Saturday 29 December 2012

The Unrequited Song

A love long gone
Whispers from the past
“Sing the unrequited song
A faint remember me”
Glances my heart
Captures every breath

Dances in my soul
To melodies of love
Moments of long ago
Spinning in my mind
Eyes softly close
Imaginings run wide


Daydreams requite
Sensibility decrees
“Sing the song once again
Dance in its reprieve”
Hazy in delight
Undeniably true

The moment passes
Love fades away
The ballad’s final verse
Drifts in the breeze
Fragments of my love
Silently free


Saturday 22 December 2012

Timmy's lost shoe (a daft poem for kids)


Timmy had lost his shoe
"Mummy mummy" he cried
"I’ve lost my new shoe"
And tears welled in his eyes

"Close your eyes" she said
"Think where were you
Think of that place
And you will find your shoe"

So he closed his eyes tight
And screwed up his face
And thought very very hard
Where was that last place

He ran out of the house
Into the back yard
And stood quite still
Thinking very hard

The swings the swings
He thought it could be there
But all that he found
Was his old teddy bear

He picked up his toy
And turned around and around
Thinking thinking thinking
Where could it be found

"Timmy Timmy yoo-hoo"
his mummy cried
"I’ve found your lost shoe"
And he ran inside




Sunday 16 December 2012

The End is Nigh (aka another daft poem)

“The end is nigh” she said,
“21st ‘ December to be precise”,
I wasn’t really listening
“Oh “I replied, “that’s nice”

“The end is nigh” she said,
“Yes you said already”
I was taking the piss
“So after shall we have a bevy?”

“The end is nigh” she said,
“The Mayan Calendar shall cease”
I just rolled my eyes and thought
“At least I might get some peace”

“The end is nigh” she said,
“Oh for crying out loud”
“Keep your voice down luv”
“You’re gonna draw a crowd”

“The end is nigh” she said,
“The universe will implode”
I couldn’t help myself
“Should we put Christmas on hold?”

“The end is nigh” she said,
Now enough was enough
“Like you said in 2003?”
And she just walked off in a huff.


Friday 7 December 2012

A very silly poem...

Ode to my Friends

To all my friends,
In far away lands
I jump up and down
And wave my hands

But you can’t see
Or hear me
As I shout once more
"Hello to thee!"

So I jump
And shout again
"Hello to thee
My good friends"

But like that traveller
It’s beginning to sound
How on that moonlit door
He thrice did pound

(I recall that prose
From school I read
It’s emptiness
N’er left my head)

On I persist
As I see there’s hope
By logging on to FB
And wielding my poke.

So to all my friends,
In far away lands
I jumped up and down
And waved my hands

But you couldn’t see
Or hear me
But you can feel
My prod electronically.

fin


Tuesday 4 December 2012

Writing exercise No.002. - A bit of sci-fi

The outline of the following was based on a scene in a sci-fi spec script I wrote over a year ago, reading it again this morning it feels a little "jerky" but I'm posting it anyway.
______________________________________________________________________

Inside it was dark, a stale smell of fuel mixed with sawdust hung in the air. Feint shafts of light from high blacked out windows gave the impression that this could be a disused warehouse, but it was hard to tell, the lack of light gave little away. What was clear, the place was desolate and probably had been for years, the only evidence of life was the occasional scuttling noises of the usual rodent squatters from behind the shadows of piles of oversized empty boxes and old industrial wire reels. But someone, or something had been here, and recently too.

In the center of this dingy deserted place was an old decorating table, on top like a beacon sat a laptop, screen glowing that ominous green, casting an eerie halo around the table. Dust particles, otherwise hidden in the dark, danced in the artificial light.

A green oblong cursor flashed intermittently on the screen, followed by a short flurry of numerical formula scrolling up the screen, the cursor paused, catching its pixilated breath for a second before another numerical dash. During these short bursts a device that can only be described as a modified cell phone, lit up with flashing orange lights and emitted tiny beeping sounds. Half the LCD screen was missing, revealing the circuit board inside, attached to this were wires and strange looking connectors, in fact the entire table was riddled with electronics, some devices recognizable, others, shall we say, were distinctly alien.

One device stood alone in the center of the tangle of wires and circuit boards. A smooth, very shiny, black box, slightly larger than a Rubik’s cube, seemingly seamless, sat proudly and surprisingly dust-free on the work surface. A small circumference around it had deliberately been cleared of the electronic mess, giving the impression that this was important, this was what all the chaos was for, this was their baby. Oddly, amongst all of the clutter was something so normal and so out of place it seemed that it almost held the same esteem as the black box, it was an apple, a green apple, with a bite taken out of it.

