Unconsciously Conscious

What determines consciousness?
Is it simply being ununconscious?
To be one is necessary,
To simply be the opposite of the other?
Being unconscious or conscious,
Are opposite ends of a spectrum,
Separated by the delights,
Of states of confusion and stupor.
Such a tautological circle,
Is surely a travesty of logic?
Perhaps we lack the words,
To be more aware of our own awareness?

I was talking with a colleague about what we knew, what we knew we knew, what we knew that we didn't know and what we thought we didn't know, but needed to. (It made sense at the time.) I got to thinking about states of consciousness and how you knew when someone was unconscious, but the definition of consciousness was much more slippery.

Serpentine

It snaked and slithered from its den,
From Hell reluctantly sent,
It coiled and emerged with a,
Head full of rapacious intent.
It's skin shone with harlequin intensity,
Glistening in the sun,
Causing much revulsion and unease,
Before an action it had begun.
People recoiled in fear and horror,
As more of the serpent appeared,
It seemed it was intent on disquiet,
And its visage was much feared.
Peals of terror rang from everywhere,
And screams were freely issued,
Please help me in my despair,
And provide me with a tissue.

I arrived at work and had to clear a backlog, so to speak. That made me wonder how a natural by-product could be amplified and the terror that would bring. Viola!

I Can Help

You see me and immediately scream
Thrash
Cry
Wail.
I reach down into the depths of my soul
Searching for sympathy
But I'm coming up empty.
You want to be elsewhere, somewhere
Safe
Familiar
Comforting.
So do I, but we have no choice
We have been thrown together.
My job is to keep you here
Yours is to do what you must
Learn
Develop
Grow.
I can help you through this
But first you have to want
To help yourself.

A child was dragged into my office. This happens a bit with this student. He doesn't want to school, so the parent, usually the father, drags him in. The whole time he screams, "Mummy! I want my mummy!" all run together in different orders and sequences. After 30 minutes I can calm him down and get him to class and he's fine. I, however, am not fine for the rest of the day.

Monday Work Issue

One near to me had made an error,
The thing seemed quite small,
But its effects accelerated,
Then it wasn't small at all.
People all around were frustrated,
They had much to say,
About the inconvenience caused,
And the impact on their day.
I could see their issues clearly,
And I then apologised,
To them their points were important,
And needed to be recognised.
I didn't accost the staff member,
That is not my way,
But we looked at what could be learnt,
From the issues of today.
Such issues with people are quite common,
I treat all of them the same,
I look for ways to solve the problem,
Not go looking to assign blame.

Pretty much as it happened. There were a number of factors that contributed to the issue - I call this an "event cascade". Still, we have put new measures in place in an attempt to minimise the chance of this occurring again.

Cooking for Dad

My father had come to stay,
For eleven days,
He has so many charming ideas,
And some peculiar ways.
He has very simple tastes,
And a similar outlook,
He is a fussy person to feed,
So simple fair I tried to cook.
Until one night I cooked spaghetti,
His comment changed my mood,
"It's wonderful what you can do,
With a can of old dog food."

Dad likes to say stuff like that. He does have simple tasted and I must admit that the sauce did look a bit like dog food. I thought his comment was funny, but a lot of people would have taken it the wrong way.

Shopping Trolley

We had some grocery shopping to perform,
We needed milk, meat and bread,
Toilet rolls, detergent and shampoo,
And some aspirin for my head.
My children were appropriately excited,
To at the shops to be back,
So, we ambled to the entrance,
To get a trolley from the rack.
This trolley looked so meek and mild,
Quiet in itself,
But it was possessed by Satan,
The Prince of Darkness himself.
It leapt at the merest touch,
And strained to be set free,
It bucked and pulled and jerked,
Eager to dominate me.
It struck a blow to tins of tuna,
Packed in a pyramid,
People accused me of knocking them down,
I said, "Satan did!"
It swerved across the polished floor,
Slaloming down the aisle,
It chased and rammed a little old lady,
And sent her sprawling for a mile.
It lurched through the frozen foods,
Doing slides and skids,
Inappropriately touching all young mothers,
And injuring their kids.
It broke the containers in its basket,
And in my arms it did flail,
The contents of our trolley spilled forth,
Leaving a treacherous trail.
The manager came forth in challenge,
And took a mighty leap,
The trolley caught her in mid air,
And left her in a heap.
The security guard drew his weapon,
And was to shoot to kill,
The trolley dodged every salvo,
With its demonic skill.
It grabbed all sorts of items,
Condoms and ice cream,
Rectal lotion and internal lubricant,
And all manner of feminine hygiene.
It raced through the checkout lanes,
It's cackles ringing far,
It sped through the car park,
And stopped beside my car.
The SWAT team had then arrived,
And spilled forth from their van,
The trolley leapt and attacked,
Leaving it looking like an old can.
The army thundered onto the scene,
With tact and careful steppin',
They captured the trolley alive,
To use as a secret weapon.
I surveyed the debris all around,
Checked my kids, and then,
Both of them smiled and asked,
"Dad, can we do that again?"

