The Short Monologue of Candy's Dog

Dogs like us...
Ain't got no family trust,
Lyin' around this ol' bunk shed
With nothin left but to be led.
They's saying that I stink and smell
But I don't give a hoot'n' hell...

Maybe so I can't hardly stand
But I sure been the swamper's right hand.
Don't do nothin' now but suck on meat
Can't stand upon my own four feet
Still, I got him and he's got me
The closest we got to family...

Who's this takin' me out for air?
They's talkin' about me, but I can't hear,
Why's Candy sittin' so still over there?
Hey, what's that gun doin' at my ear...



At poetry jam we were invited to write from the point of view of an animal. As I've been teaching "Of Mice and Men" again recently to my S4 class, this point of view came to mind. If you can bear to watch, there's a movie clip below :(

Rescue

Fresh accordian lungs
Every breath Sarayu sends
Saves me from myself.


Haiku Heights #206 Rescue

Open letter to Eden Hazard

Dear Eden,
         Everything in the garden is not so rosy now. Paradise lost. I guess it's written in your name, but I didn't heed the warning. Let's get this out of the way. I'm here to help. To serve you, sir. If it wasn't for me, you'd have to walk over red-faced and deal with your own mistakes. Opposition support jeering; maybe even trying to grab you as you bend down to pick the ball up.

So I wait. So that you don't have to face that.

Ninety minutes of standing right here in the corner waiting for you to miss the target so that I can collect the ball for you. It was really cold last night. You wouldn't have noticed because you were running about. It was freezing, but I didn't mind. It was a chance to help out and do the club proud.

I've seen plenty of guys like you, sir. Moving around like the millionaires you are. You're my teachers. I've been watching, see. Been some folk saying I pulled a flanker, but what you've taught me sir, is that it's ok to bend the rules. Go down too easily? That's not a problem really. If it gets you the right result. So, for the record, maybe I did go over a little too easily, but is that not what your colleagues have taught me to do?

I didn't want you to be sent off and miss the next three games. Honestly I didn't but those are the hazards you face when you tangle with a ball boy. I would ask, with all due respect, that you let us do our job. It gives us a bit of dignity. At least allow us that. Your pay comes from kicking the ball and from what I gather, you command wages that are fit for a king. But always remember that a cat can still look at the king and maybe even serve him in some small way.

Hopefully you are aware of my position now: I've picked up plenty of balls in my time and I think you realise now that I've got some myself.  This isn't an apology. Just a reminder that in your case money can't buy manners. Enjoy the three match break. I'll be right here in the corner doing my job, hoping to regain my anonymity.

Yours
The Ball Boy (17)

(Based on an incident from last night's Capital One Cup football semi-final between Swansea and Chelsea which can be viewed here. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KIpQKNxyzk )

(photo courtesy of The Independent)

Z-A: Rebel Teacher Manifesto

zone in the zealless
year on year
(e)xcavate the x-factor and
walk with the weak.

voice the voiceless
understand the uninitiated and
try to teach tolerance.

share sunshine as you shoot down the shameless,
receive the reckless,
quieten the quarreler.

practise peace:
offer openness
nurture the needy (as you)
motivate the mocker (and)
learn to live with losing.

keep calm.

jettison the juvenile,
invite the ill-at-ease inside to invert the introvert.

hand out hope as homework. heal hatred.

guard the grateful
forgive the foolhardy
enliven the effortless; educate the eager.

deactivate the defeatist; defuse the derogatory; disarm the destructive; drive their dreams.

choose to challenge the challenging and
battle to break down bitterness.
alleviate anger: absolve the abuser; advocate for the abused.
(and after all this: be the architect of their ambitions, the artist of their aspirations...)



(NOTE: This poem uses the Poetry Jam prompt of "Rebel/Breaking all the rules". Having previously written an A-Z poem, I went for the Z-A inversion here. I chose my job as the inspiration for this poem, since teachers deal daily with would be "rebels without a cause". To my mind, however, most teachers are a breed of people who, like so many caring professionals, dare to rebel against the me-first social norm of our times. Instead, they give themselves for the future benefit of so many. This one is for you if you are a teacher, or if in what you do, you contribute to the welfare of the adults of tomorrow. Keep inspiring and believing in them!)

Also posted on Poets United

polaroids of soundbites of internal monologues go walking

holly is holding firm
on branches lit
by tired sun
bowing low down
stirring this soup bowl
round

seagull sky clacks out
insistent on union
commuter cars
yo-yo back
to the place where
they've come from

ducks in two flanks flee
on water rippling sapphire
free

bring George and Lennie out
for at least the twelfth time now

ear-muffs and poodles mix
small boy does scooter tricks
green fields in technicolour
rise to anoint this

a drinking swan dabbles on
a slither of cutlass moon
marching like Stansfield
stalking prey in Leon

trapped in this symphony
soothing sphere turning on
dating dependency
trying to hate no one.




