Bliss - A Decima
These days I'm wont to reminisce
on hours achieving happiness,
swerving consequent crappiness.
It certainly would be remiss
to diss the side effects of bliss,
the coming down from such a height
whilst grasping at it's fading light.
All highs have their own aftermaths,
some are benign but some, bloodbaths,
two hundred degrees Fahrenheit!
Breakfasting on Worms
If you rise before the sun -
(when dawn is still a dream you had,
unclaspable, where reason ends,
before the rote of compliance begins,
before the language of constraint unstops,
acting out the all too rational;
a wage to earn, a meal to cook,
children's needs to tend,
the diction of No, after you
and various similitudes
designed to coalesce
around the sociological)
- you feel the pre-dawn less than dark
fizzing somewhere interplanetary.
And through this percolation
the Earth's curve courses,
hieroglyphics of expunged soil
cast like prayers upon the plains.
Too soon, tangents of light
precurse the onset of a sober day,
our dark worms sleeping off the sun.
Ronovan Haiku Challenge: Prompts – Drip and Drop
Drop and Drop The constant drip, drip, drip of misinformation makes me scream...DROP DEAD!
What It's Not and What It Is
It's not the sun that rises.
It's not the moon that sets.
It's not the stars all tipping
On towards the West.
It's not the blackbird singing.
It's not the howling dog.
It's not the fox attempting
Cartwheels in the fog.
It is the darkness looming.
It is the passing sense.
It is the abolition
Of the present tense.
Shelter with me here
where the fires cannot reach us,
scorching now the earth.
The history of Captain Swing
is told in tales of burning ricks,
machine destruction, polemics
of resistance imagining
a better world and songs that sing
of full employment, profits shared
with labourers, all those who cared
to question if the status quo
was fit to see a nation grow,
those who rebelled, when few had dared.
Well, I was in the shop
getting things for tea;
when checking out
I didn't have
the means to pay with me.
I left the shopping there
and, quick as I was able,
to the flat
and there it was,
my wallet on the table.
The Last Bus
Remember when you used to drive a bus
On several pints of Gales HSB,
And didn't cause a scene or make a fuss
When punters would demand a ride for free.
Usually, of course, just when the pubs
Had kicked out into Gosport's busy town,
(The matelots heading back towards their subs)
Before austerity had closed it down.
The last bus from the Ferry back to Fareham
Left around eleven I recall;
Most drivers hated sailors who would scare 'em,
But you never minded doing it at all.
They pushed and shoved onto the double decker,
Ringing bells and spewing in the aisles,
There was hardly room to pick up from the Mecca,
Bingo winners trading in their smiles
For a freebie to the flats at Rowner,
Grinning, reaching out to touch your leg,
(The drunks were just beginning on a downer)
But you let them on without the need to beg.
By now the bus was full of raucous singing,
No one had a ticket, paid their fare,
The songs accompanied by a constant ringing
Of bells to halt the bus when they got there;
To their stop, that is, increasingly dishevelled,
Reeking of beer and various spirits too.
Just as well, you thought, that they had revelled,
Disguising fumes arising out of you.
That last bus from the Ferry was the craic,
You miss it now but, after all, who cares
The boss had copped and given you the sack
For generously neglecting all those fares!