Whilst probably not possessed to the same extent, the trolley that we used was pretty bad. It wanted to go left all of the time and the heavier it got, the worse its misbehaviour became, so I ended up turning it on a 45 degree angle and pushing it that way.

A Job Well Done

My garden tools were assembled,
Glistening in the sun,
My motivation was surging,
There was labour to be done.
With sweat and strain and pain and tears,
I attacked the job with vigour,
I scraped and honed and cleaned and dug,
And was brutal in my vigour.
And with the task completed,
Wearily I laze about,
I'm so glad I took the opportunity,
To clean my navel out.

It's awful, but it's true. I'll spare you the details, but I had just cleaned out my navel (I couldn't remember the last time I did THAT) and was surprised to see how much stuff was in there.

Come Back, We Can Work Through This

You have been my love, my light,
My muse, my inspiration,
My source of continued existence,
My receptacle of admiration.
Circumstances have divided us,
Grudges have been borne,
Between our love and your background,
You have wretchedly been torn.
I know you need to leave me,
I'm going out of my mind,
You want to return to the drawer,
And be with your kind.
So, go now my precious,
Take your liberating walk,
Rejoice at your new freedom,
Rejoice, and be a fork.

Apparently, the fork and I had no future. It loved me and my feelings for it have been well documented, but it was still a fork and all forks need eventually to be returned to their kind. No relationship with cutlery has ever worked. Some human-utensil relationships have lasted, but only with some minor surgery and blacksmith skills. So, I set my fork free. It still comes to visit once in a while, but there's an odd, vacant, glassy element to it's gaze. I've moved on. Really.

My Cutlery Mistake

It seemed my poem of yesterday,
Has created a minor war,
It's led to dissent in,
My kitchen cutlery drawer.
The spoons grip each other tightly,
And refuse to come out,
They have anti-Ymir placards,
And slogans they yell out.
The ladle has adorned itself,
With barbed wire by the score,
But this protest is OK,
I didn't know what it was for.
The knives are ominously quiet,
Well organised and planned,
The first time I picked one up,
It stabbed me in the hand.
The bottle openers have self-sealed,
Corkscrews are in a protest line,
That doesn't affect beer or bourbon,
So that just suits me fine.
The knife sharpener refuses to work,
But the issue's plain and clear,
I prefer it not to work,
Now blunt knives are a good idea.
The spatulas have all curled up,
The couldn't flip a bean,
Everything else has disappeared,
Not an item can be seen.
So, as I survey my kitchen tools,
From a bunker on the floor,
I realize my fork is precious,
And I love it even more.

As stated, this one springs from the poem of yesterday. I wondered how the other cutlery would take my obsession with my fork. Is it just me, or do I sound like the Blue Raja from "Mystery Men"? In any case, I included some other items of cutlery and tried to include humorous takes on their functions.

Ode to You

I love the way you're there for me,
Patiently you wait,
You are at my beck and call,
I think you're simply great.
We never fight or argue,
You like to hold my hand,
You listen to all my problems,
And try to understand.
You've never deserted me,
In my times of need,
You are not prone to jealousy,
Anger, stress or greed.
You've always done what I ask of you,
At a suggestion you never baulk,
I know I can rely on you,
My treasured, trusty fork.

