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.