Looking through ice into a citizen’s mirror,
Here’s who you are and here’s how you live,
And here in your hand the facts wait within,
Your destiny captured in paper and print.
This is official, certified mail,
Its contents are classified, its postage paid.
Transactions and transfers appear in detail,
Payment expected within seven days.
This is an offer you cannot refuse,
A courtesy letter (regarding bad news),
A final reminder of fines overdue,
A billet of credit composed just for you.
This is an invoice you cannot escape,
A personalised present wrapped in red tape.
Your mortgage repayments are falling behind,
That contract was binding we think you’ll find.
This is an audit for falsified claims,
You can’t cheat the system, just play the game.
A failed application, results of a test,
A bona fide warrant for your arrest.
This is a message not quite from a friend,
Purely a grievance we have to extend,
Just letting you know you’re out of luck,
We understand the situation completely
— really, we do — but we don’t give a fuck.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Opera on the Ocean
White sails cross the distant horizon,
Azure pristine meets aqua marine.
From here it is silent but movement is there
— of that you can be sure;
The whooshing of wind in the body of fabric,
The splashing and washing of wave off stern,
The bubbling of champagne in the wake of the bow,
Demonstrations in physics,
The combining of elements — it is all there,
Moving to the free will of the wind and the air.
The curvature of the Earth can be seen in wide screen,
Beyond only ocean and the meaning of space.
The pinpoints suspended reflecting the almighty
— an almost outer body experience;
Compulsion, coercion, surprising direction,
Emotions are vague but approaching perfect,
Reduced to the simplest, and yet most complex.
Water is velvet ruffled slight at the edges,
It fills a vast and majestic expanse.
A playground of nature open for all to attend,
Symphony, synergy, and gusterly salt;
Unbridled, spiritual,
Nothing is more beautiful than this crystal clear sight,
Endless, limitless in width and in height.
New players appear at the edge of the theatre,
Coverting the clifftops setting the stage,
Rolling and frolicking, the plot is unfolding,
Waltzing white figures in bounteous numbers,
Closer together then further apart,
Tacking and spinning I can watch them all day,
Using and wasting the afternoon away.
Soft waves lap the smooth hulls of sailboats,
Perfection in nature meets perfection in man.
The two join seamlessly together,
A sense of enlightenment, the smell of true freedom,
The sun glowing through an encroaching cloudscape
Worthy of the greatest Dutch masters
— to me it is like opera on the ocean.
Azure pristine meets aqua marine.
From here it is silent but movement is there
— of that you can be sure;
The whooshing of wind in the body of fabric,
The splashing and washing of wave off stern,
The bubbling of champagne in the wake of the bow,
Demonstrations in physics,
The combining of elements — it is all there,
Moving to the free will of the wind and the air.
The curvature of the Earth can be seen in wide screen,
Beyond only ocean and the meaning of space.
The pinpoints suspended reflecting the almighty
— an almost outer body experience;
Compulsion, coercion, surprising direction,
Emotions are vague but approaching perfect,
Reduced to the simplest, and yet most complex.
Water is velvet ruffled slight at the edges,
It fills a vast and majestic expanse.
A playground of nature open for all to attend,
Symphony, synergy, and gusterly salt;
Unbridled, spiritual,
Nothing is more beautiful than this crystal clear sight,
Endless, limitless in width and in height.
New players appear at the edge of the theatre,
Coverting the clifftops setting the stage,
Rolling and frolicking, the plot is unfolding,
Waltzing white figures in bounteous numbers,
Closer together then further apart,
Tacking and spinning I can watch them all day,
Using and wasting the afternoon away.
Soft waves lap the smooth hulls of sailboats,
Perfection in nature meets perfection in man.
The two join seamlessly together,
A sense of enlightenment, the smell of true freedom,
The sun glowing through an encroaching cloudscape
Worthy of the greatest Dutch masters
— to me it is like opera on the ocean.
Clock Radio
Perched above the bedside in all its morning glory,
A serial alterpiece dweller, a permanent guest,
Silently working, dull shine on its face,
Blazing red numbers, working their way...
T minus ten and counting,
T minus NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN, SIX...
You are a log, maimed and muted,
In pillows of slumber, unsuspecting, complete unawares,
Then all of a sudden it hits like a tray
Dropped down a staircase, all clamour and hail
— ZEEEP! ZEEEEEP! ZEEEEEEEP!
Jolting you sharply out of your sleep,
Your body is trembling,
Your hands are clutching your soft-boiled head
Still trying to comprehend what’s happening,
Your lungs are collapsing, your tentacles grasping,
Your mind is imploding, your heart stabbed with pain,
Your throat coughing and choking, you’re bridled in strain
And cursing the evil machine,
The tiny black box sounding the alarm
“Get up against the wall!” even though you are unarmed.
It dictates, commands your very soul,
You cannot resist it, the shrill peal echoes out
From window to window of every house.
It does not relent until all are awake,
They are led to their vehicles and taken away.
A serial alterpiece dweller, a permanent guest,
Silently working, dull shine on its face,
Blazing red numbers, working their way...
T minus ten and counting,
T minus NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN, SIX...
You are a log, maimed and muted,
In pillows of slumber, unsuspecting, complete unawares,
Then all of a sudden it hits like a tray
Dropped down a staircase, all clamour and hail
— ZEEEP! ZEEEEEP! ZEEEEEEEP!