Believe it or not, forks are a precious commodity at school. No sooner do we buy a whole heap more … they disappear! So, I have a fork in my office that I have brought from home. As I sat down I saw it out of the corner of my eye and thought, "Now, what if I took this fork thing a bit further?" I didn't want to take it too far, so actually drew some mental boundaries about how far I was going with the idea (sex with cutlery isn't a pleasing metal, er, mental image - there, I said it).

I'll Show You

I know you're a bit closed off,
Your love you can't freely show,
Expression of emotion is foreign to you,
It's a way you do not know.
But take my hand and I will help,
You discover what you have inside,
I have enough love for both of us,
It's something I cannot hide.
And slowly we will journey forth,
Discovering passion along the way,
Tonight will be our road's beginning,
And tomorrow's another day.

This poem came to me while I was on our veranda having a beer with Dad. He was a bit closed off until about 20 years ago when his Dad died. There were so many things he didn't get to say to his father. I guess then he figured life was too short to be closed off. In any case I was thinking what it would be like to be in a relationship like that. The poem resulted.

HighwayMan

I approached my car with determination,
A long distance to be traveled,
The fate of the future rested with me,
Society was about to be unraveled.
I had procured fuel injection,
Lowering my fuel consumption,
The blower made me travel faster,
To any city of my compunction.
I charged my car with a fuel cell,
From my inventory,
I checked my destination on my map,
And left with expediency.
I journeyed long and journeyed hard,
Nerves set and ice cool,
I took out my favourite weapon,
And remembered I was at school.
It seems I've rediscovered Fallout 2,
It's good and bad and such,
Perhaps I've been over-doing it,
And playing the game too much?

This one is reasonably self-explanatory. A little while ago an internet colleague (BC) posted something about Fallout on the Unwashed Village board. This was enough for me to install and fire up Fallout 2 again. I had just been using the car in the game, when I had to go to the shop for bread and milk. The poem came to me as I started our car.

Desert Warfare

The desert stretched across the earth,
The wind stirred listless dust,
The opposing forces advanced determinedly,
Because for freedom they must.
Both considered themselves correct,
Their cause was noble and just,
They were going to destroy their opponents,
And grind them into dust.
One group controlled the area,
The other wanted it for its own,
One was fighting to take over,
The other defending their home.
In a blinding flash both were dead,
The terror coming from the sky,
The horrible fire swept all before it,
And the instigator was I.
I was building a sand pit for my kids,
The ants just had to go,
Petrol and fire kills ants effectively,
And the weeds will not grow.
Now the two kids have their pit,
For a month I have been slack,
S.E.H. has been pestering me,
Now she can get off my back.
The kids have played and laughed and sang,
Built castles and a mouse,
Now the sand is everywhere,
In the yard and in the house.
But again I watch with wonder,
As under the shade I rest,
That these kids know what fun is,
And the simple things are often best.

This one was meant to be a "start with one topical issue, but twist it with the last bit" poem, and I could have stopped at "And the weeds will not grow". However, I got carried away with the "simple things are often the best" theme. I never know how they might turn out - it often changes as I get to the end.

Intertwined

Issues threatened to enclose me
Weighing with concentrated intensity
I had planned to confront them
And be successful though determination.
Steeled I arrived to face the issues
My tension matched by my focus
Only to find my staff had functioned
To remove the obstacle before me.
Working with people is challenging
Attitudes and motivation are tenuous
But one day you see that people have grown
And your lives are intertwined.

Today I had been a bit tense about coming to work - there were a few things that I had to do that were going to make the day quite frantic. I steeled myself as I walked into the school and unpacked my briefcase … only to find that some members of my staff had taken it upon themselves to do most of the tasks that I had been concerned about. It was such a nice feeling.

