He slept here overnight after a pub crawl.
I heard him vomiting in the toilet
in the early hours.
Now he is up, hung-over
eating fried eggs sunny-side up.
I remember when he used
to crawl on the floor
baby drool hanging from his smiles.
He looks up at me now with a dopey grin.
I want to tell him both `thanks' and `sorry'
I don't know why.
Years later, `thanks' and ‘sorry'
have become blurred in my mind
with the term, 'fatherhood.'
the morn never came
the sun denied to arise
defied its duty
to say good-bye to hiding
veiled below the horizon
an early bird rose
but if the sun never rose
what would such a bird
do to kill time while on pause
in the darkness scorned forlorn
too soon the cock crowed
the birds sang their dawn chorus
sang again again
in vain for the sun slept-in
hung-over in netherworld
The winter sun hung over the bay
A golden orb sending its rays
Far & wide to bathe in light
This town by the sea, before Christmas night.
The sun beat down on a languid sea as a million diamonds danced and sparkled
on the surface of the water.
The red-tinged cliff hung over the beach, threatening to envelop an unwary walker.
Above, the sky was so bright and blue, whilst on the horizon a misty hue.
The rolling hills are so verdant yet bleak, with small cumulus clouds atop the peaks.
Even on the darkest days when the odds are stacked heavily against us, we should never give up on hope.
Quote By Poet.
We were heading for better life to the new world on the sailing ship 'Athlone',
After about five weeks disaster struck, and the main mast and sails were lost.
For two weeks we drifted aimlessly at the mercy of the unforgiving ocean.
Food and water were running out fast and an air of doom hung over the ship,
our spirits were lifted when a sailor in the crow's nest shouted out "Land ahoy".
It was full of long stringy grass which had grown out, all over the back of the house. It hung over the bare walls. The briars were everywhere and they would prick you clean red blooded. The shed widows shattered and the door covered in heavy moss. the thick smoke running out from the chimney looked like it was about to go up in flames. The red ransomes lawnmower was rotted in rust and rooted to the ground by long grass.The clothes line had snapped in half. The tarmac laneway was cracked with weeds pumping out from underneath it all. Remodelling was out of the question. It remained untouched and there was no even sign that anything would change
Read a book once
Folded the corners
To mark my progress.
It was sort of a
Wagon train read
Long, torturous,
A seemingly endless quest
For an unknown destination
Pictured only in the minds
Of others
Who
Sadly
Were only aggrandizing
What they were told.
The book I read
Had been chosen for me
By a deranged
English teacher/football coach
Before the era of the
Concussion Protocol.
The Book Report I wrote
Received an “A”
I believe because
I trashed the book
Question why it was assigned
As it was a tedious read
Containing statistical
As well as anecdotal
Documentation
Of its unreadability
Or more likely because
He was hung over
After the football team
Beat our traditional rival.
She walked through the Valley of Death,
As a loved one was laid to rest,
One of pure spiritual wealth,
Witness endured every true test.
Feeling alone and so depressed,
Slowly walked away with head bowed,
Heart was hurting under great distress,
Dread hung over like a dark shroud.
Approaching the path toward home,
Heard a noise coming from behind,
Strange, she thought everyone had gone,
But friends were walking alongside.
Grateful to see friendly faces,
And receive their warm embraces.
Thankful to have such welcome guests,
To help in her deep grieving quest.
There was a strong divine presence,
An Emmaus Road occurrence,
For Jesus was among the folk,
That lightened her heavy yoke.
A cloud of witnesses on earth,
Filled with love and heaven’s worth,
A lesson from God on His throne,
With Jesus, no one walks alone.
I dream of being bold, without a want or care,
To charm the crowd with wit, and much fanfare,
A fearless soul, who plays to the crowd every night.
Never doubting, never ever wrong, ever forever right.
I’d run marathons while eating cake.
I’d climb Mount Everest thrice without a break.
I'd compose a symphony from an idle hum.
I'd speak five languages fluently, just for fun.
I dream of being cool, calm, and collected,
Always sharply focused, never misdirected,
A polished version of myself, always on the ball.
Never prone to any slip up, tumble, trip or fall.
I'd love to anticipate, to always be way ahead,
To never stumble as I scramble from my bed,
To awaken with hope fulfilled to greet the morn.
To never be bedraggled, hung-over, nor forlorn.
But, here I sit, entangled in my own unkempt hair,
Locked by procrastination’s grip, tied up, in my chair.
I plan great things ahead, but then, I simply sit and stare,
To better myself, I'd need to be, another's self, elsewhere.
Death of My Ink
After a masterpiece that I was proud to write
no poetic words flowed from my pen out right
I could not ink the description of a desert dry
and worse yet had no mindset to try
thought I had to be conflicted enough
to use words to scream out in pain
I had no arsenal to name the sea a quilt of blue
Writing had come to a screeching halt
and not penning poetry was like food without salt
But just as a cloud hung over a little boat
a storm raged over my drink ink moat.
My ink did not have bicycle wheels
nor did it chase me wearing high heels
I had no idea if ink could have a revival
it was dead I assumed no survival.
Greedy vine spirals smother monoliths
Spider fern moss, fairy forest vertical
Soaks in secrets, promise admonished
Water trawled crevice, creek cervical
Church canopy arch angel honours
Wing finger cool fires praise prancing
Laser selects sections, bark polished
Licked by flitting demure madonnas
Eight afore taped to trees keen tropical
Each fresh capes the chapel innocent
Suckers strung hearts hung over tendrils
Hundred year hardness rots, wet spent
Mighty trunk rips open room charcoal
Doorway discloses disaster clandestine
Bluebeard’s bride wives winding sparkle
Shon hopeful on nymph number nine
3rd of July
Daintree Dancing
can still see the truth
the moon hung over the sky
as silence filled me
Tonight as I gazed out my window,
I saw a shiny bright star on a velvet sky.
I wondered if it hung over Bethlehem,
this same shiny bright star.
Tonight was it the same star,
from two thousand years ago?
The one shiny bright star,
the one the wise men followed?
Tonight I am left wondering,
a prayer I will now say.
Say peace for all,
upon this shiny bright star.
Your version of sober is not mine,
I do not blame you I blame culture;
Wasted words you will not remember,
probably better to stay silent;
For me an unaltered state is fine,
that’s not for everyone I am sure;
I’d rather not end up hung over
I would like to talk about time spent;
You are claiming clean on that bender,
my definition was never bent.
The sunflower stretched
With its stalk and its neck
As far to the sky
As it could – reaching high,
Pushing its golden face
With clumsy, awkward grace
Trying, with all its might
To reach the highest height
That it could ever muster
So it could be like Custer
Or like a grand ole redwood
(I think it thought it could)
It reached into the atmosphere
Inhaled the biting air
Looked about in wonderment
High above the firmament
But slender was its frame
It did not have the strength
To stand as so unaided –
It weakened, and degraded
It towered, then bent over,
It leaned a little lower
And found the earth up close
Had just as much to boast
As did the open sky
It wondered at up high –
And thereto did it stay
Forever and a day
A little bit hung over
As if it lost its lover
Or better yet, had found
Upon the hallowed ground
Some cosmic explanation
About its situation
Which held it in its thrall
High above it all
And made its hanging there
That much easier to bear –
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