There once was a cat,
that sat in a hat,
and hid himself from view.
With head down low,
he was in the know,
the yapping dog was due.
Day after day,
dog wanted to play,
and would chase him around and around.
So quiet as a mouse,
cat hid in the house,
hoping he wouldn't be found.
It had happened for years,
and the cat was in tears,
his nerves frayed right to the end.
And once as a kitten,
he'd even been bitten,
the injury took ages to mend.
But this day was the last,
it was a thing of the past,
the dog he'd see not again.
For his owner and him,
and the hat with the trim,
were tomorrow all moving to Spain.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Aug 2015
About this poem:
just a bit on nonsense
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I am a little insect
and I've just grown some wings
but what I wish I really had
is something sharp that stings
For flying up in the air
seems dangerous to me
with wasps and hornets up there
and the buzzing bumble bee
I've got nothing to protect me
from their nasty bites
I'm very ill equipped my friends
to get involved in fights
So I think I will stay down here
among the worms and bugs
They seem a much more friendly lot
especially the slugs
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jan 2015
About this poem:
Just a little ditty for kids
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Youth is wasted on the young,
they treat it like some foul smelling dung.
Instead of embracing their moment in time,
they play computer games, it's such a crime.
Back in my youth, we would be out all day,
cycling, climbing, among the fray.
Playing games, usually with a ball,
cricket, soccer, we played them all.
But nowadays it's on a screen,
shut up in rooms, and never seen.
No sunshine, upon their faces,
never exploring, exciting places.
In my day, life was real,
action games, seeking the thrill.
Falling out of trees, and grazing knees,
life in my day was one big wheeze.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Aug 2015
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There once was a pig named Fred
who sadly it has to be said
was a tad overweight
and couldn't fit through the gate
so spent all his days in his bed.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Aug 2015
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Continued from Part One.
The doctor, an aging geriatric, that in Charlie’s opinion should have retired at least forty years ago, was like a cat in mice heaven when he saw the state of Charlie. He fussed over him, he laughed, he prodded, and when Charlie screamed, he guffawed so loud and long that Charlie thought he must be stark raving mad.
The doc might have been quite mad, but he was also good at his job, and once he had put Charlie out for the count he did an excellent job. Charlie knew this for two reasons, the first being that the doc told him so on numerous occasions, and the second being that he was now running for this open door.
This time Charlie didn’t have any moonshine, or any food come to that, his knapsack contained little more than a bundle of rags. Although to be fair, they were the alternative to the rags he was wearing at that time.
So why was Charlie running for the open door, why was he risking his life again in this crazy manner? Well, the answer would be that Charlie had overstayed his welcome once again. He had stolen too many eggs, badgered too many people for handouts, and had answered back on too many occasions.
It was Charlie’s only option, jump a train, open door or not, and get to a new town where he could rattle a few more people of their good will.
So Charlie ran, his hand reached towards the handle, and he leapt.
Charlie missed the handle, slipped, and rolled.
Charlie rolled under the train, under the wheels, and met his end.
Nobody wept for Charlie, nobody knew he had died, nobody even knew he had existed.
The End.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Aug 2015
About this poem:
This is a tribute to a writer friend who recently passed away from the big C, he led an interesting life where much of it was as a hobo and drug addict. I read much of what Rain wrote, and I was always amazed that he was still going strong, though strong is probably not the right word, but he was certainly still going. Charlie is my own invention, someone who spent his life as a no good bum, and had a tragic lonely demise. The sort of demise that Rain must have expected in his early days, his alternative ending. Unlike Charlie, Rain redeemed himself, met someone special, and lived his final days as a loved and respected writer. RIP.
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The hobo ran out of the night, a lithe figure with the ungainly motion of one looking like he had no confidence in his quest. His quest was indeed a challenging one, to hop on a moving train, and not a slow one at that.
Charlie hadn’t been prepared for the task, as the train had come nearer he had thought it part of his dream, and it was only when the rumbling shook him awake that he realised what was occurring.
