;
You won’t find 3D women
In Playboy, Penthouse or Ralph
Careful use of airbrush and hairbrush
Make normal women look like ALF
Was Hitler really so wrong?
Killing people for real…
Is that better or worse
Than them killing themselves
To live up to an ideal?
Hitler might be dead
But the 3rd Reich lives on instead
Reporters, deporters, distorters
All have this image
Of the perfect woman,
They broadcast it everyday
In everyway, 24/7
We’re bombarded
With what we’re not
Then we think
We’re beautifully retarded
Seductress, enchantress,
But what about those
Who look like Loch Ness?
Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder?
I’d say beauty’s in the eye of the
be-moulder.
Written in 2004, age 17, after a rather horrible encounter with someone who said my boyfriend would dump me if I too many more chocolate biscuits.
The Aryan dream
Doesn’t really matter
What’s on the inside
That parts unseen
She’s the trophy,
Yea, she’s the prize.
‘You are what you eat’ they say
She must be nothing,
Just empty, full of fluff and stuffing
Is this the ideal?
This what you want us to be?
Blonde Barbies
Who only look intelligent
With a script on TV?
What you gonna do?
Dress her up?
So you can rip it off
Then insert you
Can you insert a brain too?
Doesn’t really matter does it?
Brains don’t turn you on,
You’d much rather go
For one of the morons
Easy picking,
Finger licking
Later flicking
For the next one
No waiting round
You’re off like a gun
Sallow, mellow,
Excuses, excuses
You’re just shallow
As thick as a puddle
…As thin as a whistle
That’s how you like them,
That’s what does it for you
And just like the wind
You shoot right through
There one moment,
Gone the next
You left satisfied?
Was she really the best?
O no, wait, there’s still the rest
Of the bimbos
And blondes alike to do
You’ll never know
Until you screw all of them too!
Trust your lust,
They tell you,
‘Listen to your heart’
Give you a little hint:
Your heart doesn’t have a mouth!
You silenced it
That little voice is coming
From a little further south!
Look, listen to yourself
You’ve fallen hook, line and sinker
Into their trap
You’re another unthinker
Just look, want and chase
‘Look at that ass!’
Try looking at her face!
‘Wonder if she’s wearing silk or lace?’
There goes another personality
Gone to waste!
Just another tip;
You won’t find 3D women
In Playboy, Penthouse or Ralph
Careful use of airbrush and hairbrush
Make normal women look like ALF
Was Hitler really so wrong?
Killing people for real…
Is that better or worse
Than them killing themselves
To live up to an ideal?
Hitler might be dead
But the 3rd Reich lives on instead
Reporters, deporters, distorters
All have this image
Of the perfect woman,
They broadcast it everyday
In everyway, 24/7
We’re bombarded
With what we’re not
Then we think
We’re beautifully retarded
Seductress, enchantress,
But what about those
Who look like Loch Ness?
Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder?
I’d say beauty’s in the eye of the
be-moulder.
Written in 2004, age 17, after a rather horrible encounter with someone who said my boyfriend would dump me if I too many more chocolate biscuits.
Life After Death
Is there life after death?
Anything left after
Their last breath?
Mesmerized, hypnotised
Dazed, crazed
Dealing with feelings
You didn’t know
You could feel
How could reality
Seem so surreal?
There’s now nothing
To separate fiction
From non
How does the rest of the world
Keep going on?
Something’s missing
Something’s gone
Irreplaceable, irretrievable
And with that something,
Some of you
Was lost too.
The Earth is still spinning
The moon waxes and wanes
As does your pain
The sun continues to rise
Each morning, as do you
Even though
You don’t want to
On the outside
Everything remains the same
But inside
You feel disconnected
And content to stay that way
Day after day
Unnumbing would be
Coming to grips with,
Accepting what you
Feel like rejecting
You’re still expecting
That pinch to wake you
From this nightmare
You fear to feel again
You can’t bear the strain
You’re under from the pain
It’s easier
To deny, to defy
That to identify
“It’ll be soon,
It won’t be long,
Til I can breathe again,
Til the weight
On my chest is gone”
You tell yourself
You have to have hope
You have to believe
Without it,
There would be
No reprieve
From the grief.
