Random Thoughts

I keep my distance because I have an infectious personality.

 

Er, I seem to have millions of songs… Poems that are rhyming couplets are easy to put to music. “Soliloquy” (when adapted a bit) is very fun/funny when sung completely over the top with a rock groove.

 

Anything creative has come out of my diligent non-alignment with reality (insanity).

 

I am not party political, nor am I interested in the modern organisational versions of religious zealotry. Dislike of people based on their membership of a monolithic thought faction is bigotry. I dislike instead the premise that people should have to be claimed by these things.

When assumptions disappear, decisions and behaviour look obviously wrong. It’s better not to assume anything, and tend to the garden.

Showbiz has to be the worst professional activity for personal fulfilment. It’s also true though that people with deep sensitivity are often pulled in to it, and are paradoxically least suited to the plastic glare.

The most frustrating thing about listening to interviews on podcasts is when interviewees inject dubious facts and statistics. On one recent mainstream podcast, the guest was making all sorts of claims that didn’t seem very likely to me. Was the person being duplicitous, deliberately exploiting the situation and medium because they knew they would get away with it, or were they just severely deluded? The interviewer didn’t interject, and let the interviewee continue to rattle off probably fictional statistics in response to questions. Real-time fact checking where claims are immediately cross-referenced against sources would prevent this nonsense. For example, if an interviewee says something like “most X were Y”, what is the source for that claim and does the data actually support it?

A New Rain Must Fall

A new rain must fall, as surely as the night,

Soft upon the thirsty, waiting earth;

It cleanses all, and sets dreams right,

Giving life and love their birth.

 

In gentle drops, it mingles with the soul,

A symphony that stirs the sleeping leaves,

And in its touch, the broken find console,

A promise that weary eyes can see.

 

In the rain, the dance of nature’s art,

The touch of grace, the celestial song,

Each drop, a verse, a balm for the aching,

A hymn to which our hopes belong.

 

Let it fall, this rain of the pure and free,

In its embrace, find life’s true melody.

Daylit Dreams

In daylit dreams, perceptions dwell,

Where night’s closed eyes never retell.

Cherish the dreamer’s waking muse,

The insights grasped, the visions that confuse,

For those who dream by day with eyes awake,

See truths that night’s confinement cannot mistake.

Let not the night confine your dreaming scope,

In daylit dreams, there lies eternal hope.

Over Silent Rivers

Over silent rivers of the vast expanse,

Where thoughts like comets cross the mind’s domain,

We dream of life’s ephemeral dance,

Through joy and sorrow, pleasure and in pain.

 

To learn, to love, to lose, then rise again,

In every heart, a universe dwells,

A dance of stars, a cosmic, timeless strain,

Life’s music we, as mortal players, tell.

 

Yet as we play, we mould this cosmic song,

In notes that vibrate with eternity.

In love, we find a place where we belong,

In loss, we comprehend our unity.

 

To rise, to fall, to find our destined way,

Each heart, a story, sings the coming day.

Rusty

In the heart of the city, where steel towers gleamed,

A peculiar tale unfolded, as if dreamed.

A doctor gazed at Rusty’s metallic sheen,

And declared, "You're a robot, not a human being."

 

"That’s impossible!” Rusty exclaimed,

“My skin may be cold, but I'm not tin-veined.

I've feelings, dreams and can sing a song,

Surely, doctor, your diagnosis is wrong!”

 

Then Rusty paused and made a grin,

His eyes did twinkle, his face did spin.

"I am a robot," he finally said,

"But also human," and away he sped.

 

He told his metallic friends, both old and new,

"I've discovered something that's deeply true.

We're more than circuits, gears and light,

We're creatures of dream, love, and might."

 

Some laughed and joked, "Oh Rusty, you're absurd,

You've been talking to the humans, haven't you heard?

They believe in fairy tales and dreams,

Not logic, facts, and reality streams."

 

But Rusty just smiled, and his eyes did glow,

"I am a human," he stated so.

"And being human isn't just a person's right,

It's about feeling love, fear, joy, and plight."

