Travelling far from anywhere The silent township it was reached Thoughts were far from anything Only to be found under feet. 'Waste not want not,' she doth cry A whisper from a quiet voice 'Waste not want not,' before he died Enduring be the summer sky. The bright blue sky, the summer sun The only real companion Was the whisper merely a dream? Had life stalled, was it really stagnant? She went to the place her loved one was buried Never afraid to walk with the dead, alone She went to see the one she saw every day He held in his hand the family stone. As he came and as he went It was never far away But when he fell he fell afar Ne'er to come back, with him it stayed. It's distance always troubled her For near, 'til now, had always been Now distance sourced her own frustration Never again would it be seen. But seeing it wasn't everything She still heard his voice beyond the grave Like a bird's voice heard at sunrise Like a lover's heart one can't see but craves. Was this what one should take away From this silent, distant land? Would one learn from few what one could not from many On a day when Yonder reached with single hand? The sign said; 'Please minimise noise' But no-one could be seen or heard The traffic lights were covered over Cattle was the only herd Visitation of old friends Always welcomed, set one straight Locked out like danger, nearby, threatened All to do was sit and wait. Ought one stay the course that day? Supposition being one's first approach Is ignorance bliss if attention stifled? Or should the subject, after all, be broached? Always told to err on side of caution Manners first and foremost yet Behold societal intuition Never hath it failed yet. 'Twasn't 'til I left the ground That I felt in full control 'Twasn't 'til the fire burned That I felt in air I could surely stroll Through the valleys where the wine did grow From up above it seemed surreal Thinking sweet nothings, 'twas the season All left to do from above was feel. Flying high in calm of basket Leaving grounded life away At peace, and quiet, above the clouds Sun rose to officially start the day. Harvest reap, may it be sweet Ignorance is never bliss Only then can I walk away The day being like one's first kiss. Hark - do not dwell, do not fester Look beyond and one will see Above the clouds the day will dawn May the sun that's rising shadow me.
Hello shadow Goodbye pain Hello sunshine Goodbye rain Goodbye tram Goodbye train Goodbye car Goodbye delay Goodbye last night Goodbye refrain Goodbye poor mouth Goodbye affray Hello future Hello soul-mate Hello my shadow Hello my fate Hello music Goodbye silence Hello TV Goodbye wireless Goodbye hilltop Goodbye mountain Hello water Hello fountain Goodbye high-tech Hello hard-cover Goodbye Kindle Hello lover Goodbye anxiety Goodbye desperation Goodbye alarmist Goodbye depression Hello true love Hello sweet thing Hello my precious Hello diamond ring Hello laughter Goodbye morose Hello comedy Goodbye drama Hello middle age Goodbye youth Hello Conservative Goodbye uncouth Hello togetherness Goodbye alone Hello my shadow You set the the tone.
Johnny met Ted at the local pub down the road
Where they’d talk of the issues and news of the day
After a few beers they’d chat with Des (and his hat)
Who’d tell them; “Don’t worry, it’ll all go away.”
Johnny was worried he’d lose his house quite at random
With rising sea levels and his house by the ocean
“Don’t talk such crap,” said Ted and Des (and his hat)
“All you’re doing is causing commotion.”
“Everyone needs something to believe in ya know,”
Said Johnny to Des, at the bar having a beer
“Mate, they just want their face to be seen, fifteen minutes on screen
They play on everyone’s fear.”
“But this summer, Des, it’s been so bloody hot,
I know it’s climate change, global warming that’s caused it.
It’s gotta be true, everyone’s sayin’ so too,
And I believe ‘em, for no-one abhors it.”
“It’s all sensational fury from Greenies like John & Deb Bury
They say every day will be forty degrees
They tell reporters we won’t survive, heat will kill us, we’ll die
And don’t forget about those rising seas.”
“I shoulda bought up the cliff,” poor Johnny retorted
“There was a warning in 1980.
Back then it was thwarted, thank God it aborted
But not before the drowning of old Tom Delaney.”
“There’s so much said,” Ted rejoined, “and not enough read
About where tax dollars are goin’, ya know what I mean?”
“Too right,” Des said from the bar, fillin’ up another beer jar
“Our money’s flowin’ down the river upstream.”
“Have ya read ‘bout that wind tree? They think it’s for free
In Paris it was out on display.
Guv’ment subsidies fund it, the pollies are for it
But it energises nothin’ and no-one today.”
