I’m ‘there’ in the picture,
can’t you see?
I’m the idjut swimming
in the cold of the sea;
I’m the one at the back
dawdling free;
I’m the clown at the fair
but no-one’s looking at me;
I’m the invisible man
stood next to the tree;
I’m the one who is missing
from the picture,
God bless me.
Every evening, the little old man climbed to the top of the spiral staircase to light the lamp; staying there, thinking upon life, until the dawn’s early light rose. He slept, during the day, in a cot near the base of the lighthouse; eating the food that the kind folk from the village left him.
For forty years he had tended to the flame that shone out for the mariners’ safety; like his father, and his grandfather, before him.
The mariners, whose sea had receded ten miles beyond the old coast line many, many years ago.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #FF, #flashfiction, #Lighthouse, #Proae, #Sad, #shortstory, #vss, story
It’s New Year’s Eve,
and time to leave,
to make way
for another one.
What did I achieve?
Well, that depends
on who you are,
and where you are.
There must have been some good,
in some neighbourhood,
to balance out the bad;
but, let’s face the facts,
in scenes, or acts,
there are always
the winners
and the losers.
Remember this,
beggars can’t be choosers,
and the poor
get poorer,
as the rich
eat all the pies.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Change, #NewTearsEve, #NewYearsEve, #poetry. #poem, #Sad, #Sorrow
It’s in standard tuning and uses the chords Gmaj / Cmaj / Gmaj, even though it is quite a sad song.
G is the Root Note (as is C)
If you use drop D tuning it sounds slightly like Nickleback.
Here it is:
Gmaj
Gmaj
Singing: carrots sink…
Cmaj Gmaj
and parsnips float.
You can let the final Gmaj on ‘float’ ring to extend the song for a few seconds more – or not, if you are stuck for time.
Enjoy
G:)
I’ve got a little dog,
I took it for a jog,
we ran into a bog
… and s
a
n
k
.
There once was a bat, upside down
whose smile was perceived as a frown;
she now cries as she hangs,
people shy from her fangs
and call her a miserable clown.
I must go down to the words today,
the lonely words in the wood;
the ones that just aren’t used enough;
and not because
they are no good;
but, because they are so shy;
and no one goes to visit them,
and if someone does, they cry.
The words all hide
amongst the trees,
they keep themselves unspoken;
solitude is the thing they crave,
a silence likened to the grave,
or a morning quite unbroken.
I must just go,
to see they’re safe,
check they haven’t wilted;
for they had worth
in better days
before their use was stilted.
I must go down to the words today,
the lonely words in the wood.
This poem woke up in a doorway this morning;
it had little in the way of a plan,
so it just sat there yawning;
until a passing poetry critic
hurled some abuse – non analytic –
along the lines of: ‘You smell!’
and not ‘All is well
that ends well.’
as a man once said;
I remember that
as I am not stupid,
though I may whiff a bit.
A kindly word
in deed
is what I need;
but, I am either invisible
or derisible.
This poem woke up in a doorway
this morning.
Once upon a time…
… there was a short story.
It wasn’t long at all;
and it wasn’t at all tall.
So short it was,
and set out so,
that it thought it was a poem;
but, it wasn’t.
It didn’t have much to say;
but, one day,
under the bluest of skies,
It left it’s home
and went off to seek fame and fortune.
Finding neither,
the short story settled down
with an extract from Coleridge’s Mariner,
and they lived happily ever after.
