My Baby Bird

The day we met you sang to me,
Some random line from a pop song,
One I'd heard a million times before
And would somehow become our song.

How could it not be our song?

Of course I was gorgeous.
I had on that top you liked so much,
With the cute skirt to match,
The one that covered just enough to be suggestive.

You took me to see them play
For our first date -
The LeeStock Music Festival -
Those lyrical song birds took flight!

Listening to the ebb and flow of the music
Made my heart take flight
Unsteady baby steps at first
Like a bird fresh out of the nest.

For our first anniversary
You bought me that picture,
The one by Ms Ursin I fell for,
Even if it was just a print.

You said it reminded you of me,
Filled with all the sweetness
And innocence that can only be found
In a young chick scratching for bugs.

It reminded me of you as well -
Filled with the warmth of a summer day
But with a twinkle in the eye
That could only mean a touch of mischief.

Now I could not ask for anything more:
Not a thousand hours of songs
Nor a million masterpieces
Could match the gift you have given me.

That twinkle in you eye remains
Still bright after all these years,
Perhaps brighter for what we hold -
Our darling Baby Bird.

The Melbourne Cup Heist

The plan was as ingenious as it was devious
Yet there was one fatal flaw -
No-one suspected that there lurked
A traitor in their midst.

An undercover officer,
With years under her belt
And a solid understanding
Of the workings of the criminal mind.

Our hero had infiltrated,
Much to her colleagues surprise,
The most wanted group of low life scum
To ever grace a racing track.

Given the sorts of characters
Who frequent those types of places
It was no stretch of the imagination
To come up with these diabolical sorts.

And here they were before her.
And here she was with them.
Completely unnoticed
And holding all the cards.

She listened intently to conversations
And recorded every word.
The beauty of the saddle was
It hid a multitude of sins.

Well, only sins to them.
They would never understand the betrayal
But society would thank her
For the job she did unknown.

The discussion had been centred
Around that fateful Melbourne day
And the money that would be made
By such nefarious means.

A plan was afoot, alright,
To steal the cup away
And to take the winning loot
Without raising a cultured eyebrow.

The crop was swapped under the cover of dark,
The poor jockey completely unaware
Of the dastardly deed prepared
Which was to turn him into a killer.

The bets were laid far and wide
So as to not arouse suspicion.
The cumulative effect was such
That this crime would break the bank.

The racing began in earnest,
Each more important than the last,
Until that fateful race was called
To take their places for the run.

The jockeys took to their mounts,
The horses led, one by one,
To their predetermined gate
And locked in as per usual.

A hush came over the crowd
As they waited for the start
But what happened next was not expected
And was the cause of much consternation.

One of the horses broke free of it's gate.
The jockey was taken much by surprise.
The horse turned to face the others.
Was that a smile that now appeared?

A murmur went through the crowd,
Have you ever seen such a thing?
Then a collective gasp was heard
As the horse revealed himself.

For that Masked Marvel was none other
Than the brave and dutiful officer;
The name should have been a giveaway
but no-one could have guessed.

Dear John

I wanted to write you a letter
But it didn't seem appropriate
When you were such a pain in the arse
And now it's time to reciprocate.

I decided to do something else,
Something quite devilish, in fact.
I went to the doctor to ask for help
And didn't spare the tact.

The doctor gave me something
That I think will help me to mend,
A magic little potion
With you on the receiving end.

Because the doctor was a special one,
Not of the medical kind,
But of the mysterious persuasion
And could help me in my bind.

Now every time you sit down
I hope you'll think of me
As those little pockets of pain
Fill me with such glee.

You'll never know how I managed it,
My neat little trick -
A dose of your own medicine
Because you were a dick.

Or maybe I should use a different phrase,
One a little closer to home
After all, you were an arsehole,
And this is a wonderful syndrome.

I hope the irritation comes
In heaps and mounds and piles
Because the thought of it
Has given me endless smiles.

