two-minute poetry

advice on being

a wise man I knew sat to offer advice
he told me, whenever you attempt anything
try to be the best, and if you can't
be the best, then be different.

there are a lot of people in this old world
you can bet if you've thought of it
then someone else has too! so always
think twice about everything you do.

but don't just do nothing
that just won't do at all!
if you can't be the best - or different
just be yourself, be someone at least.

and on that point he rose
and leaving, walked smack into a post
and I cried, that's the best! That's different!
but it was himself he was being the most.

poetsday

Still Life After Twenty Years

of the initial fifteen minutes
the first is the worst; aware of risk
a void, staring into the abyss. into
white space, no one to hear you scream
suffocating, grasping towards the surface
throw a line, a purchase, anything you can find.

it's tough, and the next fourteen are no better
fear, hesitation, and mind numbing doubt
but around the fifteenth - a glimpse of form
the light falls roughly where it should
and shadows fix tenable foundations on which
three apples orbit, pulled together with gravity

so there's still life in the old dog yet
how quickly I forget: it only takes a day
for confidence to wane and back again
to minute zero and the long climb out
judging myself harshly by every next effort
but if it was too easy, would it be worth doing?

*
this is a poem celebrating my return to drawing and my pleasure at discovering a reasonable likeness of three apples on my paper at the end of my first exercise.

I'd run out of time somewhat and it's left me with a very unsatisfactory finish. I will come back to this but if anyone offers a better alternative, I will consider it. I always feel I have ownership of the sentiment but not necessarily the words. Art should not be selfish in that way.

two-minute poetry

there is a point to all actions (the pencil sharpener's song)

I sharpen my pencil for a poem
(now why do I do that?!)
there is a point to every action
whether we see it or not
the unconscious mind is still
the mind we possess; though we may
not realise, it functions with
the same IQ nevertheless.

while the duller blades waver
a keen edge cuts cleanly and true
etching sentiments into the new
paper, not in sand but stone
as erasing that first notion
isn't an option to condone
to sharpen the pencil before the first word
knows instinct to be the finest of swords

two-minute poetry

A Sister for Ian

When I was seven, Mum brought home a sister
to play with after school, she wasn’t
even one yet; really small, so if I sat
still and was good I could hold her gently
and she smelled like milk and biscuits.
If I behaved down the shops, I could push her
in the pram home, she liked to rock, the gurgles
stopped when she sleeps, sometimes a whole day!
Sometimes I was allowed to push her
'round the garden in the summer while
she napped and I liked this best of all.
One day a robber jumped out and hit me
over the head and stole my sister away
so I chased him down the road and shot him.
I told my mum after, and she was pleased.


*
Inspired by Poetry Thursday : Liar, Liar, Pants On Fire!

hmm, as far as I'm aware this is the first documented lie I ever told. It caused gentle consternation for my teacher, Miss Padmore, but an accompanying illustration (wax crayon on paper) was neat enough to award me a blue star!

all lost now, alas. I've tried to capture the wording of the original as best I can without venturing too far into 'curious incident' territory but, you know, memory and the ravages of time play tricks on the mind - it's as faithful as I can get it to be.

poetsday

Chief Dan George, honest injun (words from atop a mountain)

when is it a good day to die
when you're down or when you're high?
we've all got to go somehow
with a smile or with a frown
to go down up or head up down.

one deep breath

one deep breath : the unseen.



guardian angels
watching them when I'm not there
faith, trust, hope and love




*
This week's prompt made me think I'm more of an observational guy and I could appreciate the unseen more. I had a bit of difficulty with 'observing' the unseen without being too literal.

poetsday

the minutiae of Life & the two-minute poem;

the draft

the draft of a suicide note lay
amongst the aftermath of breakfast
a half-consumed body of man
the sacrificial lamb hanging
ominous from the beam
the coffee has become quite cold now
collecting my belongings I turn
taking one last look while
heading for the door

*

right to the top of the tree

no one need stand on the tips of their toes
to see over the intellect of tony mcgee
while tony would prove one and one made three
but a shortage of men made him CEO
and it's not what you know, nor who you know
but how you go - and so tony went
right to the top of the tree.

*

(dedicated to old bosses and their disgruntled employees everywhere)