Collective Nouns

An aarmory of aardvarks,
A throat full of pips,
An accompaniment of condiments,
And an armada of ships.
An army of caterpillars,
An array of luminaries,
An assemblage of jigsaw puzzlers,
And a seven of the seas.
An atlas of physical maps,
An attitude of teenagers,
An audit of accountants,
And a hospital of nurses.
An aurora of polar bears,
A hat full of milliners,
A bale of sea turtles,
And a band of mountain gorillas.
A battery of intelligence tests,
A bed of ocean clams,
A bed of rock oysters,
And a candy full of yams.
A bed of writing snakes,
A bestiary of mythological creatures,
A bevy of beauties,
And a movie-house of features.
A bevy of tiny quail,
A bevy of stately swans,
A bloat of hippopotami,
And a stock full of bonds.
A bouquet of scented flowers,
A bout of estimations,
A brace of spangled grouse,
And a chorus of exhalations.
A broadside of artillery shells,
A brood of bust hens,
A buffoonery of orangutans,
And a pocketful of pens.
A building of noisy rooks,
A bunch of seedless grapes,
A burden of yolks,
And stack of hot canapés.
A bury of conies,
A business of flashing ferrets,
A business of annoying flies,
And a chest full of merits.
A buttload of proctologists,
A cackle of hyenas,
A camp of transvestites,
And a suit of dry cleaners.
A candle of jungle tapirs,
A cast of actors,
A cast of fierce falcons,
And a magnitude of attractors.
A cete of busy badgers,
A handful of pinchers,
A chain of desert islands,
And charm of finches.
A chorus of Heaven's angels,
A class of students,
A clench of nervous sphincters,
And a bore of jurisprudence.
A cloud of gnawing gnats,
A cloud of grasshoppers,
A cloud of swarming plankton,
And a beaker of stoppers.
A clowder of prowling cats
A clutch of newborn chicks,
A clutch of any eggs,
And a Karate full of kicks.
A clutch of kleptomaniacs
A clutter of house cats,
A collective of collective nouns,
And a nest of bubonic rats.
A colony of busy ants,
A colony of industrious beavers,
A colony of penguins,
And a basket full of weavers.
A colony of rabbits,
A company of soldiers,
A congregation of people,
And a lane of bowlers.
A congregation of plovers,
A congregation of worshipers,
A constellation of some stars,
And a compilation of rhyming verse.
A constituency of voters,
A convocation of eagles,
A covey of grounded grouse,
And a howl of frenzied beagles.
A covey of flying quail,
A crash of software,
A crowd of gaping onlookers,
A beach of those who bare.
A cry of scenting hounds,
A descent of woodpeckers,
A dilation of pupils,
And a butt of prickly burrs.
A division of soldiers,
A dole of peaceful doves,
A down of wild hares,
And a graveyard of forgotten loves.
A dray of staccato squirrels,
A drift of pungent swine,
A durante of toucans,
And a tree of lime.
An embarrassment of riches,
A falling of dominoes,
A fidget of anxious suspects,
And a surrounding of your foes.
A fleet of noble ships,
A flight of cormorants,
A flight of shining doves,
And a stench of underpants.
A flight of golf balls,
A flight of goshawks,
A flight of refugees,
And a drawer of table forks.
A flight of swooping swallows,
A float of crocodiles,
A flock of docile sheep,
And a rectum of irritated piles.
A flood of incompetent plumbers,
A fold of wooden chairs,
A formation of geologists,
And an armpit of hairs.
A gaggle of giggling geese,
A galaxy of stars,
A gallop of Greyhounds,
And a frequenting of bars.
A gang of stately elk,
A gang of hoodlums,
A greed of litigious lawyers,
And a percussion of drums.
A grind of household chores,
A grip of hand tools,
A groan of painful puns,
And a government of fools.
A gross of fruity farts,
A grove of all trees,
A guilt of sinful pleasures,
And a pants of knobby knees.
A gush of trembling sycophants,
A hand of bananas,
A handful of palm readers,
And a bed of pajamas.
A heap of useless trash,
A herd of elephants,
A herd of horses too,
And an exile of tyrants.
A hide of majestic tigers,
A hill of beans,
