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.