“Just seems to me they say lots but do little
While spendin’ wads of taxpayers’ cash
Cash I could use to take my wife on a cruise,
Have a bit of the old splash and dash.”
Six months later Johnny met Ted and Des at the local again
To discuss news of the how and the why and the when
The sea levels were down, but Johnny came with a frown
Greenpeace had joined up his 18 year-old son, Ben.
“If ya not red at eighteen you’re not part of the scene
Ya can’t join the protesters when marching
But if ya Liberal by fifty you’re seen to be swifty
The obscenities can be quite disarming.”
That summer Johnny measured the tide, but it failed to rise
He’d worried for no reason at all
Then he got the call, to give some, give all
But declined with a smugness of sorts
It was time to retort what the Greenies had thought
Next election he’d watch their vote fall.
Twelve months later, temperatures, they had abated
Officially, or so we were told
But the lefties maintained the rage, no matter their age
Like the Revolutionaries of old
Forty-five years passed by, and with good reason why
Climate change was carried away in a coffin
The science proven wrong, a hoax, no longer attracting a throng
Like the boy who cried wolf once too often.
As warming the planet had faded (activists now feeling jaded)
Political correctness, it didn’t survive
It was finally over, as hard as finding that four-leaf clover
If only Johnny, Ted and Des were alive.
How happy they’d be, or so it would seem
To see lefties flowin’ down river upstream
They felt detested, the anti-argument festered
Uncared for, untidy, unclean.
As the story began, a new page (a new fan)
The old story could no longer offend
Though climate change had been swarming, without any warning
It was dead, buried, cremated! The end.
Postscript: Please read this as it’s intended, as satire.
Hubris reflected in the mirror As he saw himself adorned in splendor Facial hair needed trimming Body mass needed thinning
Be he good, or better, or at his best Serious he be, don't speak in jest The speech of success to be given now To young ones yet to know why, when or how
His life, not for nothing, may it be Pass on to others, to all of thee Some fall by the wayside, others succeed But first he can, he must, plant the seed
His seed grew into a bud The bud grew into a flower Hard work the secret to success From flower, garden grows, enter, ingress
Once inside his secret garden The sky it is the limit Build on what he taught so well The secret’s out – sell, sell, sell.
I walk the solemn pathway all alone
Others care to join me
Engage in careless conversation
As we pass the foreshore, by the sea
More join our walk along the way
As we continue down the road
We talk sweet nothings, ‘hello how are you?’
We pass a frog by lake, or toad
But as they walk the road less travelled
They talk about news of the day
Freedom’s glare is fading from us
Will we confront or turn away?
The pathway comes to its first bend
Some walkers find it hard to counter
A storm following a sunny day
A drought follows storm, brings empty fountain
Questions arise as to the bend
Is it too large a turn to fathom?
Some pursue it, others fail
Turning back, can’t walk the trail
Those left on the path take the turn
The bend being not the journey’s end
Those left on the path, they protect
Their challenge rises, they defend
Safety, security, our foremost thoughts
Freedom pure for our sisters, brothers
Can we have our cake and eat it too?
Or must we have one without the other?
The walkers share thoughts, an expression
‘Freedom under threat,’ they think
Those willing stand to protect
No-one’s bettered freedom yet
Even so some shy away
Their feet, their body, can’t take the heat
They wrestle with what they ought defend
But feel the challenge too high for them to beat
Now few are left to walk the walk
Their voice it need be loud
The few left talking defend and fight
Will the voice of the few be drowned by crowd?
A crowd that will not walk the path
A crowd that will not share the stage
A crowd that takes free thought for granted
Is this the coming of freedom’s age?
Will freedom rise above, beyond?
The call of duty has no roar
Duty comes from heart and mind
Freedom is worth fighting for.
Knife arrived, table set
Fork left in the drawer
Waitress counting placements
“One, two, three,…twenty-four.”
Serviette placed near to Knife
Resplendent, pristine, neat
Desert left in chef’s fridge
First course? Three veg and roast beef
Waitress, eyes viewing the room
Beautiful place setting
Chef sparkled, winked at her, so tender
Amatory, like a netting
Arrivals in suit, wearing tie
Chic, in Windsor knot
Arm in arm leading her
To table, dear begot
Knife, pent up anger had
Value poor without Fork
Chop-sticks, one instead of two
Wine bottle without the cork
Hand in glove, foot and mouth
Husband and his wife
Fingers were made before the Fork
Hands before the Knife.