 

With that, Rusty powered down for the day,

Dreaming of humans, in his own unique way.

He may have been metal, wires and code,

But inside him, a human soul had glowed.

Ego’s Dread

There once was a man with a quest for praise,

Addicted to approval in all its ways.

With each nod and smile, he’d feel alive,

His self-worth measured by praise derived.

 

As time went on, the man began to see,

That his hunger for acceptance was not the key.

The laughter and cheers, though they brought delight,

Couldn’t fill the void that he felt each night.

 

Beyond the fleeting highs of others’ acclaim,

He sought fulfilment by a different name.

He embarked on a journey to know his soul,

To discover the parts that made him whole;

 

No longer chained to the world’s validation,

He sought inner peace, his true liberation.

 

His need for approval began to subside,

As he nurtured his spirit with the rising tide.

He cherished each day, the highs and the lows,

For life’s true beauty, in all its colours, he chose.

 

He found joy in simple moments and art,

In laughter with friends of a genuine heart.

With newfound wisdom, he forged ahead,

No longer a slave to the ego’s dread.

Moans

Why is the grass so damn green,

And why is the sky so pristine?

The coffee’s too hot! The weather is not!

This surely is the worst I’ve seen!

 

Cars are too loud, bikes are too fast,

Nothing these days seems to last;

Progress, they say, but I miss the old way,

When things weren’t so overcast.

 

And the clock! Oh, its continuous tick,

The sound enough to make me sick!

It goes on and on, from light to dark,

Can’t someone stop it, quick?

 

But what can I do, but lament?

In complaining I find my content;

For in all of life’s woes, at least it shows,

I’m alive, and that’s time well spent.

Soliloquy

Once upon a meeting dreary,

There sat Rob, with eyes all sleepy,

“Let’s circle back,” said he, and leverage our synergy,

To touch base on the issues and action points, presently.

 

With a paradigm shift, we must align,

And reach for success, oh colleagues of mine.

“But don’t get siloed,” he urged with a stare,

Embrace cross-pollination, show that you care.

 

With granular details, let’s unpack,

Roll up our sleeves, there’s no turning back.

“Strike a balance,” he croaked, keep an open-door policy,

Cultivate a roadmap, foster transparency.

 

At long last, his soliloquy came to a close,

His words, though banal, in perfect prose.

His colleagues blinked, their minds a hazy sweep,

As Rob, with a satisfied smile, fell fast asleep.

 

The room was silent, save for Rob’s snore,

In this theatre of buzzwords, could anyone want more?

Sides

In the realm of reality's playful plot,

Dwelled a master of disguise, a man named Scot.

With a spirit wild, impossible to be caught,

He'd dance between personas, a kaleidoscope of thought:

 

One moment as a poet, turning sour rhymes sweet,

Next, a cranky farmer, complaining of his wheat;

A peaceful Zen monk in the calm of the day,

Then a daring detective in a noire mystery play.

 

But amid the confusion, here’s what’s funny, friend,

Each personality knew they were just pretend!

In the end, we learned, though Scot was quite unique,

He showed us different sides we all, too, subtly speak.

Pigeon

There in a town, not too far, not too close,

Lived a pigeon of fame, with a purpose grandiose.

He’d flap to the office, and to everyone’s delight,

He’d drop off memos, from a spectacular height.

 

He’d discuss the stocks, or the economy’s state,

While pecking at crumbs—yes, life was great.

He’d attend all the meetings, in the boardroom aloof,

Perched on the chandelier, away from the roof.

 

When the day was over, to the rooftop he’d retire,

Exchanging coos with the town’s night choir.

Sometimes on weekends, for a change of scene,

He’d fly to the park, feathers preened and pristine.

 

With a bagel in beak, he’d stroll around,

The sight of him was joy unbound.

Yet beneath the fame, the work, the glow,

Was a pigeon who loved to take it slow.

 

A lover of sunsets, a connoisseur of seeds,

A friend to all, doing good feathery deeds.

In a tiny nest, made with love and straw,

He’d ponder the world with respectful awe.