Yes, he is gone
And yes, it does seem wrong
- His stay wasn’t very long –
But hold on
There is still life after death,
You still have breath
Make the most
Of what you have left!
Life lived goes fast
And you never know
When it’s going to
Be your last.
Anything left after
Their last breath?
Mesmerized, hypnotised
Dazed, crazed
Dealing with feelings
You didn’t know
You could feel
How could reality
Seem so surreal?
There’s now nothing
To separate fiction
From non
How does the rest of the world
Keep going on?
Something’s missing
Something’s gone
Irreplaceable, irretrievable
And with that something,
Some of you
Was lost too.
The Earth is still spinning
The moon waxes and wanes
As does your pain
The sun continues to rise
Each morning, as do you
Even though
You don’t want to
On the outside
Everything remains the same
But inside
You feel disconnected
And content to stay that way
Day after day
Unnumbing would be
Coming to grips with,
Accepting what you
Feel like rejecting
You’re still expecting
That pinch to wake you
From this nightmare
You fear to feel again
You can’t bear the strain
You’re under from the pain
It’s easier
To deny, to defy
That to identify
“It’ll be soon,
It won’t be long,
Til I can breathe again,
Til the weight
On my chest is gone”
You tell yourself
You have to have hope
You have to believe
Without it,
There would be
No reprieve
From the grief.
Yes, he is gone
And yes, it does seem wrong
- His stay wasn’t very long –
But hold on
There is still life after death,
You still have breath
Make the most
Of what you have left!
Life lived goes fast
And you never know
When it’s going to
Be your last.
A Spark that Binds Two Hearts
Eyes meet from across a room
And across the world
A conversation starts
And sparks fly
Who would’ve known
It would bind two hearts?
Each enticing out of the other
Smiles, laughter, and love
Across the miles
That love has endured and grown
Talking and travelling
Across the Tasman.
Today they embark on the greatest journey
Deciding that their paths
That crossed so coincidentally
Will now continue side by side
Arm in arm, life entwined together
So whatever life may bring
Whatever joys and troubles
Come your way
May you pause,
And affectionately ponder this day
The pledges made to love and cherish,
To have and to hold,
To know and to grow each other
And with that pondering, remember
The magic, the first time your lips met,
The romance, the sweet nothings,
The passion, the patience, the love
Together, the miles you’ve already come,
And the happiness,
Which initially inspired this grand step
Let your remembering give way to dreams
Of what your love could grow to,
Of where this life together will lead,
Of what adventure will come next!
Of holding hands when you’re 80
And smiling at each other with toothy grins
So today, note the sparkle
In Claire’s eyes
As she walked down the aisle
The grin covering Grant’s face
As he said ‘I do’.
And as you set out on this
Adventure called marriage
May God bless you
And may you always
Fan the flame of your love
So what the sparks started so long ago,
Across that room
Will become an inferno blazing
Showing the world
What love is really like
And how what you share
Is special, unique
And amazing.
By Lauren Brooking
Written for Claire Adams and Grant Coleman, who declared their love for each other and married on 4 April 2009
Friday, March 25, 2011
Breathe
Inhale, exhale
Breathe
In - hold - out
Just breathe
Drink deeply of the gift of air
Fill your belly
Fill your lungs
Lift your arms
Shake. Shake it out
Let it relax your body and soul
Breath is life, essential, needed
Taken by surprise, breath is impeded
At a sprint, lungs work fast
After diving, you're liberated by a gasp
So simple, yet taken for granted
This one small thing, easily supplanted
Breathe in; breathe out.
