Talking to the Wall

In a room where silence takes its toll,

I find companionship with an empty wall;

A monologue unbroken, where secrets fall,

The wall, impassive, stands and hears it all.

 

With ears of mortar, eyes of faded paint,

My friend to confide in, without restraint,

No criticism or interruptions it lends,

Just quiet strength on which I can depend.

 

Its surface is cool, yet warmth it does provide,

A stable presence, there for me, by my side.

It shares my laughter, and knows my pain,

In that quiet room, sanity I regain.

The River’s Fork

The river’s fork tore them in two, 

They drifted away, far from heaven’s view,

And now they shiver, by different decree,

On currents returning slowly to the sea.

They meet once more,

The love once severed now finds its shore,

Reunited in the vast, eternal lee,

Two souls once lost, now forever free.

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.