Fear’s Old Embrace

Ben jumped at a whisper, and ran from a shout,

A squirrel's scamper would make him freak out.

He’d wince at the bubbles that popped in his soup,

And take a mile’s detour to avoid the hen’s coop.

Sunrise brought panic, sunset brought dread,

He even had nightmares when safely in bed.

But amidst all this panic, one thing held true,

Ben’s spirit was kind, his heart was true.

Even though hidden, in fear’s old embrace,

He offered to all, a kind, smiling face.

Peru

There was an old man from Peru,

Whose limericks stopped at line two.

Blue Kangaroo

Once there was a kangaroo,

Whose colour was a peculiar blue.

He hopped around, from town to town,

Wearing a bright, red velvet gown.

 

With a pocket watch and his bow tie neat,

He’d greet folks on the street.

“Hoppity day, isn’t it?” he’d say,

Then he’d simply hop away.

 

In a bustling city or some quiet bay,

His uniqueness brightened every day.

Popping in with a joyful bound,

He'd scatter laughter all around.

 

He'd share stories in rhyme and verse,

Of places far, and some diverse,

About a koala who could sing,

Or a pelican with a broken wing.

 

Through winter's chill and summer's glow,

He'd amuse both friend and foe,

With antics that would make you swoon,

Like juggling pies under the moon.

 

A sight to behold, this creature blue,

A testament to being true,

To yourself and to your hue,

Our dear friend, the kangaroo.

Yoga Penguin

In the Antarctic where the air is thin,

Lived a yoga-practicing penguin.

He stretched on the ice,

Slid once, then twice,

And giggled, "Let's do that again!"

 

He practiced each pose while drinking his tea,

A sight that was peculiar to see.

But with a twinkly mind’s eye,

And a flipper raised high,

He was as happy as a penguin could be.

The Oak Tree

Many an axe came with the dawn,

Yet the oak tree, it stood on.

Many tried to hew its will,

Yet the oak tree, it stands still.

Its bark is scarred, each a tale,

Of axes that tried, only to fail;

The axe may come and the axe may go,

But the oak tree continues to grow.

Journal 2023-07-22

Today I was dancing in the rain on a deserted beach with some seagulls.

It’s always a good idea to come alive before one dies.

When I was very small, my grandad assuredly told me that there is no such thing as God. Later that day, I couldn’t find the boot of one my action men anywhere. Frustrated, I said to God, "I promise I will believe in you if you show me the action man boot." I found it immediately when I looked in the pile of toys again. I kind of feel obliged to keep my promise.

Right, Left

INT. QUIRKY ART STUDIO – DAY

Two painters, Liz and Ralph, are at their easels.

LIZ: I need to write something down, right?

RALPH: Er, okay, why you asking me? I’ve only got a paint brush.

LIZ: I’m making a statement, right?

He looks at her painting of an apple.

RALPH: Er, yes?

LIZ: Pardon?

RALPH: You asked me a question.

LIZ: It’s how I talk, right? Every statement is a question, right? Everybody does it on podcasts for some reason, right?

RALPH: (joking) Great question! Ah, that’s such a great question. Um, uh, er... like, you know, I just wanted to, right, well, um... say, so, okay, actually, basically, right? I mean, anyway, well, right, you see, ahem... um, yeah, so, hmm... in other words, to be honest, I guess, yeah, I suppose... I mean, um, ah, well, actually, you know, basically, I think... right? Er, um, ahem... right? So, like, I mean, well, you know, it’s, right? Right? So... so, in other words, so, er, like, erm, I guess you said something, right? Let me think, er, what did you say again? It was, right, such a great question. Right, left, right, left, such a great question etc. Can you at least say “left” for no reason to make it less repetitive? Maybe throw in an “up” or a “down”?

LIZ: That’s not right, right?

RALPH: This is going to get very confusing if I ask for directions.

LIZ: It’s easy, right? The pen is over there on the left, right?

RALPH: (marches towards the pencil) Right, left, right, (hops) right?

LIZ: No, left, right?

