I went to the zoo on Sunday with some friends, which was a pretty great day. Having mentioned the fact that I high-fived a monkey to a few of my friends a few times, I was mulling over a related rhyme which finally blossomed in to a poem during the music/poetry session I was at this evening (Monday). That brilliant one over in Abingdon. I also got to feed Rainbow Lorikeets, there’s a picture at the bottom.
All of the adventures are true. Enjoy and let me know what you think below!
Life’s Little Adventures
I once high-fived a tamarin,
And then I shook its paw.
Before the keeper told me off,
For having a finger near the door.
I once got locked in Regent’s Park,
And had to climb the fence.
Topped with great big metal spikes,
It got somewhat intense.
I once removed a jet engine,
And with my best friend took it apart.
We did put it all back again,
But I’ve no idea if it will start.
I once leapt from the top of my uni,
And abseiled down the towers.
Dressed as Bonnie Charlie’s Life Guard,
Having just defended the uni for 36-hours.
I once tried to outrun the inbound tide,
And sprint through the gap between wall and sea.
But I was too slow as the waves raced in,
To soak almost all of me.
I once went to an open mic session,
And had no idea what lay in store.
Where so many styles and talents co-exist,
Each week I come back for more.
Feeding Rainbow Lorikeets
I wrote this one during the time we sat with my aunt as she was losing her battle with cancer. The Poets United Verse First prompt gave me the push to share it, the other poems from the prompt can be read here: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/verse-first-poetry-heals.html
We are the death watch,
Gathered, sitting, waiting.
Nothing more can be done,
Try to ease her discomforts,
And medicate away the pain.
Interpreting each moan and twitch,
Our efforts feel in vain.
They say that hearing is the last to go,
So we keep talking.
To soothe the anguish of drug-induced dreams,
Through which her mind is walking.
We are her death watchers,
Trapped in emotional limbo.
Waiting for her final breath,
Feeling guilty for wishing so.
Ever closer draws the hour,
At which anguish will cease.
When her long sleep arrives,
And she lies in peace.
I’ve been driving past these sheep for quite some time, and the sight never fails to make me smile. Yes, that is a flock of sheep living in a church graveyard, and there is a poem hiding below the photo. Enjoy!
Sheep in the graveyard
Between the weathered tombstones,
The grass and wild flowers grow.
No relatives left to tend them,
Abandoned to time, sun and snow.
The oft trodden path to the church door,
Cut through the knee-high vegetation.
How to keep the churchyard tamed,
Must’ve caused the vicar some vexation.
‘Til he thought upon his calling,
To be a shepherd to his flock.
And having taken that more literally,
The plants no longer grow amok.
For peacefully grazing between the stones,
The resident groundsheep bleat.
Tending to the forgotten graves,
And keeping the churchyard neat.
So today is St George’s day in England, which means that the flags are out, and a whole swarm of dragons have descended upon one of the local villages. There’s even a giant purple one in the duck pond. It was suggested at the music/poetry session I go to, that as this week’s session was the day before, we might want to do some pieces which tend towards that subject. Some very English tunes were played, and I decided to do a little bit of googling about the man himself and write a bit about some of the things we don’t know about Georgios of Lydda. Here it is, please let me know what you think in the comments.
The Legendary St George (or so they claim)
We claim him as our English saint,
That Greek-born Roman officer,
Revered throughout the world.
They claim his name was Georgios,
Some say he sounds like Perseus,
Or Sabazios, or Zeus, or a hodge-podge.
They claim he slew a dragon,
Or a crocodile some have named allegory,
For Rome, or martyrdom, or invaders, or pagans.
The Muslims claim him also,
But they name him Al-Khidr,
Who also slew a dragon near Beirut.
We claim his red cross for our flag,
Yet stole it from St Ambrose,
Who was revered throughout Milan.
We claim so much about him,
But in truth we know so little,
About our mysterious, orphaned St George.
So this month has ended slightly better than it began, with a dose of stress-induced tonsillitis (which has led to me learning how to spell tonsillitis, was always forgetting that second l). At least it’s almost gone. So I’ve raiding the old archive to find something new to share with you tonight, and came across something I wrote whilst I was in 6th Form (that’s the two years after the end of secondary school in the UK). I wasn’t exactly popular at school for various reasons, some of which I brought on my own head, some were down to the usual social politics in schools. So that’s a bit of background for this one, it was based off of things that people had said to me around the time of writing too.
Please let me know what you think in the comments, so far today I’ve had 50 spam bot pots, would be nice to hear from real people too!
An Outcast’s Plea
They all hate me,
I know they do,
Though hide it they may try.
A careless whisper,
An unchecked glance,
The way they walk on by.
I try to fit in,
To be like them,
Another mindless clone.
But that’s not me,
My mind rebels,
And I’m left in here alone.
Deal me in,
Accept me for who I am.
Don’t compare me to society’s norm,
For what’s normal anyway?