27 November, 2009


The other day when I wrote the previous post, I thought it had to be one of the most pointless things I've ever written. On re-reading it and fixing what mistakes jumped out at me, I discovered it was reasonably randomly silly. So I was satisfied... but that brings me to today. What shall I do today when today is already over?

It's hard to think of things to write when here I sit before a keyboard and screen ready to type something nicely profound. Something interesting enough to capture no audience's attention... which is what I'm already doing, but I'm being sarcastic. I'm sure you could tell. When I turn off the computer, lie down in bed, that's when the words flow and imagination runs with motor cars of the air. I could scribble them down and scribble them down, but the effort of getting out of bed and walking all the way over to the light switch is not worth it.

What people want when they read a blog is something different, something unique... something that captures their attention and imagination. Distracts them. Now, my other blog, it kinda did that, but I've temporarily run out of ideas and haven't been bothered (although my official excuse is [of course] that I haven't had the time) to pull out all the stories' bits and pieces and start re-fitting my jigsaw pieces together on a legible board of text.

Now, people will one day say that I have misused my words and that is not how you use a word that means something else... or ... there's no such word in the English dictionary. I'm not sticking with rules. These are thoughts that have thrown themselves out of my head and onto the screen. Some are there just for the sound they make or the colour I associate the word with - because there aren't always the right words I want for expression. Patterns, colours and rhythm. Puzzles that seem and yet don't seem to fit together.

Badabing, badaboom. Figure it out thyselfsom.

Musky though the raskers ride
Fudgy though the felpots slide
On the surfboards of the dry
Ballooning through the air.

Misty on the cyrus tail
Cushy on the fluffy rail
There the butterfly soars on streams
of lifting-falling pare.

Roar of wind
Whistle of hair
Shy of wobble
Why of care.
Here fly freebies of the blue
In the mood.

25 November, 2009


Trudging mud will not make a spacious place cleaner. I'm hungry, but the hens are pecking at the keyboard and asking for nuts. Nuts? Hens don't eat nuts. They don't even like dried corn unless it's been hammered into sizeable pieces. My purse is empty, yet full of receipts. How that happened? Ask the night owl who took it on a shopping spree. I don't like the idea of going to Japan, that's why I'm not going. Too noisy, too crowded, too many people... and I can't speak Nihongo. Still, the orange sandwich hasn't been finished - wait! I haven't finished my lunch! Have to do that before I eat dinner in 5 minutes time. Still gotta pick up the eggs before dark, but I don't like going into the chookhouse. Dusty. Lots of poop. smelly and my clothes will get dragged, inadvertently of course, upon the yuck. Yuck. I'm hungry. Going to eat dinner. Hope the cat and flies haven't got it yet.

Trudge and plod
There the motorcycle screeches
Drift around the corner car
Grin at scudded tyre
Clouds are high
Fog is by
Walking, walking
on a tram
surf the rattle-shake
Trudge and plod
I don't like ponds
Mosquitoes whine in the air.

21 November, 2009


Today the sky is grey, where the brilliant blue that glared until your eyes were sore has dissipated after a big dust storm. Any cars caught out in the subsequent rain have now been painted with the dust the clouds caught and threw back towards the earth through their egestion. As such the cars are well mottled, as if they're about to go bush and camouflage themselves. I pity those who washed their cars yestermorn.

Today is interesting. Mostly because it's no longer yesterday neither is it tomorrow yet. It's today. Present. A present. Not always a welcome present, but still today's present.

So... the earth has turned another round and measured up no single sound. Why I have to rhyme so much in my poems is beyond me. I used to be able to make them work via rhythm alone, but they disagree with me now. Only the remnants remain.

Raining! Raining! Quick take down the clothes, before the spit of the sky makes the drying garments dusty. Again.

Wither will the rains yet come,
wither will they go again,
When summer rages
and fires pages
Taking away many wages.
In the lightning of the storm
In the gale of the lorm,
Now the houses must well be kept
and all the yards well swept
Let not the hunger satiate
In radiating, whirling heat.

20 November, 2009


Round and round
The whirlygig blows
To the sound of
The lollypop shows
Where a traveller
Dressed so bright
In chequered greens
And orange seams,
Plays a tune with might.

Angry though a bear may stomp
Frightened though a mouse may skitter
Frustrated though a cat may pomp
At the screeching titter.
All through day he prances there
All through night he plays the lair.
Trickle down
The leafy boughs
Rain drops gown
Bare toes.

Whistle kite
No thistle straw
Trancing fingers
On shining draw.
Mingle tinkle
On the dringle
Where will the garden grow?
He cares not for
places small
Nor for mis-matched

Here a skip
There a stop
Stip a coin
Upon the knop
Tonight we'll dine in.
Lay upon the moonshine's pillow
Tomorrow the sun's warm billow.

19 November, 2009


To blurg ,
to blog ,
it will not merg,
when apples cease
and trotters surg.

There is no point
but to elaborate,
To huddle,
To expel,
To extrapolate.

'Mercy!' cry the heels of toe,
When sense is none
and sharks think woe.

Again no point
shall these words here make.
Just to annoy,
To trickle,
To apple pie bake.

Bit by bit the sand do fly,
Attrition is the best man's sigh.
Little by little cats will tie
Their tails in knots of mice so shy.

Fiddle and faddle,
Grabble the rabble,
Tiller the tattle,
When time to babble.