He rolled out of his homemade bed, a pile of dried grass with his knapsack as a pillow, and bounded towards the track. He was hoping for a flatbed carriage, but they seemed conspicuous by their absence, so an open door it was.
Normally he avoided jumping on moving trains, especially ones with open doors. The reason being two fold, it was bloody dangerous, and who knew what was behind the door.
A few years back he had attempted a similar challenge, and after nearly killing himself as he clambered aboard with feet dragging on the track side gravel, he was then set upon by two rather unfriendly youths. They relieved him of his bag, a bag which contained the little food that he had left, and worse still, his bottle of genuine 40% proof moonshine. It was a plastic bottle, and when the youths found it they whooped with joy, in fact they were so happy to have acquired such a prize that they decided to let Charlie live.
When I say allowed Charlie to live, it might be worth mentioning that they didn’t exactly make sure that he didn’t die, but they did throw him out into bushes, ensuring a possible soft landing.
Memories of that soft landing came to Charlie as he ran for the open door, memories of how he bounced through the thorn encrusted bushes onto the hard dirt road that ran along the railway. Memories how he came to a sudden halt as his body wrapped itself around the mile marker which was directing travellers to the next town en-route.
That experienced had laid him up for months, seven broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and the worst injury that can befall a hobo, a broken leg. The broken leg was a particularly bad one, it had snapped in two places. If not for the kind soul that got him to the local docs, he would have been minus one leg, and probably his life by now.
Please continue on Part 2.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Aug 2015
About this poem:
This is a tribute to a writer friend who recently passed away from the big C, he led an interesting life where much of it was as a hobo and drug addict. I read much of what Rain wrote, and I was always amazed that he was still going strong, though strong is probably not the right word, but he was certainly still going. Charlie is my own invention, someone who spent his life as a no good bum, and had a tragic lonely demise. The sort of demise that Rain must have expected in his early days, his alternative ending. Unlike Charlie, Rain redeemed himself, met someone special, and lived his final days as a loved and respected writer. RIP.
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"I'll send icy cold through to your bone."
"What's that you say,
you don't like my tone?"
"It's Winter now, the time of chill,
freezing weather that helps me kill"
"You'll feel the full force of my breath,
and my only aim is your death"
"So wrap up warm, as I like a fight,
if I don't get you now,
wait till the night"
"My constant force will take its toll,
and come the morn, I will have your soul"
"I'll persevere and never abate,
I need your demise to fully sate"
"Evil resides deep in my heart,
you knew you'd lose right from the start"
"Come Spring my attitude will change,
I'll be warmer then, it will feel strange,
At that time it's life I'll bring,
but right now, that's not my thing"
"Hand in hand with 'Death' I walk
so enough, enough, of this talk."
"You can't escape me any more,
I'll even creep under your door,
lock me out, not a chance,
watch the curtains, as they dance"
"On my shoulders I bring disease,
and spread it about as I please.
So final words from you my friend,
as I have decided,
this is your end."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Feb 2015
About this poem:
A poem about the cold deathly wind of Winter
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The Mermaid (Part Two)
The man with the tear soaked eyes walked along the beach for the thousandth time.
His hands were shaking and his lips quivering in the cold as he constantly looked out to sea, where was she, would she ever return, would she mend his broken heart.
He had but caught a fleeting glimpse of this beauty as she preened herself on that ancient granite rock, and a glimpse was all it had taken as he was now completely besotted by this angel from the deep.
Even now, weeks after the event he could still see every tiny detail of his wondrous vision.
The sparkling blue eyes that outshone the sun, and the kelp entangled hair that glistened with the reflection from the moon. Her heaving breasts that had caused the man in him to want her body for his own s*xual pleasures, and that oh so innocent smile that had replaced the pure animal lust within him with a more protective desire to take her in his arms and cherish her.
He had not kept her appearance a secret, he had told everyone he had met, and he had talked and talked and talked.
He wanted to tell everyone about his dream girl, his mermaid from the deep, his beautiful fish tailed siren.
But would they listen to him? The answer was no, a resounding no!
He was laughed at, ridiculed, pointed at and made out to be the village idiot, and all just because he wanted to share what he had seen.
