Berty Beaver, he was quiet
He never said too much
Yet Molly, Berty’s little wife
She mouthed off just a touch
She’d always threw her weight around
And poor old Tiny Tim
He got a slap most every day
And times his days felt grim
Molly, well she was his mum
And though she loved him so
She always had to nag someone
And give them a cuff or blow
Tim became a poor young man
And shrunk from every one
And as the bully’s hung around
More evil did get done
His mum she says ‘now that’s not on
They don’t do this to my son!’
And she goes running to the school
Oh, she’s an angry one
She glares the teacher up and down
And lets her know who’s boss
Teachers try hard to placate her
Though, they only suffer loss.
Then Tiny Tim, comes running in
And says right to his mum
[Frustration snatching fear away
No more his mouth hangs numb]
‘Look Mum, at what you always do!!!’
He says with voice stern
‘If you’re a bully too, then how
Will us kids ever learn.
28 June 2013 @ 1727hrs.
The floor drips towards the sky.
The walls fall, the seats rise.
With every emotion the room reacts.
Silence, the theatre has always lacked.
Blood, sweat, and tears backstage are shed from the actors,
But all the audience sees is happiness and laughter.
The Stage tells the stories, and no one believes.
They ask, “How could people so dismal create something so happy?”
The Walls and the Ceiling back up the Stage’s claim,
But everyone that hears it says it’s a lie, and walks angrily away.
The actors aren’t happy that their secret got out.
At the theatres Walls they scream and shout.
They yell things that can never be unsaid,
Then go home satisfied, and turn into bed.
The theatre could never house people so dark,
So it shuts its doors with a loud bang, and locks everyone out.
The droplets of rain drip on the roof covered ceiling.
The Stage and the Walls begin the process of healing.
The house today is empty still, shut out from everything and everyone.
Though many have tried, no one has succeeded in making the Theatre and the actors once again one.
My love I can not find you anywhere,
I feel like I lost my soul somewhere,
because you are my soulmate,
and us being apart can not be fate.
You did not leave because you wanted to,
It just was just something you had to do.
I was not right, All I wanted to do was fight,
and knowing you was the love of my life,
yet I would not make you my wife.
I know that's what you really wanted
and now I am feeling haunted,
by the things I should have done,
and you being the only one
I ever loved and will love forever, if it was'nt for me we will still be together.
But you are gone
and I can not go on,
so I must say good-bye, I'm leaving myself to die.
IN THE FIRED FURNACE OF CALI
(APROPOS THE ANNUAL RUNNING OF FIRE AND MUD)
Roaring radiant raging waves of heat,
the charging beast, glowing red hot with anger,
devours all within its path; left over sable statutes
send streams of spiraling smoke sketching
grayish designs upon the hazy blue canvas above.
Weary eyes reflect the yellow-orange-red glow
that only the rage of a Dante-like hell could bring.
The wretched earth once again lay hopelessly
on the remnant of her charred bed: awaiting
her steaming tears to wash away the ashes.
In the meanwhile mourners collect scorched
memories: telltale recollections of sacrifices
nature left upon her Vulcan altar.
chills spike through my body - hands achy - body numb i reach for it its shiny slick and heavy i put it to my arm and pull towards me quickly red water comes from between the line in my arm i had just made the red comes more and more till it drips down my arm to my hand and off my finger tips i lay back and let the hot tears run down my face this is me
It weren’t too many years ago
I worked on the building site
The work was hard, but pay was good
And it suited me just right
I knew this bloke who worked with me
Little George it was his name
He was short, built like a bull
And Lord that boy was game.
Now he was Maori, through and through
And he hated Islanders
So one day we were in the pub
And someone George did stir
They called him a ruddy Islander
And he wasn’t taking that
And boy, that man could really fight
Just like a jungle cat.
There was six of them and one of George
And folk thought him insane
To take on all those blokes at once
But I could not refrain
From betting on that Georgie boy
Because I knew him from old
It only took our boy five minutes
To knock four of them cold.
Then I saw the other two
They were running down the street
Regretting it with all their hearts
That Georgie they did meet
I guess those guys will shrink in future
From picking a Maori man
There’s not too many that can fight
Just like a Maori can.
5 August 2013 @ 1545hrs.