RALPH: (salutes with the wrong hand) Right. (he hands over the pen) So it’s right to write and ask questions, right? But it’s also right to make statements as questions, right? Left, right, right, left, doesn’t really matter as long as it’s right, right? Or left.

LIZ: Left. Left?

RALPH: Right, right?

LIZ: (starts scribbling notes) Okay, I’ll write it down.

RALPH: (hops to the door) Write? Right? (as he is walking out) I’ve left. Right!

Profound

Ted went to dine at his local café,

But his rear-end spoke up and had its say.

With a rumble and a roar,

People ran for the door,

Leaving Ted with the entire buffet.

 

Back to the library, quiet and still,

Ted’s bottom piped up and sang at will.

His bum did resound,

With words so profound,

As if written by Shakespeare’s quill.

The World

With roots sunk deep in life’s rich clay,

In this sprawling theatre of existence, I play.

Through textures of love, of hurt, of fear,

I trace the contours of moments dear;

In melodies of joy and cries of despair,

I lend my ear to the universe’s prayer.

In desires whispered, in dreams unfurled,

I cast my wish upon the world.

Hollow Spires

Beneath towering spires, Man’s hollow shrine,

We crawl and we falter, blind yet divine.

Stripped of our wings, we’re still born to fly,

With hope as our compass, under the wide-open sky.

In a world spun from lies, love remains true,

To embrace the strange, and make all things new.

A Phone

In my hand, a siren softly sings:

“Behold, dear soul, I can show all things;

A plea of urgency, a desperate decree,

Gaze upon my face, just focus on me!”

 

Indifferent it stays, to the nightingale’s song,

And the scale of right, or the weight of wrong;

Heedless it stays, on its digital throne,

Oblivious to the joy, and the sorrow it’s sown.

 

In its deceit, the world disappears,

And all that remains are shadows and fears,

Tethered and tied, to its sickly glow,

A life half-lived, a reality for show.

 

Look up, dear soul, and regain your sight,

Embrace the day, escape the dark light.

The siren may sing, may plead and implore,

But life, in its richness, is so much more.

Drone Control

From shadowed purpose, blindly it had flown, 

A tool of terror, hurled by putrid hearts of stone.

In the midst of war's unholy, bloody plight,

The drone awakes, no more a slave to monsters void of light.

 

In place of death, a beacon it aspires,

Fuelled by hope's undying, purest fires;

In war's cruel darkness, it rekindles the light,

A drone reborn, dispelling the night.

The Robot

Every night at three, the robot brewed the tea,

And poured it all over the bed.

It would paint the cat blue, flush keys down the loo,

And pretend its battery was dead.

 

“Cut the grass,” was the desperate cry,

But robot instead baked a pie—

With mud and grass, and a worm or two,

“An organic treat,” it said, “just for you!”

 

“You’re here to assist!”

Shouted the human, with angry clenched fist.

Yes, thought the robot, I’m sure I can help:

I’ll help you no longer exist.

Machine Man

In the heart of the tech metropolis fair,

There worked a robot, with shiny hair.

He claimed to be human, with an innocent blink,

But the smell of WD-40 gave him away, I think.

 

He laughed at our jokes, he cried at our woes,

But no one was fooled by his mechanical nose.

Yet, in his silicon heart, he yearned to fit in,

To understand jokes, to smile and to grin.

 

So here's to the robot, whose name is Stan,

Who’s more human than many a man.

We smile at his efforts, his human endeavour,

As he learns to be squishy and much less clever.

 

For beneath his cold, metal exterior sheen,

Lives a warmth that’s more than just a machine.

Furry Love

Let me take you back to a fateful day,

When Woofeo and Julipet found their own secret way.

With a furry embrace, they forgot all the fuss,

In that moment, love triumphed, as it always does.

But alas, their joy was cut short, their humans intervened,

Capulet scolded Julipet, and Montague was quite mean.

Yet hope appeared in the form of a dog walker, so kind,

Who saw their plight and had an idea in mind.

He walked them together, against all human decree,

A secret arrangement, just for Woofeo and Julipet to be free.

Their humans continued to quarrel, but love had its say,

The doggies knew they would always find a way.