The silence of the warehouse was broken by an industrial metal door banging shut and footsteps echoing as they approached the box, their baby, their reason for living. A slender hand, possibly female, human at least, reached towards the black object on the table. Smoothly, precisely, but without haste, gently stroked a very particular spot on the side of the box. Instantly the box reacted, like a soda bottle opening it hissed and the top two centimeters of the box lowered like an electric car window, a bright blinding white light shone out.

The anonymous hands glided over to the laptop, and began typing on the keyboard at furious speed, punctuated by a deliberate and almost dramatic tap on the enter key. For a split second nothing moved, nothing happened. Then, a deluge of text scrolled up the screen, slowing only very briefly, enough to see the text was hundreds, possibly thousands, of names, people’s names, real names. Simultaneously the black shiny beloved box began to turn on its axis, slowly at first, then gaining momentum as the screen flashed fluorescent green life in seconds, until the box was almost no longer visible, just a blur of light and shimmering metal. Then, and only then, she spoke, quite monotone, emotionless, yet defiant somehow.

“It’s time. Let the purge begin”

 Her hand hovered over the table, looking for something, needing something, then, swiftly, ravenously, grabbed the apple, a bite and subsequent munching ensued.

Friday 23 November 2012

Writing exercise No.001. - One foot in the grave

Proverb: One foot in the grave
Words to include: cliff, blackberry, needle, cloud, voice, mother, whir, lick

Two weeks ago my mother finally went for her colonoscopy, I say finally as her previous appointment she got the proverbial cold feet and cancelled last minute. A few days after this I called her and asked how it went.  I could sense in her voice the dread of the whole affair but urged her to make another appointment right away.  I tried my best to empathise and give her support, encouraging her that it was a routine procedure that she shouldn’t be afraid of. She often mentions her age and this I believe was only confirming her perception that she had one foot in the grave, personally I think she’s got a few good decades left in her yet, but she feels old and little anyone says will change that.
The woman needs moral support, she’s lived most of her life dependant on others and only the recent marriage of her youngest son had found her alone and faced with daunting independence. To date she’s adapted well, to be fair the recently betrothed sibling is only a few streets away, his wife, a most gracious and kindly sort, regularly helps out, giving my mother lifts to here and there, doing the occasional bit of shopping when my mum is unable, plus my sister (though not as frequently about) is also within the vicinity, so complete independence it is not, yet still these out of the blue trials bring a cloud over her head and is comparable to a sufferer of vertigo stood on the edge of a cliff.
My following conversation with my mother (despite my logistical distance from England we speak every week, probably more so than my sister ironically, but she is a very busy lass) brought to light the plan of action for her looming appointment. Stacey, my brother’s wife I mentioned previously, had arranged to be the taxi to and fro the Hospital and my sister made arrangements to take a few days (or at least shifts) off work to stay at home with mum over the following days. All this was some relief to me as it had been needling me that my mother was facing all this rigmarole alone, and I wished I wasn’t so far away from home, the helplessness I felt got to me one evening so much so that I sobbed like a child, a rare occurrence for me the ice-queen.
Her re-appointment was on Tuesday, like clockwork we always speak to each other on Thursdays but my mother suggested I give her a call on Wednesday as I might even catch my sister; I’ve forgotten the last time I spoke to her it was so long ago.
I alleviated some of my helplessness by ordering some flowers online (carnations to be precise, entitled blackberry burst, with free chocolates no less) to be delivered unusually by first class post, not guaranteed to arrive next day but the affordability out-weighed the precision, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to add some extra Belgium chocolates to the order, the image of them online made me want to lick the screen, I didn’t.
Wednesday came quickly; with two young lads (6 and 8 years) my time invariably travels at light speed anyway. I called, Mum sounded relieved but worn out, she immediately thanked me over and over for the flowers, said they were such a surprise and did the desired trick of cheering her up. The whole episode was less disturbing than she imagined, though she mentioned the apparatus made an odd whirring sound but she was distracted by watching the complete internal invasion on a screen next to her. Her main relief, oddly, was the fact that the assisting nurse had the same first name as me; Helen.

Exercising, writing & design boredom

Well It has come to this, my design work is dull, mainly consisting of unexciting blandness with clients lacking imagination or bravery, so although it is a creative outlet of sorts, it's failing to fulfil my urges on so many levels.

I have an extreme inability to commit to things, projects, processes etc etc but I am determined (well fairly determined....time will tell) to begin writing, albeit for my own satisfaction without any delusions of grandeur or professionalism even. So I searched for some writing "exercises" and came across many, plucking one that seemed to be achievable, I have begun my new creative push-ups.

This first Exercise requires at least 10 minutes of writing to include a proverb and a list of words. The following post will be that very piece (only slightly edited), please set expectation to zero as I selected a subject that first sprung to mind, on a scale of dullness, it plummets below zero.

Onwards.

Exercise No.001