Fill your diaphragm
A baby's first, a grandmother's last
Breath defines life, essential, needed
Inhale, exhale
In - hold - out
Puff, pant or panic
Draw long and low and let it out slow
Raucous snoring or wistful sighs
Soaring nigh breathless
Life is not only the breaths we take
But the moments that take our breath away
Breathe.
Enjoy, savour, delight
Long and slow, shallow and fast
As you never quite know
When it'll be your last.
Breathe
In - hold - out
Just breathe
Drink deeply of the gift of air
Fill your belly
Fill your lungs
Lift your arms
Shake. Shake it out
Let it relax your body and soul
Breath is life, essential, needed
Taken by surprise, breath is impeded
At a sprint, lungs work fast
After diving, you're liberated by a gasp
So simple, yet taken for granted
This one small thing, easily supplanted
Breathe in; breathe out.
Fill your diaphragm
A baby's first, a grandmother's last
Breath defines life, essential, needed
Inhale, exhale
In - hold - out
Puff, pant or panic
Draw long and low and let it out slow
Raucous snoring or wistful sighs
Soaring nigh breathless
Life is not only the breaths we take
But the moments that take our breath away
Breathe.
Enjoy, savour, delight
Long and slow, shallow and fast
As you never quite know
When it'll be your last.
Goodbye, for now.
This is a poem for Peter Keith Brooking.
Written in September 2010, before Jono moved into Peter's room.
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
This is what we must say when one dies
I'm sitting where your bed used to be
Where so many hours were spent
I don't know how to form the words
To show how much you meant
Your presence lingers on the corners of my mind
Like a child playing hide and seek
You peek around with your knowing grin
A dimple in your cheek
Your life gone. It is no more
Left here is a gaping void
Swathed in sorrow
For which there is no cure.
Never again will my life be the same,
Because yours is gone.
Plagued by the need to know why
I know it's no one's 'fault', but surely,
Surely there's someone to blame?
Something towards which I can fire my wrath
My charged emotions are like clouds before a storm
The slightest provocation will bring about
Fantastical lightning and a thunderous roar.
Everything that surrounds me is a powerpoint
It plugs my memory and plays
Story after anecdote after laughable moment
After painful reverie
You are intricately intertwined, intangibly linked
To every integral object inside and out.
Unfathomable are the depths to which
Your mind must have taken you
Delving, diving, ever deeper
In the dismal depressive despair
That was immune to repair
I don't pretend to know or comprehend
The battle you daily fought
Horrible hopelessness usurping all else
Though I don't understand,
I feel like I'm in the middle of my
Own dark abyss
Of nothingness.
Written in September 2010, before Jono moved into Peter's room.
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
This is what we must say when one dies
I'm sitting where your bed used to be
Where so many hours were spent
I don't know how to form the words
To show how much you meant
Your presence lingers on the corners of my mind
Like a child playing hide and seek
You peek around with your knowing grin
A dimple in your cheek
Your life gone. It is no more
Left here is a gaping void
Swathed in sorrow
For which there is no cure.
Never again will my life be the same,
Because yours is gone.
Plagued by the need to know why
I know it's no one's 'fault', but surely,
Surely there's someone to blame?
Something towards which I can fire my wrath
My charged emotions are like clouds before a storm
The slightest provocation will bring about
Fantastical lightning and a thunderous roar.
Everything that surrounds me is a powerpoint
It plugs my memory and plays
Story after anecdote after laughable moment
After painful reverie
You are intricately intertwined, intangibly linked
To every integral object inside and out.
Unfathomable are the depths to which
Your mind must have taken you
Delving, diving, ever deeper
In the dismal depressive despair
That was immune to repair
I don't pretend to know or comprehend
The battle you daily fought
Horrible hopelessness usurping all else
Though I don't understand,
I feel like I'm in the middle of my
Own dark abyss
Of nothingness.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Nana's 80th Birthday Poem
For Betty Brooking
Written and read on 6 March 2011.