A hive of swarming bees,
And a cover of screens.
A horde of insistent gnats,
A skeleton of marrows,
A host of brilliant angels,
And a host of sparrows.
A hover of hummingbirds,
A hover of river trout,
A huddle of hippos,
And a belly of stout.
A hug of teddy bears,
An imposition of in-laws,
An incantation of witches,
And a pad of paws.
An incision of surgeons,
An indecision of managers,
A Jagger of ceaseless tongues,
And a lifetime of Gypsy curse.
A knot of wriggling eels,
A knot of green frogs,
A knot of shoelaces,
And a blaze of logs.
A leap of frisky hares,
A magnum of hitmen,
A mask of raccoons,
And a business of acumen.
A maul of wild bears,
A garden of fairies,
A maze of weathered canyons,
And a meaning of dictionaries.
A mob of kangaroos,
A murder of crows,
A muster of peacocks,
And a stream of flows.
A mute of tracking hounds,
A nest of mice,
A nest of venomous vipers,
And a berg of ice.
A number of mathematicians,
A nye of pheasants,
An obscurity of poets,
And a tree of shiny presents.
An orchestra of musicians,
A pack of hounds,
A pack of suitcases,
And a scenery of surrounds.
A pad of sheets of paper,
A paddling of ducks,
A pander of toadies,
And a fleet of heavy trucks.
A parliament of owls,
A parliament of rooks,
A party of jays,
And a library of books.
A peal of church bells,
A piddle of puppies,
A plague of hungry locusts,
And a trend of yuppies.
A plane of geometrists,
A plump of waterfowl,
A pod of playful seals,
And a night of menacing growls.
A pod of regal whales,
A poke of fencers,
A ponder of philosophers,
And a flap of tissue dispensers.
A prattle of pretty parrots,
A prickle of hedgehogs,
A prickle of porcupines,
And a trap of sticky bogs.
A pride of savannah lions,
A pryde of griffins,
A quake of seismologists,
And a Hobbiton of Pippins.
A rafter of turkeys,
A rain of cats and dogs,
A range of towering mountains,
And a cave of shuffling trogs.
A reflection of narcissists,
A release of anglers,
A rhyme of poets,
And a clutch of cattle wranglers.
A round of refreshing drinks,
A salvo of artillery shells,
A scale of ichthyologists,
And a haunting of personal Hells.
A sedge of watchful cranes,
A sheaf of golden wheat,
A shitload of troubles,
And a shuffling of feet.
A shoal of thrashing bass,
A shock of bursting corn,
A shortage of dwarves,
And a heap of scorn.
A shrewdness of apes,
A stack of unopened boxes,
A siege of attentive herons,
And a skulk of foxes.
A slew of complex homework,
A slice of circumcisions,
A smuck of jellyfish,
And an absence of decisions.
A sneak of stealthy weasels,
A souffle of clouds,
A Sousa of marching bands,
And a sepulcher of shrouds.
A splash of dormant puddles,
A spring of active seals,
A squint of proofreaders,
And a group of squeals.
A staff of reluctant employees,
A stand of flamingo,
A stash of weed,
A tottering of vertigo.
A stench of angry skunks,
A can of past laughs,
A streak of intent tigers,
And a stretch of giraffes.
A stripe of wild zebras,
A stud of brood mares,
A sulk of angry teenagers,
And a begging of bears.
A swarm of cranky bees,
A swelter of blankets,
A tangle of tricksters,
And an excuse of lost bets.
A team of eager athletes,
A team of horses,
A team of oxen,
And a challenge of golf courses.
A tedium of golfers,
A treachery of spies,
A tribe of mountain goats,
And an annoyance of flies.
A trip of mountain goats,
A troop of monkeys,
A troupe of performers,
And a ring of keys.
A tumult of tubas,
A ubiquity of sparrows,
An unkindness of ravens,
And a quiver of arrows,
A vision of optometrists,
A wake of patient vultures,
A watch of nightingales,
And a confusion of cultures.
A wave of aging surfers,
A wealth of information,
A wedge of gorgeous geese,
And a handful of masturbation.
A wedge of flying swans,
A whistle of modems,
A wisp of snipe,
And a necklace of precious gems.
A wriggle of garden worms,
A denouncing of all effective,
All belong to an exclusive club,
The nouns of the collective.

