Category Archives: Poetry

SANDY

Sandy.
Such a sweet and gentle name.
Visions of Grease and Sandra Dee.
But that Sandy is not to be.
Not this time round.
This time round she’s changed the game,
Kicking ass, and taking names,
These image changes guarantee,
You’ll no longer think of Sandra Dee,
Not that antithesis of a trollop,
But a big loud girl,
Who packs a wallop!

It’s All About The Music

You can be my walking bass line,
I can be your slide trombone,
You can stroke me in three-four time,
While you solo on your own,
You can tickle me with triplets,
I’ll staccato till you blush,
We’ll both play bold and deliberate,
Till we each can feel the rush,
We can build up to the coda,
Then we’ll double back again,
From pianis to fortissimo,
The crescendo building then,
We’ll interweave our melodies,
Till they’re tight as they can get,
Then when we’ve both reached our high c’s,
We’ll go grab a cigarette.

Pete Seeger Said It Best I Guess

Pete Seeger said it best I guess,
Tiny boxes everywhere,
For you and me,
But I’m not sure even he could see,
How they’d grow exponentially,
Till everyone,
Old and wise,
Young and precocious,
Would receive some sort of diagnosis,
Too up? Too down?  Too in-between?
Confused? Can’t follow what I mean?
Too active? Thinking too diverse?
Sometimes good, but sometimes worse?
Too happy? Whoa! That’s not good!
Let’s try and make you feel like wood!
Take this pill and swallow whole,
Read the fine print,
“Social Control”
Medicine to be your savior,
From the ills of human behavior,
Which once flourished without confines,
But now does not suit our modern times,
You’ll meet the mold and be complete,
There’ll be no laughing in the street,
Fit in your box, swallow the stress,
Pete Seeger said it best I guess.

Our Colours

I’ve seen every colour in your rainbow,
Plus the ones you won’t show,
If you don’t have to,
Which is why I smile at you
when you show them,
For you think that I don’t know them,
But I know secretly,
Through what’s been, what is,
and what might be,
Our colours all blend perfectly.

She Can’t See She

Like west coast weather,
Moods change and swing,
Rearranging things,
So the whole landscape
Is cast into a different light,
Not wrong or right,
But hard to follow,
To be prepared,
Never knowing
If moments shared,
Will somehow implode,
At the same time drawn
To beauty showed,
Beyond compare,
Beauty anchored deep,
In heart and soul,
But when black dogs howl,
She doesn’t always know it’s there.

Recurring

It happened again last night,
or rather early this morning.

You never ask yourself rational
questions while you’re dreaming.
Everything makes sense
and is acceptable.

The sewing pins on my desk
must have triggered it.
Innocently they lay there
in a little pick-up sticks pile.

Tiny metal bodies with their
cheerfully colored plastic heads.
Imprinted on my subconscious
mind somehow.

At 3:00am, I become aware
that there is a pin in my mouth.
Now, a rational person would have
removed it immediately.

Instead I lay there half asleep
doing nothing about this small hazard.
I must be careful not to swallow it.
This thought seems to force the inevitable.

Oh god, I think, panicking, there’s a
pin inside me.

I picture holes being torn. Painfully.
A sewing implement protruding from me,
appearing on x-rays to the consternation
of hospital staff.

Bolt upright and wide awake, I stumble
to the bathroom to try and choke it up,
not yet realizing that I’ve been dreaming,
and that it’s happened countless times.

Always a different object, though:
an earring, necklace, small stone, a contact lens.
Eventually the nightmare leaves my head.
It sits in the corner laughing at me.

I got you again, it mocks.
And you know I’ll be back. I will.

Apocalypse Roulette

There are websites with handy
Safety tips.

For surviving the coming
Apocalypse.

That moment we all dread
And fear.

It’s fast approaching,
Nearly here.

But no one seems to know
Just how.

Just that it’ll happen
Any day now.

Perhaps the Apocalypse
Will come,

From Space, the Solar
Maximum.

The end of all our hopes
And cares,

Will be the solar winds
And flares.

It’s anyone’s guess what fate,
Awaits us.

Maybe someone just really,
Hates us.

Therefore, should we bother
Asking why?

Either way we’ll freeze
Or fry.

No one can stop it, not you,
Nor me.

So I say, fuck it. Let’s have
An orgy.

Residue

He is a total artist.
Pure non-conformist.
His creative genius,
Burning like fire.
But he is mired.
Stuck in darkness.
For it is fueled,
By a sludge,
This fire.
Made of the remains,
Of every grudge.
From the oily residue,
Of every pain,
Both old and new,
Burns the flame.
It will never go out,
Because the pain,
Will never run out.