Jolting you sharply out of your sleep,
Your body is trembling,
Your hands are clutching your soft-boiled head
Still trying to comprehend what’s happening,
Your lungs are collapsing, your tentacles grasping,
Your mind is imploding, your heart stabbed with pain,
Your throat coughing and choking, you’re bridled in strain
And cursing the evil machine,
The tiny black box sounding the alarm
“Get up against the wall!” even though you are unarmed.
It dictates, commands your very soul,
You cannot resist it, the shrill peal echoes out
From window to window of every house.
It does not relent until all are awake,
They are led to their vehicles and taken away.
A Man's Garage is His Cave
A Man’s garage is his cave
And this is one thing that will not change,
From the dawn of time to the iron age,
He has held this theatre forever his stage.
You may witness the found youth of sparkling eyes,
Or see satisfaction in hard earned sighs,
After a long day of slow steady toil,
From inside and under a softened glow,
The hammering of dull repetitive blows,
Up ancient hillsides, down valley floors,
Out through the windows and roller doors.
A Man’s garage is his cave
And this is one thing that will not change.
Alas can you hear the joining of shapes and driving of nails,
The bringing to life what the imagination holds,
The creation of something from salvaged scrap,
The brilliance of metal as man works hard to please it,
The emergence of instinct in this most human lore,
Of recycling, providing, re-inventing the form.
From throwaway offcuts come the framework of dreams,
To keep one from going insane it seems.
Can you make out the mind of a great intellect ticking,
Through drawers and shelves his fingers go fossicking,
Of nuts and bolts and washers and screws,
Taming his patience for just the right use,
Sifting through memories of long treasured heirlooms,
He has carefully stowed away in the full flame of knowledge
That they would be needed one day;
And with an almighty heave he brings it to life,
As Excalibur was raised straight from the stone,
But behold,
Where is it? It has to be here,
Surely it’s here, it was here somewhere...
A Man’s garage is his cave
And this is one thing that will not change.
Can you see the hunched figure, a weary old soul,
Assessing tactics he sets about his task,
Filing his subject clamped tight in a vice,
Failing to even acknowledge advice,
Coughing and spluttering in a realm of sawdust,
Stumbling and tinkering, admiring his hoard —
Museum pieces, given over only to rust,
Like his own body, corroding away.
...Calls from the kitchen, “Come in dear...”
As he considers for a moment, winds down his work,
And is forced to blow out the light
and lock up the doors on his life for yet another day.
And this is one thing that will not change,
From the dawn of time to the iron age,
He has held this theatre forever his stage.
You may witness the found youth of sparkling eyes,
Or see satisfaction in hard earned sighs,
After a long day of slow steady toil,
From inside and under a softened glow,
The hammering of dull repetitive blows,
Up ancient hillsides, down valley floors,
Out through the windows and roller doors.
A Man’s garage is his cave
And this is one thing that will not change.
Alas can you hear the joining of shapes and driving of nails,
The bringing to life what the imagination holds,
The creation of something from salvaged scrap,
The brilliance of metal as man works hard to please it,
The emergence of instinct in this most human lore,
Of recycling, providing, re-inventing the form.
From throwaway offcuts come the framework of dreams,
To keep one from going insane it seems.
Can you make out the mind of a great intellect ticking,
Through drawers and shelves his fingers go fossicking,
Of nuts and bolts and washers and screws,
Taming his patience for just the right use,
Sifting through memories of long treasured heirlooms,
He has carefully stowed away in the full flame of knowledge
That they would be needed one day;
And with an almighty heave he brings it to life,
As Excalibur was raised straight from the stone,
But behold,
Where is it? It has to be here,
Surely it’s here, it was here somewhere...
A Man’s garage is his cave
And this is one thing that will not change.
Can you see the hunched figure, a weary old soul,
Assessing tactics he sets about his task,
Filing his subject clamped tight in a vice,
Failing to even acknowledge advice,
Coughing and spluttering in a realm of sawdust,
Stumbling and tinkering, admiring his hoard —
Museum pieces, given over only to rust,
Like his own body, corroding away.
...Calls from the kitchen, “Come in dear...”
As he considers for a moment, winds down his work,
And is forced to blow out the light
and lock up the doors on his life for yet another day.
Losing a Friend
My thoughts are like fish, divided and deep,
They swim through the sea, a distance they keep.
I am the fool who follows their trail,
While others around me keep theirs in a bowl.
My thoughts are like fish, from the Earth they are freed,
But I am tossed by the tide like a weed,
In search of some answer, idea or belief,
Before I return to the surface to breathe.
My thoughts are like fish, they hide behind rock,
Evading my vision, escaping my net,
Leading me under to a sunken shipwreck,
Like the ruins of life and choices I regret.
A dolphin appears, resplendent and still,
Such beauty, such grace, so close to my reach.
We stare for a second, a lifetime it seems,
I feel in that instant I’ve discovered my dreams.
They swim through the sea, a distance they keep.
I am the fool who follows their trail,
While others around me keep theirs in a bowl.
My thoughts are like fish, from the Earth they are freed,
But I am tossed by the tide like a weed,
In search of some answer, idea or belief,
Before I return to the surface to breathe.
My thoughts are like fish, they hide behind rock,
Evading my vision, escaping my net,
Leading me under to a sunken shipwreck,
Like the ruins of life and choices I regret.
A dolphin appears, resplendent and still,
Such beauty, such grace, so close to my reach.
We stare for a second, a lifetime it seems,
I feel in that instant I’ve discovered my dreams.
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