Saturday, February 1, 2014

Latest Dribble . . .

Goldilocks’ Search

It was not porridge,
Nor a chair she sort,
But bed for back support.

Whether it was . . .
Too hot, too cold,
This time was of no concern,

Size had been determine,
Too big, too small,
Did not even rate,

This time round through,
Goldilocks had to pay,
She had a budget to her dismay,

So her decision came down,
Too hard or too soft ,
Just right was what she sort,

This one seems to be ok,
However next changed her mind,
Still she remained unconvinced.

So she ran to
Another house.
Positioning herself on the bed.

Instantly she jumped off,
‘Finally I’ve made my choice’.
‘To the last I must return’, 

Just to check,
Her choice was indeed,
Just right to give a good night’s sleep!

Better get up Goldilocks /Deb
The worker said,
It’s time to pay. 

Breakfast Time

darken forest she treads,
to the morning bird song,
a familiar smell passes her nose,

welcoming her into,
a house of strangers,
porridge small invite her,

large bowl captures,
her eyes as hunger strikes,
temptation  too strong,

the hot sting,
burns her mouth,
spits the porridge out,

too hot, too hot!
she cries . . .
burning sensation lingers,

down in sizes lies,
an invite bowl,
again a spoonful enters,

Splats flies all directions,
She coughs clear throat,
Too cold, yuck! Yuck! Yuck!

Forced to settle on the
Smallest bowl,
Gone before she starts.

Umm, finally satisfied,
Just right, just right!
Goldilocks, cries.


Caught in a circle,
Loss of apatite
Lack of fibre
Blocked bowl

Loss of apatite
Lack of fibre
Blocked bowl

Until it starts all over again! 

Many Tails

in London’s bowl,
wet stench,

Oozes through,
trundled streets,
as smell rises.

Eyes appear,
first a pair,
now thousands,

Thin tiny tails
snap wagging behind
as invades over grow,

The deep,
of London’s bowl,

Putrid smells,
escape into streets,
tails slide from city drains,

Skipping over,
cobbled road,
invading city streets,

stretched beyond,
the natural eye,
tails wag behind these eyes,

Smells release,
the germs,
from city sewers,

invading homes
releasing plagues,
as sons and daughters die,

Even if one,
could leave homes,
tails now rule,

Small, sweet sounds
whisper over head,
hypnotising pest’s tails,

In a daze each
pair of eyes,
seeks sweet melodies.

Luring them from
the streets,
still crawl out of drains,

Tails dance their way,
out of town,
in search of different pipes.

As final Invader crossed,
 London’s boundary,
this tale comes to an end.   

The Australian Way

Cattle musters on brown land,
Teenage heartthrobs on horseback,
Driving the cattle towards home,
For one more last time.

Drought has set in and the grass dried,
Paddocks lacking the musters feed,
Farmers heartbroken, leaving the land,
Ownership not taken up by next generation.

Lack of cash flow, heartthrobs’ head for town,
Promise of jobs in a high tech land,
Cattles for share markets, horse for cars,
This the new look for the modern land.

The hustle and bustle, replace the peace for the bush,
As heartthrobs’ feet now walk the city streets,
On buses and trains, caught in the traffic,
The city clock ticks past nine o’clock otherwise known as 9:01.

The beeping and buzzing of office machines,
Telephones called mobiles belt out the tunes,
Microchips for diamonds, ipads the new trend,
Gone the old telegraph, we now use skype.

Date banks are now things of the past,
Heartthrobs’ now store information in clouds,
Face to face meetings are drying off too,
Meeting their new brides on twitter and facebook.

For this odd duck it’s hard to keep up,
Everything instant, something to do with gram,
DOS is now referred to as terabytes ,
Phones that use date, what’s that all about?

SMS and messaging, what happen to email?
Now they’re all swapping tweets on heartthrobs,
Posting their photos on instantgram even in clouds,
Oh I can’t keep up. Think I’ll waddle back to the farm.


When I meet you a writer of song,
Dabbler of watercolour,
Academic writer publishing papers,

My intent to be a psychologist,
Lost to a passion to share the word of God,
Shattered by illness drown  in pain,

Then in poetry and writing words,
I thought I’d stumble on my calling,
You the artists  encouraged my writing,

Demanding a poem a week be in the mail,
No email to be found back then,
Snail mail we waited for weekly replies.

A dribble of publishing here and there,
Then came the 4 books quickly published,
While you doddle with your watercolours.

The years passed and we were
By then penning creative writing,
My publishing seem to dry,

When yours begin to flourish,
Now my turn to pick up a brush,
Transforming the canvas too colour.

Seems you and I have done a switch-a-roo,
You walked away from lecturing,
To finally tackle your novel and other pursuits.

I am now an artist’s filling my days with colour,
You your days now consumed by words,
I wonder what the next switch-a-roo will look like?

Missing you

Did you miss me?
My monkey tricks?
Smart comments,
Back chat . . .

Did you miss me?
Troublesome student
Whinging her way,
Through class assignments,

Did you miss me?
My many complaints,
Excuses for work
Presented not up to starch?

Are you ready for my return?
My cheeky remarks
To stir you
For yet another term?

Are you ready for my return?
The student who loves to complain,
Armed with excuses,
For why she’s not got your attention?

Are you ready for my return?
Full or reasons why my work is late,
Art that goes missing as it’s in the bin,
The nightmare student has returned.

Now tell the truth you missed me,
As much as I’ve missed teasing you.

No comments:

Post a Comment