Lady turned eighty
Whether matey,
Mum or nan,
Most are a fan
What an amazing woman!
Grey yet gorgeous
So magnanimous
Beyond comparison
Full of compassion
Star of a mother
Thinking of others
Walking, active
Talkative
Informative
Story-telling
Palmy-dwelling
Early rising
Sometimes compromising
Bible-reading
Crowd feeding
Tender-caring
Wisdom sharing
God-fearing
Apron wearing
Card sending
Good defending
High flying
Gravity defying
Thrifty shopping
Penny pinching
Graceful aging
Seldom raging
Generous gifting
Good listening
Good looking
Good cooking
Fruit loaf mixing
Dinner fixing
Healthy eating
Mintie feeding
Routine keeping
Purple choosing
So good using
Flower smelling
Pansy loving
Green-bean gardening
Soil un-hardening
Gently watering
Love imparting
Sabbath-school teaching
Not much preaching
Paper reading
Granddad pleasing
Good listening
Always smiling
Easy going
Life giving
Go on living!
We're here to rave
About our fave
Evidently
Praiseworthy
Fabulous, great
Near or far
Much loved
Grandma.
Written and read on 6 March 2011.
Lady turned eighty
Whether matey,
Mum or nan,
Most are a fan
What an amazing woman!
Grey yet gorgeous
So magnanimous
Beyond comparison
Full of compassion
Star of a mother
Thinking of others
Walking, active
Talkative
Informative
Story-telling
Palmy-dwelling
Early rising
Sometimes compromising
Bible-reading
Crowd feeding
Tender-caring
Wisdom sharing
God-fearing
Apron wearing
Card sending
Good defending
High flying
Gravity defying
Thrifty shopping
Penny pinching
Graceful aging
Seldom raging
Generous gifting
Good listening
Good looking
Good cooking
Fruit loaf mixing
Dinner fixing
Healthy eating
Mintie feeding
Routine keeping
Purple choosing
So good using
Flower smelling
Pansy loving
Green-bean gardening
Soil un-hardening
Gently watering
Love imparting
Sabbath-school teaching
Not much preaching
Paper reading
Granddad pleasing
Good listening
Always smiling
Easy going
Life giving
Go on living!
We're here to rave
About our fave
Evidently
Praiseworthy
Fabulous, great
Near or far
Much loved
Grandma.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Run
Run John run
From your past
From your present
Keep running, fast
Run son run
Work or I'll beat you
Your mind and heart
Idleness, fun won't do
Run brother run
Jests, taunts and jibes
Chase you like dogs
So you run and hide
Run mate run
Go get that girl
She's a fox!
She'll rock your world
Run Jack run
Down the aisle
Sorted for life
All your need's a smile
Run hubby run
Off to work
Bring home the bacon
And its perks
Run ducky run
Make me proud
I've got home covered
Go wow the crowd
Run daddy run
Tag! Gotcha!
Teach them young
To run, chase and catch!
Run daddy run
All you like
It would be faster
If you got on your bike
Run daddy run
Try and keep up
You'll be sorry you missed us
When we grow up
Run fool run
Straight into the trap
Fell down so far
Only a miracle'd get you back
Run prodigal run
To the cross, to my arms
Run from the brokeness and sin
Come, rest easy, no more alarms
Run daddy run
To another country
Woman, job, life
There you'll be free?
Run John run
From your past
From your present
Keep running until the last
Run run run
Into your grave
To your lies
You were the biggest slave
Run son run
To Me, last chance you have
I'd help, I'd fix your mess
If only you'd let me save
- By Lauren Brooking.
From your past
From your present
Keep running, fast
Run son run
Work or I'll beat you
Your mind and heart
Idleness, fun won't do
Run brother run
Jests, taunts and jibes
Chase you like dogs
So you run and hide
Run mate run
Go get that girl
She's a fox!