Sweet Memory

I wish I could forget that day,
Like I have so many other days,
So many better days that should be remembered
Rather than this day, of all days.

It was a Tuesday morning.
So ordinary and dull.
Like every other Tuesday morning.
Only it wasn't, and never would be.

Where the memory takes us is beyond our control,
It trips and stumbles on those random snippets -
The colour of your tie, what you had for breakfast -
But leaves behind that which everyone else recalls.

I didn't remember that the war had ended.
I didn't remember which horse won.
I didn't remember who was leading the country.
But I remembered you spilled jam on that awful yellow tie.

Only it wasn't jam.
It was something else.
It was that horrific red.
The kind that drips and drips and drips.

Maybe I heard you fall forward in your chair.
In my head there is only silence.
Your face pressed against the table.
I must have screamed but in my head was silence.

I remember that young man from next door.
Jack? John? Jeremy?
His eyes were bright blue in front of me.
He slapped me. That young man struck my cheek.

I don't remember the sting.
It must have stung, mustn't it?
His eyes looked so apologetic.
I remember forgiving those eyes.

I remember the interminable wait.
Days I sat there waiting.
Only minutes really. Not even an hour.
Until they came for you.

You remember that china vase you mother gave us,
the one which never seemed to match anything.
I broke it.
I don't remember doing it, but there it is.

I can see the kitchen as if I'm sitting in it now.
That striped wallpaper you said would liven up the room
But all it did was give me a headache
Until it finally faded.

I thought you might fade.
How the corner of your mouth would twitch
When you remembered something amusing.
But it's still bright in my mind.

The scream of the ambulance in the driveway.
That doesn't fade, either.
There's no other sound in the world.
Only that constant scream.

I must remember to clean up that vase.
Someone will step on it.
They will cut their foot on the broken pieces.
The pieces that aren't there anymore.

Of course it's not there now.
The young man picked it up.
Yesterday? Last week? A year ago?
I don't remember.

I remember breaking it.
It shattered as it struck the wall.
I can hear the siren screaming still.
Only there's no-one here but me.

No-one else to blame for that mess.
No-one else to yell at, to laugh with, to cry with.
No-one else to hug until I fall asleep.
No-one else but the silence.

I'm glad you can't remember the silence.
That terrible deafening silence.
The silence that filled my mind.
That dreaded silence that pulled me into the void.

I wanted to forget.
I wanted to slip away unnoticed.
That young man wouldn't let me.
He shouted at me. He struck my cheek.

I don't remember how I got here.
I don't remember where here is.
I don't remember why it's important.
Sometimes I don't remember that I've forgotten.

But that drop of jam on that awful yellow tie.
That drop of jam that isn't jam.
I don't remember what it should be.
Why can't it just be jam?

March Poetry Challenge (26th March, 2013)

A Quote in Time

Rosencrantz and Guildernstern,

They sat upon a log,
When one said to the other,
Through the morning fog,

A man breaking his journey

between one place and another

at a third place of no name, character, population or significance

sees a unicorn cross his path and disappear.

The other turned to face his friend

Not sure he’d heard him right.
He though he’d said a unicorn
That came and went from sight.

That in itself is startling

but there are precedents for mystical encounters

of various kinds or, to be less extreme,

a choice of persuasions to put it down to fancy;

Guil continued without much pause

There would be so stopping him
Now that he’d been started
Save tearing him limb from limb.

until - "My God," says a second man,

"I must be dreaming, I thought I saw a unicorn."

At which point a dimension is added

that makes the experience as alarming as it will ever be.

He’d always been one for melodrama,

From such an early age
If you wrote the story of his life
There’d be drama on every page.

A third witness, you understand,

adds no further dimension

but only spreads it thinner,

and a fourth thinner still,

And there was the other side,

One slightly more morose,
Whose wistful pessimism
Cut all too close.

and the more witnesses there are the thinner it gets

and the more reasonable it becomes

until it is as thin as reality,

the name we give to the common experience ...

