Monthly Archives: September 2015

T. Ing

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Timothy Ing is everything

Tim Ing is everything

T. Ing is everything (to a triangle-player – there may be a specific word for somebody who plays the triangle; and not a rude one)

“The play is the thing”

said Hamlet the Dane

Courtesy of William Shakespeare

But, Hamlet didn’t know

About whether to stay or if to go

and Clashed with his uncle, Claudius

which man caused the whole

state of Denmark

to rot

and fall.

#ThatIsAll

Harvest moon verse

And added Genesis – yay! Mad Man Moon – it’s on my playlist – G:)

Peace, Love and Patchouli

Silhouettes of trees stand guard
Over dreams of nights lit by
A thousand fireflies rising
Crackling like a first fall fire
And the moon perched,
watching,
The scenes of acts played out
Of visions created in sleepless minds
And the body that often feels so tired
Moving through to touch
The earth
Gathering ashes to form
Castles of nothing.
I watch you come to me
Sweet moon on high you cast aside
Your robes of clouds
Naked for my eyes,
My thoughts to fantasize
Of similar nights
And words spoken
And those left unsaid.
I sleep beneath your eternal gaze
And wake to find the lavender pink
Filtered through a haze
Of this morning as she wakes
And I miss you in this moment
Yet know you shall return to find me waiting,
Spinning endless verse
On the beauty and gifts you bestow
To my heart and eternal soul
Left…

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Putting together a poetry book

charlypriest is putting together a poetry book – I think it should be called “Stay Frosty?” What do you gents and gentesses think? G:)

CRAZY LIFE

This is hard, I thought it would be easier
nope, at least not the way I write, a bit strange right?
well if you can´t go right go left, that was my conclusion
didn´t make myself create a grand illusion. How the hell do I classify all
the poems I printed some time ago, i started reading them, and then
i thought, they talk about love but in between i throw in the dove and make
a sarcastic joke about it then it gets serious,or i talk about fighting in life
those are the more predominant it seem, but not to that ones i even beam.
Is not the typical wise words of fighting life´s struggles, since in between
the serious i write some strange random shit, maybe the next hit? Or they
are serious but is…..can´t figure it out, all that I spout.
I have no clue how to categorize…

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I am Just a Silent Bee

Listen... can you hear me?

Listen… can you hear me?

I am just a silent bee
In a hive mind of like mentality
You cannot hear them or me
We are as silent as we can be.

And here’s the rub
“Buzz! Buzz!” Is not uz
No “Rub-a-dub-dub!”
We are as quiet as the quietest church mouze
We wouldn’t want to cause a fuzz.

And if you ever did hear uz
We wouldn’t be going “Buzzety Buzz!”
While we were a tooing and a froing;
We’d be singing
(ever so quietly)
“Honey, honey, honey…
Must be funny…”
Which
Strangely enough
Was written by a bee
Bee a…

Confucius May Have Said…

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Confucius may have said…

“it is better to look for something that you have lost in the place where you actually lost it; rather than looking for it in the place where you only think that you lost it.”

and then again… he may not have said this.

G:)

Script for a Tester’s Jeer

Toe-in-the-Water Radio Show SCRIPT – locked up

Me: He has just been released from prison.

You: What had he done?

Me: Done! What had he ‘not’ done?

You: I think that may be a long list.

Me: True. He was found guilty of being a bugler.

You: A bugler?

Me: Yes, he would break into ‘Reveille Or ‘Retreat’ at all hours of the morning and as he refused to stop it, they thought that the best thing to do was to lock him up and throw away the key of C.

You: The key of C?

Me: Yes, seems that was what the trumpet was tuned to.

You: Did it do any good?

Me: Well, his neighbours certainly thought so.

You: And now they’ve let him out?

Me: Yes, he was getting too big for his cell.

Yes: Does that joke work?

Me: Not in this universe, dear friend; but, it had to be said.

You: Why?

Me: It’s in the script.

You: It is. How did that get that through the censors?

Me:Have you heard of bribery? Using large sums of money for the means of… crime?

You: No.

Me: Good boy. We shall go far.

Dream Sequences – Part 2 (a story in creation)

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NB please read Part 1 first at: 

Dream Sequences (a story in creation) http://wp.me/p1MjHq-1jS via

thank you

G:)

Part 2

Henry’s mind considered these things during the waking hours; to the detriment of his paying attention to his work and his driving skills – which were relatively called into question ‘twice’ on the way into the office; ‘many’ times ‘in’ his office; and ‘three’ times on the way back – once with almost disastrous consequences for an intrepid motorcyclist on a courier ‘Mission from G.O. Deliveries’ where he, the dispatch rider, had almost met his Almighty Employer.

Henry parked his dilapidated Ford Belligerent in an unusually empty space only a hundred and fifty yards from his flat, and ventured away from sanctuary and towards the quietude of the public library.