She'll rock your world
Run Jack run
Down the aisle
Sorted for life
All your need's a smile
Run hubby run
Off to work
Bring home the bacon
And its perks
Run ducky run
Make me proud
I've got home covered
Go wow the crowd
Run daddy run
Tag! Gotcha!
Teach them young
To run, chase and catch!
Run daddy run
All you like
It would be faster
If you got on your bike
Run daddy run
Try and keep up
You'll be sorry you missed us
When we grow up
Run fool run
Straight into the trap
Fell down so far
Only a miracle'd get you back
Run prodigal run
To the cross, to my arms
Run from the brokeness and sin
Come, rest easy, no more alarms
Run daddy run
To another country
Woman, job, life
There you'll be free?
Run John run
From your past
From your present
Keep running until the last
Run run run
Into your grave
To your lies
You were the biggest slave
Run son run
To Me, last chance you have
I'd help, I'd fix your mess
If only you'd let me save
- By Lauren Brooking.
Welcome...
Aloha,
I have created this blog to keep an online record of my writing. I've heard the music soothes the soul, or music makes you lose control. Well for me, poetry is like sounding a trumpet. It can be as poignant and mournful as a dirge or it can swell your heart like a powerful symphony, it can flit like a flute or it can hammer like a drum.
I would expect anyone coming to read my blog would respect an artist's right to their own work, and should you want to share it for yourself, you'd check with me and then credit it accordingly.
So without further ado, here is one of my creations, enjoy...
Nobody's Fool
I can handle any tool, I can climb a ladder
I'm nobody's fool, I'll grapple with you
On any matter
Got a problem? Bring it on!
Wanna step outside? I'll dress you down
What do you want from me?
Bravado I can give
A good time, gentle sparring
I'll give you a laugh, and send you on your way
My heart, my soul, my core however
Are locked away
I'm nobody's fool boy
You don't know me, you can't have me
I'm not something with which you
Can fondle and toy
I'm not letting you in
Not even for all of your cheeky grins!
No. I shall stay distant and aloof
Controlled, coy, contained; caged
You can try and get in, but it's blocked
You'll never get through the locks
So here I am, safe inside
Voluntary solitary confinement
What was protecting has now imprisoned
The guard has locked herself in
To avoid heartache and chagrin
Only to discover loneliness
Abandonment and disappointment
Hearts, caged, ache too
Like parched plains crack
So too a parched heart breaks
She who stays aloof is a fool
Nobody's fool.
I have created this blog to keep an online record of my writing. I've heard the music soothes the soul, or music makes you lose control. Well for me, poetry is like sounding a trumpet. It can be as poignant and mournful as a dirge or it can swell your heart like a powerful symphony, it can flit like a flute or it can hammer like a drum.
I would expect anyone coming to read my blog would respect an artist's right to their own work, and should you want to share it for yourself, you'd check with me and then credit it accordingly.
So without further ado, here is one of my creations, enjoy...
Nobody's Fool
I can handle any tool, I can climb a ladder
I'm nobody's fool, I'll grapple with you
On any matter
Got a problem? Bring it on!
Wanna step outside? I'll dress you down
What do you want from me?
Bravado I can give
A good time, gentle sparring
I'll give you a laugh, and send you on your way
My heart, my soul, my core however
Are locked away
I'm nobody's fool boy
You don't know me, you can't have me
I'm not something with which you
Can fondle and toy
I'm not letting you in
Not even for all of your cheeky grins!
No. I shall stay distant and aloof
Controlled, coy, contained; caged
You can try and get in, but it's blocked
You'll never get through the locks
So here I am, safe inside
Voluntary solitary confinement
What was protecting has now imprisoned
The guard has locked herself in
To avoid heartache and chagrin
Only to discover loneliness
Abandonment and disappointment
Hearts, caged, ache too
Like parched plains crack
So too a parched heart breaks
She who stays aloof is a fool
Nobody's fool.
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