Yet when it comes down to it

He is most insightful –
Never a more accurate word
Though sometimes more delightful.

"Look, look!" recites the crowd.

"A horse with an arrow in its forehead!

It must’ve been mistaken for a deer."

I'm sorry it wasn't a unicorn.

Though unicorns may not be real,

Nor Guil or his friend, Rosencrantz,
We can marvel at the wonder
And sing and jump and dance.
 
          It would have been nice to have unicorns.

March Poetry Challenge (25th March, 2013)

In the Mix

Drink til your heart’s content

Tonight the tab’s on me
We’re celebrating once again
Because I’m thirty-three.

It’s not often you turn a third of a century,

In fact, it’s only once.
If I thought it was anymore
I would surely be a dunce.

After an hour or two, or maybe three,

If you feel the ground shake
It might be you’ve had one too many
But have another Earthquake.

You might feel the wind in your hair,

A gentle breeze drifting by,
Or it’s just a Hurricane
Making you think you can fly.

If you’re hanging for Sex on the Beach

Make sure you bring a friend
And an Orgasm should be shared
Before the night comes to an end.

If you find you’ve had a Salty Dog

Come barking at your heels
Take a hair of the dog quickly
And let me know how it feels.

Four Horseman can’t carry you

Through the entire night
So down a Margarita
Before the first shard of light.

Don’t want to suffer from

Death in the Afternoon?
Maybe something lighter sounding
Before you start to swoon.

A Tokyo Tea might do the trick

Though it’s tougher that it sounds;
Don’t blame if you wake
With a head that pounds.

I have a pretty heavy friend,

Harvey Wallbanger is his name,
He’s crafty in his work
And never takes the blame.

So while you’re celebrating

Remember just one thing –
You might think you’re all that
But you really shouldn’t sing!

March Poetry Challenge (24th March, 2013)

One in a Million

A million eyes are watching

As you strut that thin red line;
Blinking at the flashes
Of a million faceless cameras

The smile is plastered on,

For the millionth time this week,
Answering the questions
You’ve heard a million times before.

Is is worth the millions

That now sit in the bank,
Knowing there are a million more
Who would gladly take your place?

March Poetry Challenge (23rd March, 2013)

Excitement

Do you see it, do you see it?

Over there, not far away.
It’s clear across the farmer’s field
But I see it clear as day.

I can feel my heartbeat quicken,

The anticipation of what comes
Fires up the imagination
And stirs every fibre of my being.

I want to run on ahead

But my parents call me back.
Do they not understand me?
How can they be so calm?

Can you hear it now?

What sound was that?
Surely it can’t be …
Surely they didn’t!

It’s a cacophony of sounds

And mind is racing through them
Loud and shrill and confronting
Before we’re even there.

The smells have reached my nostrils,

Sweet and rotten both entwined.
The popcorn and the animals
Confuse my poor little nose.

We’ve finally reached our destination

And the curtain is swept back,
Revealing the rings and ringmaster
Under the spectacular circus tent.

March Poetry Challenge (22nd March, 2013)

Embarrassing

Well, this is embarrassing …

Having nothing to write
About the topic of embarrassment
Because everything that comes to mind
Is too embarrassing
To be put on paper.

All I could think of

That would be vaguely worth writing
Is the tragically embarrassing
Story of my love life
And nobody wants to hear that
As long as they live.

March Poetry Challenge (21st March, 2013)

Weather, it be good or bad …

The sun is shining peacefully,

Burning through my skin
Killing me silently
With its intoxicating rays.

The rain falls from the sky

In drips and drops and floods
Roaring across the landscape,
Not waving but drowning.

The wind picks up a mighty speed

No longer just a breeze,
Ripping by in gusts and gales
And tearing by in hurricanes.

The ice and snow of winter

Make the world into a wonderland
Where slips and slides are commonplace
And the land begins to freeze.

March Poetry Challenge (20th March, 2013)

Addict

Addiction can be easily defined

As the continued use, and often abuse, of
A substance which can alter your mood
Or perhaps your behaviour
In such a way as to be detrimental
To your ongoing health.