A teacher had called in sick and we couldn't find a replacement. Hence, I had to take the class for the day. I drew up my "bag of tricks" - a collection of well-used and mostly successful lessons. One of these, believe it or not, is collective nouns. I was saying this in the Staff Room when one of the staff remarked, "That class will eat you alive if you teach that boring crap."

Right.

So, I offered, "You watch the lesson. If the class enjoy it, I win. If they don't get into it, you win."

He counter-offered, "Let's make it interesting. If they don't get into it, you owe me $100."

I added, "If we write more than 100, real of made up, you owe me $100. If I can turn it into a poem by then end of the day with the class, you owe me $200."

Anyone need a loan?

Stress

Echoes in the silence
Fissures on the ground
Harpies in the atmosphere
Sniping all around.
Poison in the watercourse
Blades against my feet
Demons hurl their barbs
As they gibber in retreat.
Stress is my counterpart
It accompanies me everywhere
It gnaws at my entrails
And removes my hair.
It overworks my heart
It strangles at my chest
It haunts my waking hours
And torments me at rest.
It does a repeat performance
Each and every day
It serves to fire and motivate
I like to be this way.

The first two lines came to me in the shower - from where I don't know. I thought, "I like that - I'll use them when next I write." I got to work and had a spare moment, typed them and just kept going. As I wrote I thought of life-threatening situations and used them as they came to me.

Flatulence Symposium

Yesterday I attended a meeting of about 100 principals on the “latest” in curriculum design. I was thrilled (not) by the confusing juxtaposition of buzz-words and trend-phrases. Here’s a sample:

Retrospective connectedness
Particular strings of consciousness
Utilising a very strong quantitative team
Chunking the syllabus
Futures perspective
Assessment is merely sets of anticipated evidence
You can do without the overhead
The biggest problem with syllabus documents is that teachers don’t understand them
Notions of curriculum entitlement
Preservation of curriculum entities
Let’s not assume that we have made much progress at all

However, there was one aspect that I found very rewarding:

The principals arrived eagerly,
To receive the word,
This promised to be the most crucial,
Thing we’d ever heard.
Bit rapidly the promise dwindled,
This was a time mishap,
The information was confusing,
It’s inherent message crap.
But most excellent were the chairs,
Made from cushioned plastic,
The were a form of whoopee cushion,
A cruel manufacturer’s trick.
As people carefully shifted,
The noise cam in fits and starts,
The hall was filled with the music,
Of an orchestra of farts.
If you tried to be careful,
It only made it worse,
As you shifted slowly,
You just elongated the burst.
People who moved quickly,
Trumpeted well and great,
Those wearing polyester,
Had a sound prone to vibrate.
I was in Heaven then,
It made the time go fast,
To me the first was so funny,
And it continued to the last.
But what I enjoyed the most was,
How it made me feel,
When I peeled forth a genuine one,
With a stench that was surreal.
People ignored my genuine trumpet,
Thinking it was the chair,
Until the fruity odour came,
And put a curl into their hair.
They suspiciously eyed each other,
Their tempers a simmering flame,
But I disguised my glee so well,
That they had no-one to blame.
I ignored the temptation to continue,
I had escaped detection,
Besides, it’s impossible to,
Improve upon perfection.

Meeting Delirium

blinking rapidly
attention wandering
words swirling
meaning dwindling
reality shifting
realization dawning
I’d rather be elsewhere

I was at a meeting and was a bit tired - up early to go for a walk, the meeting was not what I thought it would be, it was full of jargon and quite irrelevant. I caught myself going to sleep.

The Mouse in School

"Vermin! Vermin!" Our
Teacher's voice was shrill!
And that much exuberance
Gave us kids a thrill.
Since our school isn't noted
For having much excitement,
We take what we get
And turn it in-to an event.
Teacher scrambled on top her desk.
My, but she could scoot!
And Johnny started throwing spitballs
As fast as he could shoot.
Betty grabbed the dustpan,
And Larry poked the broom
Behind the dusty bookcase
Which caused that mouse to zoom!
Kids were tipping over desks
And books were in the air.
You'd of thought a grizzly bear
Could cause so great a scare.
Finally, though, the game wore down.
The mouse tore out the door.
And teacher crawled down off her desk
And stood upon the floor.
"Now, Children, like I was saying
Before I climbed to get a view,
Find your notes, dust off your books;
It's time for our review.
Who can tell me, children,
If your brains have got calmed down,
Is 'vermin'… liked I used it…
An adjective or noun?"