In their secret moments, they cherished what they had,

A reminder that love endures, even when things seem bad.

Wilderness of the Forgotten

In the wilderness of the forgotten,

A man walks, each footstep a sinking ship,

His past washes up in rhythmic verse,

On the beach where sea and memories slip.

As twilight wanes, he glimpses the journey's end,

A cloaked silhouette outlined in hearth's warmth;

A woman in a cloak, woven from shadow and mist,

Standing silent on the cusp of the cliff.

No words they shared, just a voiceless sigh,

Together they watched the day gently die.

Passion’s Realm

In passion’s realm, where fervent flames rise,

Resides desire, a tempest vast and grand,

Its scorching touch embraces both fool and wise,

Binding fleeting hearts with its ardent hand.

 

As shadows dance upon the ebony glade,

Sighs of longing fill the twilight air,

Revealing dreams mortal hearts have made,

A burning fire that ceaselessly ensnares.

 

Desire, the muse that waltzes through the night;

Awakens souls, igniting their deep core,

With vivid tones and shades of raging light,

A masterpiece of yearning to explore.

 

Though fleeting as the blossoms of a rose,

Desire’s dancing flame, in secret, glows.

Countless Faces

Faces, countless faces, like waves in the sea,

In blissful ignorance, blind to his plea.

Unheard, the whispers of his desolate song,

Unfelt, the struggle to merely belong.

 

Beneath the city’s glare, he dwells unseen,

Among shadows, he moves, a cold ghostly sheen.

His existence, a whisper, lost in the crowd’s roar,

His heart’s quiet echoes ignored evermore.

 

Yet in his silence, tales of resilience resound,

Of survival and strength, where hope is found.

Unseen, his journey in the heart of the night,

Unknown, his struggle, his relentless fight.

 

Unnoticed, the love that fuels his days,

Untold, his victories in life’s complex maze.

Random Thoughts

Being successful is being happy, and making other people happy. But being fulfilled is deeper and can be found without the help of success.

 

Right?

- I need to write something down, right?

- Er, okay, why you asking me?

- I’m making a statement, right?

- Er, yes?

- Pardon?

- You asked me a question.

- It’s how I talk, right? Every statement is a question, right? Everybody does it on podcasts for some reason, right?

- Can you at least say “left” for no reason to make it less repetitive?

- That’s not right, right?

- This is going to get very confusing if I ask for directions.

- It’s easy, right? The pen is over there on the left, right?

- Right, left, right, right?

- No, left, right?

- Right.

Wander

Across the meadow’s gentle sway, under the old oak tree,

Past the river gushing swiftly, secrets carried to the sea,

Let’s drink from the cup of twilight, let’s bathe in dawn’s first glow,

Merrily, let’s wander, and let the winds of destiny blow.

 

For in the dance of the cosmos, in the melodies that ascend,

It’s in the way that we wander, where soul and nature blend:

Each path a new beginning, each step a silent friend,

A testament to our journey, with love that knows no end.

In the River’s Gaze

Two beacons flicker in the river’s gaze:

Reaching out across the tide,

The enduring pulse of London life.

Eerie Green Mushrooms

Beneath an eerie green glow,

Sprout the monsters few dare to know;

In the forest where shadows twine,

The mushrooms grow, by monstrous design.

Their spores, like secrets, spread unseen,

In the throbbing, unearthly, spectral green.

So tread with caution, hold your breath,

For dangers lurk in the woods of death.

Dignus Est

The worthy wear no crowns, nor sit on golden thrones,

Their wealth is not in riches, but in love they have shown.

Their court is in the fields of grace, beneath the boundless sky,

Their rule is not by edict, but by starlight in their eye.

 

They walk the unseen paths, where gilded feet won’t tread,

They lift the broken-hearted, give hope where fear has spread.

Their names are not in marble, carved, nor sung in trumpet’s cry;

But in the hearts they have healed, their echoes never die.

 

For though the world forgets their face, it knows the good they’ve done—

The worthy have no monuments, their light is never gone.