They say the first step in dealing

With an addiction (or any problem, really)
Is to admit you are an addict
But it’s sometimes not as easy
As standing up and uttering the words,
“I have a problem”.

I am in the enviable position of knowing

That I have an addictive personality.
I am fully aware of how easily I fall prey
To that soul destroying affliction
And tend not to tempt fate
By staying away from addictive substances.

If there were a magic pill I could take

To rid me of my addictiveness
I would probably become addicted to that,
And so another vicious cycle
Would construct itself in my brain
And it would never end.

March Poetry Challenge (19th March, 2013)

Lucky in Love

How I wish to wish

Upon a falling star
That my knight in shining armour
Is not very far.

How I wish I’d see a penny

And pick it up for luck today
And all my dreams would come true
And Mr perfect would walk my way.

How I wish I’d find a clover

With four leaves instead of three
And my dashing prince charming
Would come dashing over to me.

How I wish that love

Was as easy to manufacture as luck
Then I would have not a care in the world
And be happy as a pig in muck.

March Poetry Challenge (18th March, 2013)

Old Favourites

I have a favourite pair of shoes

They’re dainty and they’re pink
They don’t fit me at all
And they really aren’t my style.

They belonged to a friend of mine

Who grew out of them too fast
She only wore them once or twice
Or maybe even thrice.

She’s had a million pairs since

And will have a million more,
And she’ll never love them
Quite as much as I.

This favourite pair of shoes I have,

Now half a century old,
Will always be my treasure
Just as their owner is always in my heart.

March Poetry Challenge (17th March, 2013)

The Luck of the Irish

Before Patrick was made a saint

He walker o’er the greenest isles
That e’er anyone had the fortune
To lay a softly trodden foot.

The legend it has thus begun

Of serpents banished hence,
Yet not a one was e’er found
Upon the verdant grass of Eire.

Yet to this day some souls will tell
Of the daring of this man
Who cast those slithering beasts to the waves
Ne’er to be seen again.

It continues at Aspatria

Where his lifeless staff took root
Upon being heaved unto the ground
And stood such long, long while.

Patrick’s preaching fell on deafened ears

And he stood upon that spot
So unflinching in his determination
Until such time as they heard.

By which such time his walking stick

Once a mere prop in his hand
Had reached a searching root down
Into that succulent soil.

Though remembered in our prayers today

As Saint Patrick, of the Irish folk,
His name has not been canonised
For his miracles were not true.

This day we celebrate a Christian Saint

With a day more pagan than not
More in accordance with those ancients
Once met by young Saint Pat.

Those two warriors of the Fianna

Survived across the eons
To meet the wandering cleric
Who then tried to persuade and convert.

They stood fast in their belief,

Instilled by Fionn mac Cumhaill,
Of fighting and feasting eternally
And living with the natural world.

And ‘tis the luck of the Irish

That this holy cleric, Patrick,
Has had his day become
A day of drinking and buffoonery.

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March Poetry Challenge (16th March, 2013)

In Search of Happiness

In January I looked under the couch.

That’s usually where things end up
When I lose them or can’t find them
But it wasn’t anywhere under there.

In February I looked in the fridge.

Food has given me such comfort
Over the long and many years,
But comfort is not happiness.

In March I looked around the garden.

Though the flowers were pretty indeed
And the trees were stunningly magnificent
It wasn’t the feeling I was searching for.

In April I looked in the city.

With it’s high rise buildings and
Stark, modern landscape
It was nowhere to be found.

In May I looked in the country.

The rolling hills inspired me
While the fields nourished my soul
But still that happy feeling eluded me.

In June I looked to the heavens.

The sparkling stars shone down
And the moon glowed brightly
Yet it was not there at all.

In July I looked to the sky.

The suns warm rays filled me up
With good will to all mankind
Yet, not quite the happiness I sought.

In August I looked to the snow.

