Sunday, 31 December 2006

Married Life - a microstory

Barbara fussed over her hair in front of the mirror. "You must mow the lawn at some point."

"Yes darling", her husband replied from behind the newspaper.

"The shelf needs fixing too."

"Yes darling", he said, as a page turned in the breeze.

"And for heaven's sake try not to embarrass me tonight! Every time we go out together people give me funny looks. And can you please at least try to be civil to Marcus Weatherby tonight?"

"Not a chance in hell, darling; the bastard killed me."

"You died of natural causes, you silly man. Get in the wheelbarrow."

Friday, 29 December 2006


I had to learn something unpleasant today,
The art of saying goodbye.
I silently vowed that of course I'd be proud,
But I couldn't suppress one small sigh.
Is crying acceptable? Should I shake hands?
How will he know what I meant?
Saying farewell is all kinds of hell, but while I thought all this,
he went.

17th Ode to Myself

This poem is a masterpiece, I'll tell you how I know.
I've hardly even started, yet the words already glow
With genius, intelligence, and most of all, you see;
It's by me.

My work, it has a radiance. Oh, surely you can tell.
The people here won't buy it; well that's fine, I wouldn't sell.
So somewhere in my bedroom, all my best creations lay
On display.

A novel not quite finished and a poem pages long,
I'll cause grown men to weep with just the lyrics to my song.
Sonatas, paintings, limericks, a sonnet and heaps more,
On my floor.

My little tabby nestles in my third Ode to Myself,
And pictures of my countenance abound upon my shelf.
My mirror on the ceiling, and another on the ground...
...All around...

I know I should be happy with what I've achieved, and yet,
It's difficult to live up to the standards I have set.
I find my raw, wild talent still just doesn't seem enough.
Life's so tough.

So I walked into the city, where loads of people are,
I climbed a high-rise building there, to prove that I'm a star.
They said "What are you doing?", though I'm sure they really knew,
And I flew.

Thursday, 28 December 2006

Cartoony goodness

Random artsy things


Nathan is our goalie and he stoppeth one of three.
We know he could be better, but he's coach's kid, you see.
His girlfriend's name is Penni and I really, really like her.
She's never really said it but I know she wants a striker.

I'm a striker,
I'm a star.
And I'm really
Going far.
I want money,
I want fame,
I want the world to
Know my name.

Our coach is not an expert, and football's not his game;
He prefers to watch it, which is really not the same.
To play a first division match has always been his dream,
But he's too fat and lazy so he manages our team.

I'm a striker,
I'm a star
And I'm really
Going far.
I'm heading
Up and up,
And some day I'll
Lift the cup.

My dad says I'm improving, which means he's really proud,
And when I'm playing home games he is always in the crowd.
My mum's really supportive but she hasn't got a clue,
I have to keep reminding her that we're the ones in blue.

I'm a striker,
I'm a star,
And I'm really
Going far.
I'm gonna
Live the dream,
And play on
The England team.

I'll crush the opposition with the old stop, drop, and roll.
Ok, I'm overacting, but you mustn't tell a soul!
A well-placed sliding tackle is all part of the fun,
I'm living for the moments when they yell "C'mon my son!"

I'm a striker,
I'm a star,
And I'm really
Going far...

Except for the simple fact you can't
Use my name in a decent chant.
It isn't easy, that I'll grant,
To proudly shout the name of Quentin Walter Plant.


Eight-point compass,
East and west,
Face the challenge,
Take the test,
Float and let your being rest,
Melt into your mind.

Drift away,
The sunshine fades,
Running through
The forest glades,
Experiment with shapes and shades,
Leave it all behind.

Open your mind and
Leave it bare.
Write a world,
Take me there.
Run, just run, no matter where,
Who knows what you'll find?

A unicorn with glowing horn,
A world of red inside your head,
A winged stranger, bright and kind,
Is what it means to free your mind.

Eight-point compass,
Shapes and shades.
Winged stranger,
Sunshine fades...

Violet eyes

The girl with violet eyes, in a black and white photo, framed.
I knew her from years ago, a life ago, before the flooding sea.
She danced with me, by riverbanks, under a willow tree -
But that's the last I saw of her, she was taken, she was shamed.

She danced without authority, authority raged.
They hoped to bind her, legs and arms, but she danced too wild.
All at once a mother, wife, sister, spinster, child.
Until the day they caught her. She was dragged down; caged.

I saw her many years later, she lay alone and still.
Her vibrant violet eyes were by then a faded grey,
Not the same woman, her spirit leached away.
She whispered "I will dance again". I thought "She never will."

But that was all an age ago, before the flooding sea
Washed life into the land again, brought back the good and wise.
Colour flooded into her beautiful violet eyes,
And now again, she dances with me, she dances with me.