I'm Such A Morning Person

I awoke with a haze descended,
I do not wake up well,
The mornings seem to scorn my being,
It is my private hell.
I turned on the spacious shower,
And unexceptionally stepped in,
The water was far too hot,
And now I have no skin.
I lathered up with the soap,
And what did I behold?
I had picked up the wrong container,
I’d lathered up Exit Mould.
I stepped out a toweled myself dry,
Glad to be free of dirt,
Only to find I had in error,
Toweled off with my ironed shirt.
I then used the underarm deodorant,
Letting out a strangled scream,
I had just applied a thick layer,
Of my shaving cream.
I brushed my teeth with liquid soap,
Anger building in my head,
I went to brush my receding hairline,
But used the razor instead.
I am far from psychic, but,
This thought filled my head,
I considered the way the day had started,
And just went back to bed.

This, in theory, is true. I don't wake up well. Sadly, our youngest daughter has inherited this gene from me and wakes up a similar way. Things should get particularly interesting as she gets older and we run across each other in the morning. I'm visualising two grizzly bears with attitudes ...

New Mouse House

My mouse was looking dejected,
I needed to give it a hand,
His balls were decidedly dirty,
He’s not optical – you understand.
So, I gave him a new pad to live in,
He’s quite a contented mouse,
He just lies there smiling,
On top of his new house.

I don't know what you mouse pad looks like (we don't even have one at home) but my work one was looking rather tatty. Our technology guru had enough one day and gave me a new one. Hence, the poem. I used the mouse ball reference because I thought it funny - of course I have an optical mouse. Well, at work, in any case.

Shampoo Bottles are Made from Animals

My shampoo bottle perplexes me,
It states no animal testing,
Or use of animal products,
My militancy was now resting.
But in small print on the label,
It says, “Made from recycled P.E.T.”
So, if no animals are used,
From where did the bottle they get.
Those poor little sausage dogs,
That poor little parakeet,
The bottle isn’t plastic at all,
It’s made from animal meat!
I was about to have a stroke,
And go into cardiac arrest,
When I picked up the phone and called them,
To give them Daisy’s address ….

That's what it says on the back of my shampoo bottle. (Don't you do other things in the shower besides shower?) It just struck me as a little ironic.

Automated Morning

I awoke from my blissful slumber,
The nightmares had been beaten,
I swallowed my breakfast tablet,
And that was breakfast eaten.
I showered using my showering gel,
Good for skin and hair,
It cleans, moisturizes and freshens,
And removes unwanted hair.
I dressed in my school uniform,
In the colours everyone wore,
I grabbed my complete briefcase,
And wandered out the door.
I opened the automated garage,
And stepped into my car,
With its electronic systems,
Transport has come so far.
I snoozed on the way to work,
The car did most of the driving,
And before I knew what had happened,
At school I was arriving.
I walked into the office,
Bedlam as far as I could see,
That’s enough of pre-packed automation,
Now it’s up to me.

It seems more and more that things are pre=packaged, combined with other products and/or automated. However, sooner or later, you have to do things for yourself. That's life.

Love is a Game

I was a confirmed solitaire
When, like a thief you stole my heart
I quiver and quake when you’re away
My love for you seems unreal.
But nothing is ever black and white
I have a feeling of impending doom
I am no longer your shining crusader
No regret: I await our tumultuous fallout.

This is a lame little poem that uses computer game titles in it. I don't think anyone noticed the games, just the lameness.

Kid Fight

I was having a quick shower,
When something made me pause,
It sounded like the kids were fighting,
And using teeth and claws.
The yells were harsh and raucous,
And coming in a flood,
I ran out at light speed,
Expecting to see blood.
But things were perfectly serene,
Me you can deride,
It wasn't the children fighting,
There was a cockatoo outside.

True enough - I was in the shower and heard the creams and ruckus. I bolted out, dripping wet, to find the girls happily playing and the cockatoo mocking me from outside. So I shot it. Well, I wanted to ...

Snake Encounter

I always look out for snakes
Around them I take great care
It seems we live in a snake corridor
They use our land as a thoroughfare.
So, I was out hanging the washing
And saw one from the corner of my eye
I couldn’t help but step on it
And let out a startled cry.
I thought it would surely bite me
You can imagine my shock
When the snake just seemed to lay there
Because it was a sock.