It’s intricate beauty mesmerising
And it’s touch so refreshing
But not that which I longed to find.

In September I looked towards the earth.

Life springing eternal in many forms
And renewing itself once more
Yet not a speck of happiness to keep.

In October I looked to the mystical.

No God nor spirit nor mythical beast
Could conjure up that feeling
Which was proving quite elusive.

In November I looked to family and friends.

Their love and companionship
Means more than anything to me
But that which I cannot find externally.

And then by chance one December day

I happened to catch a fleeting glimpse
Of something that had been with me always:
Happiness, in my constant beating heart.

March Poetry Challenge (15th March, 2013)

Room to Move

I feel so constricted here

Like the walls are closing in;
There’s precious little air here
And what there is tastes stale.

I need to stretch my wings

And fly free once more;
Free my mind of the shackles
That have held it for too long.

Give me the room to move,

To really expand my horizons;
To be confronted by the unknown
And not shy away from the fear.

March Poetry Challenge (14th March, 2013)

On Talent

Being talented is so much more

Than being good at something.
It’s being driven to succeed
By something deep inside your soul,
Having the courage of your own convictions
And the power of self belief.

With a little talent it’s easy to get by,

To float through life, not really trying
And expecting that everything will happen
Just the way it’s supposed to,
But when it doesn’t happen that way
The whole world collapses in on you.

With a lot of talent you can rule the world

But it won’t last as long as you think
Because there’s always someone
With more talent than you’ll ever have
Chasing you down and knocking you off
The pedestal you’ve built for yourself.

With a little talent and a lot of hard work

There is nothing that cannot be achieved
And no-one can tear you down
No matter how hard they try
Because talent is shallow and fleeting
But dedication breeds resilience.

March Poetry Challenge (13th March, 2013)

A Picture of You

I look at your picture sometimes

But not all the time.
It lives in a draw by my bed
And I take it out every now and then.

It shows the twinkle in your eye

Your beautiful blue eyes
That I always thought
Looked just like your sisters.

Your hair was darker than hers, though,

Much more like your fathers,
Well, before it started to turn grey,
And well before it began to fall out.

Sometimes, I open the draw,

Only peering in before I close it.
In those moments the pain is too raw
And I want to scream and cry.

Other times, I take it out,

Hold it close to my heart.
And remember the happy times
That I never wanted to end.

Your laugh made me laugh,

Your smile made me smile,
And the conversations we had
That no-one else would understand.

I’m holding your picture now

On what would have been your day –
The day you came into our lives
And filled it with the joy of a lifetime.

And though I may shed a tear,

Not the first nor the last,
You will forever be in my heart

And always be my baby girl.

March Poetry Challenge (12th March, 2013)

Beyond Tomorrow

I might wish on random days

To know what will come,
Not tomorrow but further,
On days more distant.
I could be happy in the knowledge
That my prince charming
Is out there somewhere
Just waiting to be found;
I could tremble at the thought
Of that fateful, yet inevitable, day
When I cease to draw the breath of life
And, instead, expire;
But what good is that awareness
When every action by myself
Or some friend, relative
Or random person never met
Can change the entire construct
Of my very existence
Making the understanding gained
Null and void and useless.

March Poetry Challenge (11th March, 2013)

Licence to Write

I remember that first day,
Feeling somehow more grown up,
That in the space of a day
I had aged exponentially.

I was putting away childish things,

Having to live with the mistakes I made,
Indelible and forever mine,
Scrawled by still small hands.

This was the day I was trusted

To hold my future in my hands,
To make my mark permanently
On a world that saw me as a child.

No longer at the mercy of broken pencils

And no longer forced to erase my errors;
I was now the proud and grown up owner
Of the most wonderful gift I had received.

In my hot little hand I held,

Ready to write the speaches and songs
That would move the world to tears,
The first of many pens I would own.

Whether the cheap and nasty variety

Or the expensive and carefully crafted,
Each would bear the expression
Of a mind finely tuned by experience.