Henry was pleased to see it still there; he always assumed it would become a cut-price something-or-other overnight and his refuge from society’s babble would disappear like a traffic warden’s cologne after he’d photographed your car V.I.N. number not three seconds since you’d parked and popped into the newsagents for some Aspirin.

Henry found a table with seat near the Motoring section and dumped twelve back-issues of Exchange and Mart upon grubby surface.

It took him the effort of retracing eight issues before he found what he was looking for.

1926 Bentley, 3.0 Litre, British Racing Green, yada yada yada… up for auction at Rialto (Automobiles) Auction Rooms, Tuesday 7th, lot 458, estimate of £300K-£320K.

Henry whistled – and received a look of disapproval / approbation from a nearby librarian who was replacing ‘Humbly’s Diesel Engines of the 1950s’ or some-such tome.

‘Well, that detail was right.’ he thought. ‘A 1926 Bentley in reality looks just like the one in my dream – apart from the colour.’

Henry could have Googled this information in seconds; but, being of the sort of disposition that feels a book to be paper and words first – any other format (if you must) is a poor second.

However, finding A.R.P. might require a little of today’s modern-magic. He knew that needles in haystacks were a mouse-click away when the Interweb was put to use – Henry replaced the E&Ms correctly (in chronological order) and decided ‘now’ would be the time to seek out ‘Warden’ for any truths in ‘her’ story.

Henry had not had any dreams continuing his encounter with this enigma of a pretty, young lady who ‘they’ called ‘The mechanic’ or had that been a joke? He tried to visualise her face; arrange her features in proper order; remember her hair colour, style, length, but he was hopelessly hopeless at that sort of thing unless taking detailed notes at the time – which he hadn’t.

Not having had any more chances to gaze upon her smiling face, Henry had just taken to noting down the words spoken and the detail of the… the what? Hardly a date. She had been a knight in shining armour to his broken down damsel in distress – then she had galloped into the sunset without as much as a: ‘See you Tuesday; Rialto? Seven?’

Today was Tuesday. The 7th. Rialto! Where were the Rialto (Automobile) Auction Rooms?

—-

NB how do you think it’s going? No dreams in this bit; but, that is fine IMO. G:)

A Walk in the Forest (a Starting Sentence Challenge)

If you get this twice, please only read it once as you probably have better things to do – thank you – G:)

hangerfarmpoets

A Black Forest Gateau - sorry, Hound. A Black Forest Gateau – sorry, Hound.

Walking stately through the forest on a path that he had helped establish over the years, Marmaduque Fabriquet was at peace with the world; his two hounds, Fleicher und Christien, ran alongside and away, enjoying their freedom from the restrictions of Hame Farm – though those ‘restrictions’ were hardly solitary confinement for his two faithful Black Forest Hounds.

set a challenge to come up with an interesting and inviting first sentence for one of the writing groups that I attend (The Write Stuff) I thought this was a possibility. It does, however (IMO) not give any clues as to what the story is about, or what might happen. It seems to me merely a start. What follows may make the difference; but, as a first sentence, I am not won over by it. What do you think? G:)

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Ode to a Pen (is this an…)

A pen

A pen

Ode to a pen

Oh, Pen
All hours you await my grip
And your ink
Is there for my words
Your life’s blood
Which you shed for the portrayal of my thoughts
Your every drop of essence
I put there upon the page of my creative output.

Oh, Pen
Without you…
I would seek another…
There is no fidelity in penmanship
And though I desire you when you are near
If you should splutter
Or run dry
Or incur a scratchy nib
Then I
The most malodorous of owners and users
Become a betrayer
To our trust

Oh, Pen
Up your heart
To see that this is how it is
Am I trite
To choose another
Implement to write
With?

Oh, Pen
With out you
There is only one course of action
For a pen is for but a season
Is that unreasonable
Unseasonable
Untenable
To you?

Oh, Pen
Is this poem that I have writ
A barely concealed euphemism
With such imagery within it
That your essence is not of ink, but..

Where Did All The Money Go?

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As inheritances go, this one soon went. The millions were lost (never to be found) in various non-profit-making adventures – though that hadn’t been the intention – and within a year there were no visible a signs of the fortune – and very few signs that ‘he’ had had the misfortune to lack the business acumen to cope with it.
This meant that life had to get back to a reduced reality that only seemed to rub his snub nose into the dirt and shout at him ‘You idiot!’ on a regular basis. Circumstances had meant that he returned to a windowless ground floor (basement, if you like) of an apartment block, where he used to have a pleasant south-facing third-floor suite; and, until recently, owned the whole top-floor penthouse suite with its 360 degree views of the hoi-polloi below – literally as well as figuratively.

Times change. And, sometimes, all too quickly.