Again, true. I was hanging out the washing and saw the "snake" just as I stood on it. It felt soft and squishy, but I had let out a yell of surprise. No-one saw it, but I chose to write about it.

Pea Sea

Eye halve a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.
Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me straight a weigh.
As soon as a mist ache is maid
It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite
Its rare lea ever wrong.
Eye have run this poem threw it
I am shore your pleased two no
Its letter perfect awl the weigh
My chequer tolled me sew.

Old Fart Symptom #1

I am just a prisoner in this life,
It's related to my age,
I am restrained by my being,
And it is my back that is my cage.
It cannot support what it once did,
And whatever the weather or season,
I can be doing nothing at all,
And it pops out for no reason.
Just two days ago I was on the beach,
And out the cranky thing popped,
It seemed things were now to be hampered,
Most festivities had to be stopped.
I couldn't even get comfortable,
Sit or lie or stand,
Left untreated things would deteriorate,
The really get out of hand.
So, home we raced for the remedy,
Charlie drove to fast,
To imbue me with bourbon and cold coke,
Served in a frosty tall glass.

I've had back problems for about 10 years now. I remember the sympathy I got from one of the physiotherapists I went to, "You're a middle aged fat bastard now. Get used to it." I responded by drinking more, eating more and exercising less. That'll show her. (I HATE the use of shock tactics.)

An Ode

Over the oceans a conflict is brewing
Destruction seems to be inevitable
Everywhere people are protesting

Time seems to be in such short supply
Or that may be part of some grand design

My family is my foremost concern
Yours is no doubt yours

Put them before everything else
Every moment that you share is precious
Nothing should be taken for granted
In these times of incredible uncertainty
Savour every moment together

Such a touching poem that means so much to me. Do you know what an acrostic poem is?

Scum I Know

I see you from far away,
You're lost in your self-possession,
You are anti-socialism personified,
Mayhem is your obsession.
You seem to revel in your hate,
You proudly proclaim yourself bad,
You delight in making others miserable,
I think you're just plain sad.
When caught performing said bad deeds,
Or inciting a broad revolt,
You shift the blame to someone else,
Nothing is ever your fault.
I have tried to see the good in you,
The positive I've tried to see,
But I can find no redeeming features,
You're a piece of crap to me.
Until the time you need my help,
You crawl to me and whine,
About how you didn't deserve the event,
The other person crossed the line.
I reach deep down into my very core,
To the compassionate side of me,
I trawl through my feelings, searching,
For some sympathy.
But I recall the grief you gave,
To the others and to me,
And the way you sneered and enjoyed,
The problems that it caused me.
And now you expect me to put behind,
The history that still causes pain,
But I know that if I don't act,
You'll play another kind of game.
You'll accuse me of not acting,
Of not being professional and fair,
Even though when the tables are turned,
About your responsibilities you don't care.
I will help you each instance,
I'll do my duty that's true,
For the day that I stop caring,
Is the day that I'll be you.
But one day you'll be accountable,
And meet the correctional staff,
Look up and you will see me,
Toasting you, with a laugh.

I was thinking of a particularly sneery kid at school and the way that he causes me all sorts of grief... until he wants something. The he knows that I will help him, because he's a leech that lives off what he can get when he needs it. Sad, really.

One Moment in Time

In one moment in time
The complexion and perception
Of life as we know it
Can change irrevocably.
The first time you see
Your newborn child
As it wails at the world
With its oblivious perfection.
That every expanding second
As the tableau freezes
When you see that special someone
And they notice you too.
The pleasant and welcome drowning
Of you in another's eyes
As they both fill with tears
As you say, "I do."
The gush of flaming adrenaline
When you pull of that special something
For the very first time
And lots of people are watching.
The grim and festering moments
As your loved one leaves you
Alone on this planet
Wishing for another moment in time.

The title for this one came first. I was out for a walk one morning and was thinking about what people might be doing at the very moment that I walked past - at that moment in time. Then I thought about all the great things that can happen in a moment. At the end of the poem I felt it needed a twist. Too much niceness is bad for you.