Though the ink may occassionally run dry,

The imagination never would.
The scripts of a thousand days
Would ebb and flow in my viens;

Still, the writing would continue to flow,

Though I again would graduate
To a medium sometimes shallow and cold,
And I would never forget that old feeling …

Or that old friend of mine.

March Poetry Challenge (10th March, 2013)

My smile

I can’t describe the feeling,

The overwhelming feeling,
The miraculous, wonderful feeling,
Of knowing that you’re there.

I get this warm glow inside

That fills my very being
From the tip of my pointed toes
No the top of my head held high.

But the only way you’ll recognise

When I am in this sort of mood
Is to look at my beaming face
For the smile ten miles wide.

March Poetry Challenge (9th March, 2013)

Family

My family is not like yours.

I don’t have the two parent household.
I don’t have any siblings.
I’m not married, yet I have a child.

I have cousins old enough to be my parents,

The ones who live closest to me, in fact.
The ones who are my age
Live half a world away.

My son calls my friends aunty and uncle.

He’s never known his father.
He may have cousins, brothers, sisters
That he’ll never even meet.

My father lives with his ex,

In a granny flat above her house,
Where she lives with her husband
And the children that they had.
 

My mum has never remarried,

The thought never crossed her mind.
We live, mostly happily,
Under the same roof as always.

One day my family may include

A man who wants to stay
And build a life together
But I won’t hold my breath.

Family is what you make it,

Even if they aren’t bonded by blood.
The connection isn’t always physical,
But those who stuck the course.

March Poetry Challenge (8th March, 2013)

Hair today, gone tomorrow

Curlers, straighteners, crimpers, pins

Darken, lighten, highlight, whims
What we’re born with, what we have,
What we die with, matters not.

Wear it up or wear it down,

Tight braids or loose curls,
To fringe or not to fringe
Or to half a fringe instead.

Cut it short or let it grow,

Undercut, layers, or perhaps Mohawk,
Plain and unadorned
Or bright and interestingly styled.

Whatever your fashion, or lack thereof,

Whatever takes your fancy,
Be proud of your luscious locks
Or your smooth and shiny head.

March Poetry Challenge (7th March, 2013)

On Gloriousness

There is nothing so glorious

As that first whiff of aroma;
Before the oven door fully opens
Before eyes have seen its delight.

It fills the mind with delicious thoughts

And melts the other senses to nothing,
Leaving only the insatiable craving
For that which must be devoured.

March Poetry Challenge (6th March, 2013)

The Dress

The door slid easily along

As it had done so many times defore
Revealing the miriad of colour
From the brightest blue to the grungiest grey.

Her hand caressed the fabrics;

Soft leather, smooth silk,
Rough denim and warm wool;
None quite grabbing her as they once had.

A sparkle caught her eye,

Hardly noticible amongst the others,
But somehow the perfect shade,
The perfect shimmer and shape.

It called to her and she took it down,

Sliding it effortlessly off the hanger.
She held it in front of her
And twirled in front of the mirror.

Suddenly, she felt seventeen again.

The memories of the first time she’d seen it
Came flooding back
As if it were only yesterday.

It had been the same all those years ago,

Almost hidden on the racks of clothes,
A subtle reflection of the light
Catching the gaze – unable to look away.

The years had not been kind –

Children and marriage and work
Had slowly changed her over the decades –
But not for the dress.

It retained it’s youthful sparkle,

It’s shimmer and shine still there.
She knew the dress was no longer hers
And never would be again.

But it did not go back in the darkness,

Not back on it’s hanger to wait.
It stayed out in the light and the bright
To dance another day.

She watched the dress float out the door,

Those sparkles still catching the light
And dancing joyously on the wall

As the music carried it through the night.

March Poetry Challenge (5th March, 2013)

Requiem for an Unrequited Love

Keenly waiting for that which will never be

Calm façade showing nought
Keeping that last flicker of hope alive
Crossing names off the dwindling list

Any sign that I have imagined,

Signs that clearly are not there,
Are only heightened by your friendship
Showing me a love that cannot be.

