Three legs

An object needs three legs
To stand upright
No wonder we so often fall
For it’s a miracle that we can stand at all

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Advertisements

Isn’t it weird how
It’s the tough parts of our lives that shape us
And not the good ones?

I won’t say tough and good are antonyms
But once we reach a point of satisfaction
We are then stagnant
And mouldy like a rock
That doesn’t roll

There’s something wrong with how
Good times are always followed by bad
Driven by sloth and arrogance
We grow accustomed to our meretricious lifestyle
Far too quickly

.

.

.

.

.

.

11 Bustle Street on Writer’s Block

You might not care less, but I have moved.
My new address:
down in the Oversaturation Valley
on other end of Run-Down Alley
located near the Humdrum Avenue
beside the Sleepy Park—
11 Bustle Street on Writer’s Block.

I know, it’s quite a shock.
Feel free to soon stop by and watch
my favourite new movie:
The Writers of the Lost Spark;
or hear the album Machine Dead
by Deep, Deep Hurdle—
and by a glass of whiskey dive
into René Discardes and Immanuel Can’t.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The Dark Side of the Rainbow

I walked across the street at night
And heavy was the rain
The distant sounds of motor cars
The whistle of a train…
Some phosphorous illuminance
Behind me made the rain glow
I turned around and then I saw
The dark side of the rainbow

And as it ghastly shone on me
With its inverted colours
I was prepared to believe
In its outlandish powers
The different hues of darkish pink
Engendered foul temptations
Subdued me with their purple ink
And brought me weird sensations

The Wobniar, I called its name
And it responded gently
“Now, do not be afraid, my child
Embrace, do not resent me”
Aghast, I escaped the fiery sight
And woke to a great wonder
A lightning rolled across the sky;
The clouds had split asunder

I opened haltingly my eyes
And there, in all her beauty—
The rainbow, how I once her knew
Now all dressed up for duty
So courteous, graceful, yet aloof;
Her colours safe and frequent
The gloomy pigments undisclosed
Were to remain our secret

.

.

.

This work was requested on Fiverr.
Order your own poem today!

.

Original photo by Alan Heardman.

.

.

My hobby

I kill people for fun
What else is there to say
Everybody has hobbies
So why not this one?
If you ask me why I do it
There is no real reason

Many killers get caught
Go to prison
Behind, they leave trails
They all have something
For what they have fought
But I, I have nothing
No agenda, no feelings
That restrain or restrict me
Or expose or reveal me
No desire to be found
Or attain recognition

Lately, I have been worried
About my mental health
So I went to a therapy session
I have a job I don’t like
And I do not need wealth
So maybe one day
I’ll turn my hobby
Into profession

.

.

.

.

This work was requested on Fiverr.
Order your own poem today!

.

.

Message

She sent me a message
And I replied
So she sent me another one
And I amplified
that by telling her clearly that
I had absolutely no intention of
engaging in any kind of uncivilised
discussion and that my husband
might be rather disappointed if
he ever found out.

But I clicked the link open
And took a look at her pictures.

.

.

.

.

.

IS

Oh tell me, mama, ’bout the world that’s around us
Oh tell me, mama, ’bout the wonders unseen

Is there ponies and bunnies and lions and tigers?
Is there flowers and pine trees and apples and berries?
Is there rivers and oceans with fish swarming in them?
Is there stars in the sky and a sun shining brightly?

Yes there is, child, yes there is.

Oh tell me, mama, ’bout the world that’s around us
Oh tell me, mama, ’bout the tales untold

Is there children like me and mothers like you are?
Is there friends to be found and relationships formed?
Is there love to be sought, is there love to be given?
Is there people who care and who aid those in need?

Yes there is, child, yes there is.

Oh tell me, mama, ’bout the world that’s around us
Oh tell me, mama, ’bout the cry of our people

Is there sadness and pain and grief and depression?
Is there hunger and greed, mistrust and deception?
Is there violence, cruelty, wars and oppression?
Is there death and disease and abuse and rejection?

Yes there is, child, yes there is.

.

.

.

.

.

This work was requested on Fiverr.
Order your own poem today!

.

.