Once upon a time there was a man with a very big beard. He was a very jolly man. One day in his older years he thought it an idea to wear only red and white at Christmas time. And with it came a very big black belt.
As time had passed, his beard had grown and as he got older it turned white and fluffy. He thought it a good idea to grow his beard long and bushy, and as he did his moustache grew too.
Children in his village said ‘hello’ to him as he passed them by in town. Sometimes he would even stop and chat with them, especially during holidays. He brought a smile to their faces and good cheer to their homes and families.
The village was cold during the holiday period, and so he felt the need to wear a big, warm, woolly jacket, with matching trousers, of course, for fashion was important to him as warmth. He soon began to wear his woolly jacket everywhere he went. He even bought one for his wife. One Christmas she bought him big black boots, just to finish off his fashion ensemble.
‘Wear these when you go out,’ she said, giving him a big kiss on his cheek. ‘It makes perfect sense and will keep you from cold.’ ‘Thank you Mother,’ he said to his wife, for that is what he called her. He kissed her, and as he did his wife was tickled by his bushy, snowy beard. His new boots fitted perfectly, and as he walked through the village spreading Christmas cheer, he did so safe in the knowledge he would always be warm and cosy, inside and out.
The jolly old man kept a reindeer in his back yard. He lived at the North Pole and rode the reindeer through town. His back was mildly arthritic and his feet didn’t carry him as far as they used to.
Soon, the reindeer was as well-known as the jolly old man and people would cry out; ‘Hello, Rudolph,’ as he rode through Town Square.
Due to the cold weather, Rudolph developed a red nose and the villagers started referring to him as ‘Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer.’ It became a sign of affection in the village, and Rudolph seemed to like it, as he tilted his head to the left or right and accepted with warmth the strokes the young villagers would give him.
After more cold winters the jolly old man decided to share his good cheer with the villagers by climbing roof-tops on Christmas Eve. How he got up there nobody knew, as they never saw him climbing and they never saw him come back down, but word around town was that he climbed down the chimneys of the cottages in the village and left presents for the villagers to open on Christmas Day.
He gained a reputation throughout the village as a kind of Robin Hood with a difference, for he gave to all, whether rich or poor. Only those who had behaved poorly in the village would miss out on his kind-heartedness.
Some heard he gave only to children and that may well have been so to start, but as time went by it became clear he gave to their parents too, because he would leave them a note with the present he left – a card at Christmas, with an inscription wishing them a ‘Merry Christmas.’ Some of the well-behaved children’s parents would leave something for him in return, like eggnog or milk, with a whiff of something stronger, to say ‘thank you’ and give him the energy to keep going all through the night.
The jolly old man became a ‘father’ of sorts to the villagers and as his good cheer spread further, to neighbouring villages, the villagers from his home town started to give him a name – they would call him ‘Father Christmas.’
There was a great deal of love amongst the villagers for Mr. And Mrs. Claus, they were like the elder statesman (and woman) of the town. Yes, Father Christmas’ real name was Claus – Nicholas Claus in fact. The religious amongst the villagers thought he was a saint so they called him ‘Saint Nicholas.’
But for those who rarely went to church but still loved to take part in Christmas celebrations, they simply called him ‘Santa.’
And so began the story of Santa Claus, a story of a man whose kindness knows no bounds.
Ask not what others can do for you
But what you can do for others
Be afraid of calm nonchalance
Be it from sisters or from brothers
Liberate from behind the veil
Abide by me, your soulful friendship
Ever welcome, desirous, cherished
In times material, narcissistic
Never one to fold the page of challenge
Or walk from discernment either
One may turn away if one desires
Or stay the course, stand, and then…,
A leader to be followed,
A man to judge the dead
He stands on the pulpit preaching
‘The Kingdom of Heaven is near,’ he said.
A movement, small to start,
Followers, chosen, whence did come,
A story to develop,
Apostles, on his death, they doth become.
To him not all stay loyal,
A disciple, mendacious, will betray.
He preaches great things, in abundance be,
Such as ‘feed the people,’ come what may.
He gives a fish, man prospers,
Enough for one, enough for all.
He walks on water, others follow,
Enticed, enriched, enthralled.
The prophet, from death he does return,
His soul arises from this earth.
Meagre mortals prey, have mercy be,
Those once blind, now they can see.