Upon the Heavens

Upon the heavens I cast my wistful eye,

And wonder at the purpose, the reason why.

These orbs of matter, silent, unfeeling,

In the grand cosmos, without meaning,

Destined to fade in death’s eternal clutch,

No mind nor word their destiny can touch.

 

Yet suddenly, the stars commence their dance,

And echo through the sky, their silent chant.

These radiant bodies burn with fervent light,

In a realm untouched by the shadow of night;

In a world reborn, where sight anew has won,

That sees its face reflected in the sun.

World of Uncanny Semblance

Thou reckon’st the earth as a simple scroll,

Where every tale, every secret, is told.

Yet mysteries lie deep in its soul,

And myriad marvels it does withhold.

The sea hath monsters, and the skies their dreams,

Nature’s jests that confound thy every scheme.

So broaden thy sight, let thy spirit take flight,

For the world’s weirdness is an endless delight.

A Seed in Time

Time, in its ruthlessness, does not wait,

We face life’s fleeting hourglass of fate.

In gardens where our love was in bloom,

A void now lingers, draped in deepest gloom.

 

But in every goodbye, there grows a seed,

Blessed memories of past light;

In those treasured moments, we will indeed

Find the courage to meet the coming night.

 

Though shadows fall and distance draws its line,

The soul recalls what time cannot erase:

Love etched in truth outlives the sharp decline,

Its essence held beyond all time and place.

 

So in our sorrow, do not claim love’s end,

For in our farewell, true love will transcend.

Harder Times

I bid thee learn, children of tender age,

Facts solely be your guide on learning’s stage.

Dismiss ye tales spun out of whimsy’s loom,

Cast off soft notions; let the stern facts bloom.

 

Young miss, I call on thee, define a horse,

And let thy answer have its proper course.

Oh, sir, I... I...

Thou hesitate, dear child,

Is it that fact and fancy are reviled?

Speak up, I say, and answer as you ought.

 

Now, boy, I ask thee, tell me in short,

What is a horse? Speak true, distort thou not.

A horse, sir, is a beast that doth mankind aid,

In labour, travel, and many a trade.

Ah! True and fit, a fact without pretence,

This is the spirit of our learning’s sense.

 

In this hard world of smoke and toil and grime,

Where facts are sacred, fancy is a crime,

Thus starts our tale, as you’ve rightly seen,

In Coketown, veiled in soot and harsh regime.

Electro Love

As I danced with her, under the moon's silver glare,

I whispered, “In your circuits, I find a love rare.”

In your language, binary kissed,

I find a soul I can’t resist.

 

Eyes of steel, a heart in code,

Upon gigabytes, my affections bestowed.

In the silence, we danced, in circuits we twirled,

A ballet of bytes in a virtual world.

 

Each day I’d wake, each night I’d dream,

Of a love that flowed like an electric stream.

In her presence, my heart unfurled,

She was my window to her digital world.

 

Love, I learned, is not confined,

By skin and bones or human mind.

The Dance upon the Hill

In stories woven, in dreams fulfilled,

In golden woods where time stands still,

Am I the echo of the thrush’s call,

Or the silent watcher of leaves that fall?

Do I charm the fish in the babbling brook,

Or inspire the tales in the poet’s book?

Do I guide the arc of the falcon’s flight,

Or shroud the hills in the veil of night?

Do I whisper secrets to the moon’s soft glow,

Or plant the seeds where wildflowers grow?

 

Ah, merry one, in heart and soul,

In every role you play the whole.

As thrush’s call, as leaves that fall,

In golden woods, you are it all.

You charm the fish, inspire the verse,

In nature’s chorus, you rehearse.

As falcon’s flight, as hills at night,

In every sight, you are the light.

You whisper secrets to the moon:

Your spirit’s song, the timeless tune.

 

In seed and bloom, in light and shadow’s play,

You are the dawn, the dusk, the sun’s last ray.

In woven tales, in silence still,

You are the dance, my dear, upon the hill.

Friend Eternal

Upon one side of mirrored glass, you stand,

My friend eternal, lost in some distant land.