Just break my heart and be done with it,

Leaving me having is hardly fair.
Justice surely would be to let me go,
Let me escape the spell you put me under.

Maybe, perhaps, it’s not up to you.

Sometimes it slips my mind.
Maybe I have to snap out of this headspace,
Stand up to my own wandering imagination.

Alone and underwhelmed by love,

Grabbed by the fleeting and unreturned,
Assaulted by ridiculous images and
Ghostly feelings that never last.

March Poetry Challenge (4th March, 2013)

Idle Worship
 
What idol do you hold up before you?
Some enchanted being from ancient superstition
Or mere mortal propelled into public conscience
By notoriety or obscure talent?

How does your idol appear to you?

Is it something over-powering,
Omnipresent and omnipotent;
Or tangible and real?

What image does your idol take?

Is it adorned with the latest fashion plate
From the catwalks of Milan or Paris
Or perhaps something more classical?

How does your idol speak for you?

Do the words carry the weight of authority
Or just the vile trappings
Of some gilded, vacuous being?

What can your idol do to help you?

Is it awesome and inspirational
And give comfort when you are low
Or more aspirational in kind?

How do others see your idol?

As some everlasting icon
Or as a fly-by-night
Matinee heart-throb gone tomorrow?

What does your idol mean to you?

A face to love?
A being to worship?
A life to be emulated?

How is your idol better

Than anyone else's?
What right have you
To tear down their ideal?

March Poetry Challenge (3rd March, 2013)

Once more, with feeling …

There was an air there

In that little room,
Almost tangible,
Of despair and gloom.

The stark light of the bulbs

Washed out her face
Exaggerated, perhaps,
By the chiffon and lace.

Around her hung the decorations

Of a thousand other days
Sequins, feathers, beads,
That once reflected the suns rays.

For the last time those eyes looked out

At the mask she had to fit,
The war paint she must apply,
To get through this last bit.

Slowly now she reached out

With an old and trembling hand
To pick up the slender brush
Which transported her to another land.

The colours seem more muted,

As though robbed of their hue;
They would never have the vibrancy
That they did when her skin was new.
 
Each tender stoke transformed her,
Though not as it once did,
For there was more of her showing through
And less of her was hid.

The final touches having been applied

For one final curtain call;
One last appearance,
Once more bell of the ball.

March Poetry Challenge (2nd March, 2013)

The Best of Friends

When I was wee –

Much smaller than now –
With a mind innocent
And full of wonder
The best friends I had
Were buried deep in my mind
With names so fabulous
That no-one could believe
A child such as I
Could have ever thought
To give them names such as that.

As I grew up –

In mind and in body –
Mi mejor amigo was flesh and blood,
But they all eventually disappeared
Into the ether, never to return,
Just as if I had simply
Unimagined those beautiful people
As I had done all those years before,
Memories all that remains
Of the friendships we swore
Would never come to an end.

Now, as I sit here –
A little older than I was
But somehow so much wiser –
I have found some sort of answer
To a question I never really asked
Yet has hung over me all my life:
Mon meilleur ami has always been
Closer than I ever thought
Buried deep in an overgrown mind
Yet always just under the surface,

Keeping me company until the day I die.

March Poetry Challenge (1st March, 2013)

Inspired by my friend, Ally (who is also doing this challenge), we are writing a piece a day for the month of March based on the erratically popular Facebook phenomena of "photo a day" ...

The Ubiquitous Self Portrait

It is, for all intents and purposes,

A challenge of the greatest magnitude
To live up to that image we portray
To the unassuming general population.

The wide smile we plaster on,

The happy demeanor,
The picture we want people to see
Like a glamour shot in a magazine.

The real image is hidden away,

Visible only to those who care to look
Beyond the veil of make-up,
False bravado and photoshop.

Can we not create for ourselves

A more realistic image
That is not so traumatising
When it is finally seen through?