Four Fifths Is Fine, I Feel.

Unreasonable behaviour this part of I am,

Is silly, impetuous, unworldly, but damn!

It’s honest and true and a little bit crazy,

Flighty sometimes but never quite flaky

Enough to be daft to the point of plain stupid.

Like being a bit tipsy or speared by wee Cupid.

A tiny bit mental, a tad giggly too,

But it balances the serious, so that’s what I do.

Those folk who know me would testify

That I’m perfectly balanced, four out of five.

The one fifth I’m not is when fantasy’s in flow

Or I’m drunk as a skunk, a pity I know,

But delightfully daring to release the repressive.

Preferable to being much too depressive.

No mania here for I’ve read all about it,

I’m just me, can’t you see, a bit foolish, don’t doubt it.

But only at weekends when I’m in full flight

And mind’s in the clouds. I know, yes, it’s right

That others may think I might be an ass,

But, bugger, I’m honest to the point that I laugh

When things that I say bite me on the bum,

I deal with it, accept it, I blush then succumb

To reasonable behaviour once more in mid-week.

Weekends are for weird, I find as I speak.

No wonder my family think maybe there’s several,

Wife, mother, teacher and a bit of a devil.

Like a youth in my mind two days in the week,

So shoot me, but believe the words that I speak.

A little bizarre on the pan that is light

Lifts up my spirits then so I might

Return to the normal, the perfectly plain

The worker, wife, mother, balanced again.

 

Video reading Four Fifths Is Fine, I Feel

Of Writing

Some people are annoyed at me

And I suppose it is no wonder.

In spending hours in writing,

I’m leaving them to blunder

Through the chores

And all the dishes.

I dole out hugs,

Intermittent

Kisses.

But really,

It’s an awful ask,

To cease, desist, refrain

From task

Of writing what I have to pour

Upon these pages and

Many more.

The dam has burst,

It’s here to stay.

They muddle on

In disarray,

Mum has left

The kitchen sink,

I’ve disappeared

To write and think.

The truth is out,

They can’t decide

If mum’s depressed

And needs to hide.

When all I try

To say to them, is

I’m pouring ink from

Out of pen

Upon the whiteness

Of the page,

Please understand,

Don’t fuss

Or rage

At absence in

The living room,

I’m stoking fire

Of words

To bloom,

Like flowers

On the window sill,

I’ve not forgotten

Boy or girl.

But I am out

And this is it,

Live and learn,

Don’t give a shit

If ironing’s done

Or who hit whom.

Sort it out.

I’m in my room

Feeling freer

Than before,

Open mind,

Closed bedroom door.

What to say to

Those who matter,

I’m here beside you

But you must cater

To my needs,

When after all

I work all day,

Cease not at all.

In evening’s light

I spend my time

Fixing words

That want to rhyme,

Shaping thoughts

That form in mind,

Reliving dream

I have to find

To end the pain

Of silent pen.

I’m still here,

You’ll live again.

 

Video reading Of Writing

Birds And Then Some

So, there’s a bird that speaks

And it’s not a parrot.

Never deigns to repeat,

How boring would that be?

This bird has wisdom borne of measure

And knows sweet sentimental songs.

Many witness this bird’s tweet

And hope to emulate its truth.

This bird, however, fears morning’s song

And wants to sing the whole night long.

Alas, this flighty creature flew

Into abyss and then it grew

Enormous wings

Of such proportion

Diluted by another portion.

And dulled the sense therein.

Such bird has weekday to embrace

It’s faltering and shy of face.

Another bird may do as well,

Or other creature

That may swell

Emotions’ heart

And flighty song.

Such as those I do not seek,

I like the bird that has a beak.

Brian knows the answer true,

His answer is a teacher,

Soother.

Others here have self-confessed

That addled brain

Knows what is best

To chill and to remember when

A Friday comes round once again.

So, fortunate the heart that finds

That no bird is required,

I doff, I laugh, I seek your name,

Truly, you’re admired.

For fortune finds

A friend in you

And, I believe this happiness true,

Except for one teeny ….

Observation

That all trains stop

At my station.

This busyness I cannot thole

And so I seek another goal;

Oblivion, a chore for some

Sometimes, I like the brain that’s numb.

Trapped

Tips to tantalise

Web to weave, these

Silken threads

That bind to please.

Honeyed centre

Sweet allure

A bite of love from

One impure.

Fascination;

Drawn by,

A morbid glance,

A wish to die.

Blood withdrawn

Now life does wane;                                

Sweet release,

A welcome pain.

Crap, Crap, Crap!

I’ve turned it on

And I can’t turn it off

It’s doing my head right in.

If I don’t stop writing this nonsense

I’ll have to throw it all

In the bin.

It’s a pity the plug has a problem

I really tried pulling it out

So the verbal flow had somewhere to go

But I can’t force the wee bugger out.

One blogger said it was whimsical

It is or maybe it’s not.

The problem you see, if it was just down to me

I don’t mind garbling pots  full of rot.

The trouble now is

With this blogging,

I post everything that I write

It could be a poem or a message list.

It could be a whole lot of shite.

Unless I’m removed from this laptop

I can’t really see what to do.

So, if you would bear with this problem

I’ll attempt not to write too much poo.

Two Pet-Hates

I stood in dog shit the other day. Well, slid, more like. Fortunately, there were no deep treads on my shoes so I didn’t have to do the whole ‘scraping-it-out-with-a-stick’ kind of thing.

But, what is it with some dog owners?

If I can go armed with my poop bags, why can’t they? It’s so inconsiderate.

Your dog. Your dog’s shit. CLEAN IT UP.

Have you ever tried removing dog kack from the wheels of a pram. Totally, boak-worthy. Gag reflex goes into overdrive. I’m gagging just thinking about it. So, I’ll move on. Boak!

Litter louts. That’s another crowd who get on my wick.

Parents who stand around and blab while their kids drop sweetie wrappers at their feet. Don’t the parents notice? Or care?

Patrons – adults and children alike –  from chip shops and takeaways who drop greasy papers and cartons on the ground.

Do they live here? If so, don’t muck up your own home ground.

And, if you don’t live here, don’t shit in my kennel!

Pets and Promises

I managed to resist buying a dog for years.

I negotiated with my children each time it was mentioned and so we’ve had more hamsters than I care to think about, a few guinea pigs, a budgie, a couple of gerbils, goldfish and some woodlice that my kids thought would make good pets! My back garden is an animal graveyard. Natural expiration, I may add.

Last year, I gave in.

A three-month old Border Collie was bought.

There were promises made before the purchase.

We promise we will get up early and walk him before we go to school.

We will take turns at this task.

We will do it gladly even when it is raining.

We will groom him daily.

We will feed him.

We will wash him.

We will love him.

Pleeeeeeease!

Peeta has adopted daddy as his running companion.

I feed him.

They love him.

And, when pressed, do all of the above.

But only when pressed.

He’s part of the family now.

So I have eight kids instead of seven!

Rise

A few good people rise to the occasion.

Embracing the challenge,

One foot in front of the other.

One idea ahead of the others.

Growing,

Taking shape and form.

Seeds of ideas nurtured and developed.

The effort and the will

Tie the idea to the kite

That lets it fly.

Soar with it……..

Tethered to the ground –

Mundanity

Minimal reward.

Be not afraid.