But he didn't care, he would see her again, he knew he would see her again, he had to see her again. Otherwise, well otherwise he would go crazy.
Another tear ran down his face as he once again looked at the vacant rock where his angel had once sat.
He realised that maybe they were right, maybe he was mad, just a demented old fool, someone that had let his dreams overtake reality.
His heart wrenched tear fell to the sand and along with his hopes and dreams soaked into nothingness.
He turned away and looked no more.
He must preserve his sanity at all costs.
So he walked away and returned to the boredom of his sad uneventful life.
This meant that he was not there an hour later when a ripple formed in the water, as a dream like beauty pulled herself from the sea and perched on her favourite granite rock.
She looked around, but he was not there.
Maybe it was her imagination but she was sure she had seen love in his eyes.
Maybe if she waited he would return.
But no she thought to herself, she was being foolish.
She slipped off the rock once more and plunged deep into the dark forbidding sea, back to reality she told herself, back in the water where nobody could see her tears.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Dec 2014
About this poem:
A poem,(Part One) and short story,(Part Two) telling of the romantic interlude between a man and a mermaid.
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The evening had started well
with a wager put on red,
and both of them were happy
when it won just like he said.
It wasn't long before they were
the centre of attention,
with each cumulative winning bet
increasing surrounding tension.
The manager was hovering,
watching his casino lose.
He kept a smile on his face,
and plied them with more booze.
The hours passed, but they didn't quit,
they just kept on and on.
Until the early hours,
when everything went wrong
This time he placed a hefty bet,
all on thirty two.
And when it lost he raised his hands,
and told them he was through.
But just like every gambler,
he didn't keep his word.
Further bets now followed,
further losses now incurred.
His hands they now were shaking,
with every bet he placed
His money was now dwindling,
as a winning bet he chased.
Now the dawn was breaking,
and he had lost it all.
They walked outside to daylight,
though tall he felt so small.
She glared at him and spoke her mind,
"I kept telling you to stop"
He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly
"The whole nights been a flop"
He lit a fag and breathed it deep,
while she finished her champagne
"It seems to happen every night,
it's getting quite mundane."
And so that evening finished,
in the early morn.
But they'd be back this evening,
this story is their norm.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jan 2015
About this poem:
The life of a gambling couple.
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Some days are good
others bad
Sometimes I'm happy
but mostly sad
I remember times
that went before
The regrets come forth
more and more
The things I wish
that I had done
Life could surely
have been more fun
But what the hell
get a grip
In my life
this is just a blip
Tomorrow again
the sun will shine
Then everything
will be just fine
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Dec 2014
About this poem:
Everyone wishes that they could have taken different forks in the road over their lifetime.
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"Carol of the Bells", from faraway Ukraine
"Hark! The Herald Angels Sing", we hear again, and again
"Rocking Carol", though familiar, is an old Czech tune
"I Heard the Bells”, we all enjoy, and cannot be heard too soon
"Silent Night", Holy Night, from Austria to thee
"Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum", about the Christmas tree
"Mary's Boy Child", in the charts, year on year, on year
"Angels We Have Heard on High", always brings a tear
"See, Amid the Winter's Snow", and we end right here
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Dec 2014
About this poem:
This 'surprisingly' just won a contest for a 'Christmas' acrostic. I think it was the idea of using the carols rather than the actual quality of the poem, that and the fact that there were only 19 entries. But what the hell... a win is a win :)
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Sixty-four squares of black and white
they play the game throughout the night
He moves his bishop, she moves her knight
they are at war, their minds do fight
The game it started at half past eight
and to each this is the perfect date
while both of them cannot wait
to hear who will, first shout "mate"
The advantage swings from her to him
and back again, as light grows dim
he castles now on a whim
his prospects already looking grim
Losing his queen is bad indeed
her movement now is all but freed
his pieces picked off with great speed
the only choice is to concede
Her victory though does cause him pain
his manhood challenged, and finally slain
and what comes next is simply plain
let's set them up, and start again
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Dec 2014
About this poem:
A game of chess?
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