Miki Trivia. I am Vegetarian. I also love and respect animals and disapprove of hunting.
A 21st Century Tale of Woe.
Agnes Brown looked back on the pages of her
Long and well-thumbed life. It was the same old
Story and as she neared the end she realized that
Any wands that may have been waved had drooped
And failed. Her Fairy Godmother must have had
An accident because she never arrived, although
Many years were passed in waiting. The prince who
Once found Agnes was not charming and he had left
Well before midnight. She always had two shoes that
Rubbed her heels. Serviceable brogues. Glass slippers
Were not Agnes’s style. She had made many wishes
But none had come true, though someone had cast
A spell at some point for she was slowly transmuted
Into a crone. Her wishing well ran dry very early and
Her broom had done nothing more than sweep.
No helpful elves ever appeared at stroke of midnight
To ease her burdens. She never saw a Unicorn or a
Golden egg. When she bought pumpkin it was just for
Soup and her beanstalks produced only beans. As she
Embraced the cruel trappings of age and loneliness,
Agnes Brown could tell you, without hesitation
that life is not a fairy-tale.
We walk Orwellian streets
Bathed in the bland gaze
Of watching automatons.
That perch on poles,
Hide under eaves,
And follow our every move with
Black eyes grimy and glazed
They are not tempered by reason or
Gifted with judgement, they
Simply spy and relay.
Sharing our faces with
Anonymous digital databases.
Keeping tags, storing us away
For future checks and reference
as we pursue our lives
Wrapped in our ignorant innocence.
Miki trivia. For many years I played percussion in bands. My main band was a predominantly female line-up called the Dangerous Sisters. I also played sessions with other bands.
Dozing While it Rains.
In the half-land when sleep has crept close
but consciousness still lingers. Images scissor.
There is a sigh of hem against stocking.
A wisp of blue smoke. A hand holds a cup,
little finger crooked in tea-time elegance.
And downstairs an old man shuffles.
The cardigan is holed. Wool is worming
out of frayed edges. His pate is liver-spotted.
He bends his neck to gaze into a meagre grate.
Picks up a faded photograph and listens
to the birds circling as he remembers the noise
Outside, reflections in a silver pavement
flutter against passing eyes.
The rain tumbles to glimmering windows
and the sleeper turns over to the rhythm of the fall.
Brushed away by human hands
As a wisp of spiders web,
The lonely soul skimmed low and fast,
Dipping and spinning in misty spirals.
Searching, still searching.
The lake glacial blue and still
Beckoned in its glittering smoothness
Drawing her back.
She hovered, seeking the mirrored surface,
Finding the place
Where one last memento lay.
Then, the wisp above
And the cold still face below,
Like image and reflection
Could merge as a breath into an open mouth
And the roaming at last,
This small town oozes grimness.
With poverty written into
Every shabby shop-front.
Charity shops display rags in futility.
Grimy windows cataracted by neglect,
Peer out at dirty pavements
And watch the litter that scampers
Unimpeded along grey streets.
Opposite, stoop shouldered houses,
Carry the burden of existence.
Dispirited people move listlessly,
Held upright only by the force of hope.
They are empty. Soulless.
Ground fine by the mill of despair.