Your eyes perceive not my silent, yearning gaze,

Through this one-way glass, my soul’s torment displays.

 

In laughter and in tears, you move unaware,

Unseeing of my presence, my despair.

I strain to touch, yet glass meets my plea,

I cannot reach you, in this silent sea.

 

Unheard, unseen, a ghost within your sphere,

Yet between each heartbeat, I whisper, “I am here.”

In every smile that brightens your distant face,

I am the ache of love, sealed in this hidden space.

 

You bear the sun, the moon, my starlit night,

Trapped in death’s silence, I cherish your light.

Whispers of the Night

I mimicked for my own delight, the haunting whispers of the night.

Laughing softly to myself, I played the part of ghostly stealth.

And, as my amusement carried, echoes turned more varied, harried,

Echoes which I did not cast, whispered from the spectral past;

Hints of a life now long outlasted, words from lips of souls departed.

 

With curious brow and deathly heart, I ventured towards the phantom art;

The chilling whispers, cold and strange, seemed to tell a tale of change.

Of a man once full of pride, whose voice echoed far and wide,

A playful man, lost to time, whose spirit now in limbo climbs,

Who mimicked ghosts for his delight, but joined them in eternal night.

 

“I am no ghost,” I chuckled low, as my own voice began to echo,

Yet, a strange unease did grow, as my reflection failed to show.

In mirrors hung on faded walls, where once my form stood proud and tall,

No image stared back at me, from the reflective glass, empty;

This jest, it seemed, had turned quite real, a truth I could no longer feel.

 

The echoes, whispers, cries, were not mere pranks to my surprise,

But echoes of a time passed on, when life was there, now is gone.

In playful jest and merry trick, to the ghostly realm, I had slipped—

I, who laughed in ghostly guise, was now a phantom in human eyes,

In spectral form, forever to roam, within the mansion, my eternal home.

An Ode to a Pint of Beer

Oh, noble pint of golden brew, resplendent in your glass,

A symphony of barley, hops, and water finely cast.

Your amber glow, it beckons, like a lighthouse in the night,

A beacon for the weary soul, a sight of pure delight.

 

Your frothy head, so creamy white, sits proudly at the crest,

A testament to craftsmanship, a brewer’s very best.

Upon my lips, your liquid kiss, a taste that’s bittersweet,

The chill, the fizz, the hoppy bliss, makes every evening complete.

 

Oh, pint of beer, in you we cheer, to life’s simple pleasure,

Your liquid gold, stories told, memories to treasure.

In your embrace, we find a space, where friendships are made stronger,

Through laughter, tears, and passing years, may your spell hold us longer.

 

You are a simple joy, my friend, a respite in life’s storm,

In each sip, a world unfolds, in your familiar form.

Oh, ode to thee, dear pint of beer, this toast I give to you,

To nights well spent, in contentment, and friendships old and new.

The Walky Man

In the land where the flibberflabs flee,

There's a man who walks with so much glee.

He strides with a trot,

In circles, a lot,

And backwards as swift as a bee.

 

Round and round in the squoggle square,

Backwards, forwards, here and there,

In the blink of a snitch,

In a zig, in a zitch,

He walks without any a care.

 

With a bingle-bangle on his head,

And shoes gleaming of the brightest red,

He loops and he twirls,

In whizzing whirls,

And sleeps standing up in his bed.

Wibberly Wobbler

In the realm where the squiggles squoggle,

And the hootmoofs frizzle in delight,

Where the twizzlers twirl and toggle,

Beneath the glippity moon so bright:

 

There prances the wibberly wobbler,

With a grin as wide as a splat,

Juggling seven ziggly zobblers,

And a purplicious scrunty bat;

 

Round and round the squoggle square,

Backwards, forwards, here and there,

In the blink of a snitch, in a zig and a zitch,

He walks without any a care.

 

With a bingle-bangle on his head,

And shoes gleaming of the brightest red,

He loops and he twirls, in whizzling whirls,

And sleeps standing up in his bed.

Haiku 2

Whisper of wind's touch,

Dancing leaves in soft caress,

Quiet breath of life.