 

sweeping statement

waiting for the perfect tidal wave:
a soul tsunami
knuckle whitening
cataclysmic change.

waiting to inhabit second earth:
send out satellites
bursting full of
shot or sought self-worth.

waiting to discover smoother roads:
while trudging through
the ruts and ridges,
rocks and broken bones.

waiting for this masterpiece to form:
as broadening brush strokes
slosh the canvas
staining sky in storm.

sweep though Sarayu
swoop
and whisper revolution:
send virgin snow
to bloody ground
fresh landscape dream
without a sound
sweep pneuma through
breathe deeply
to refresh reveal renew.



Posted on Poetry Jam

lighting up time

trees are toppled                                                      

tinsel tucked away
baubles buried
deep
in boxes
under our stairs.

lights, illuminated,
are eliminated

and extinguished as

electricity exhales,
happy to take a breather.

spiced orange scents
linger
to remind us

of mulled wine warmth

and midwinter mirth.

in a city of lights

plunged into darkness

we are now the candles:

high on a hill

all that is left

brief

but burning bright
staying lit
shining strong
flickering on.


Posted for Poetry Jam: Candles and Poets United

New Start

Joseph arrived here a little revived: a new start is what most people long for and as his ship came ashore, a burning, alien hope welled up inside him. From Egypt, he had edged gradually towards these shores, having left his Sudanese homeland several weeks earlier.

Each port had been a stepping-stone towards a new continent where abundance caught his eye, like grapes clustering from every branch in a vineyard. Liverpool to Glasgow had been the final leg. For the first time since the blackest day, his life began to have possibilities again.

But walking down Hillend Street on a cold November morning seemed a million miles from the shores of the Red Sea. Reaching his destination, he was swept, abruptly and unexpectedly, by a surge of emotion for his people and his village. The freezing air seemed to punch his face leaving him breathless and numb...

He walked slowly towards the restaurant, checking his gangly stride as he glanced down at a small piece of paper. Recognising the restaurant’s name in the scrawly handwriting in front of him, he edged through the heavy, silver door into a bright red and yellow room.  Joseph asked the man behind the counter, in his best English, about the waiter’s vacancy. As a prerequisite of his claim for refugee status, the job centre had insisted that Joseph apply, even although he had no previous experience of this kind of work.

"So, when can you start? We're in a bit of a fix with winter flu and that..." said the burly owner, appearing suddenly through the set of beaded curtains that hung to the left of the bar. He rubbed his greying beard with one of his huge furry hands, as he waited for a response.

Joseph was taken aback by the speed of his success, having expected a more thorough interview with questions about his background, or at least a mention of his accent. When he revealed his willingness to begin right away, the owner’s bushy, grey eyebrows curved upwards in half-surprise, but he seized the moment nevertheless, throwing Joseph a notepad and half-size pencil. A short while later he was ready for action.

Feeling conspicuous in his checkered apron, he moved slowly towards the window table to take his first order.
"The chicken curry," ordered a sharp-suited man, even before Joseph could utter a word.
"The chilli," spat out his female companion.
"And a Budweiser."
"Me as well."
Finding the accents difficult to understand, Joseph was forced to ask his first customers to repeat themselves. Slowly and grudgingly, with little eye-contact, they did so.

Bewildered by their lack of empathy, Joseph trudged back towards the kitchen, his hands shaking. As he pushed the red swing doors to deliver the order, what he saw made him feel physically sick.

Back home, his drought-prone climate, like a cosmic roulette-wheel, had chosen to curse with a poor harvest for the past three years. Joseph had witnessed many families struggle to survive: many fathers, once strong and proud, becoming shadows lurking in fields, divining rain, scratching around for the slightest sign of enough grain to ward off total despair. When none appeared, the burden of responsibility often became too much....

Now Joseph’s eyes were fixed on a chubby man of medium height wearing an off-white apron, stained and unkempt, with a shaven head and matching stubble. He was repeatedly turning the half-eaten contents of several plates into a large metal bin. The bin was bulging with enough food to feed the children of his village for a full week.
"What will you be doing with that?" Joseph managed to ask.
"Hungry mate?" grinned the cook. "Don’t worry-you’ll get your meals for free. Only the best for the staff of All Weathers!"

Giving him the order, Joseph left the kitchen.

As he walked between his designated tables and the kitchen, during the sluggish hours of his first day, thoughts crept through Joseph’s mind like unwelcome visitors. This is the land to which he had travelled? The inhospitable wind seemed to whisper the character of its inhabitants-an arrogance and lack of recognition of the wealth and well-being that was pouring out of every shop window.

Yet, Joseph sensed despair, in spite of this; in contrast to the joy-filled community that had been his home for these past twenty-five years. He felt an atmosphere of hopelessness in this refuge. With these thoughts came a sense of guilt, as he thought of those who had helped him greatly since his arrival here only three days ago.

Joseph left his new employment at six thirty, having unburdened himself of apron, notebook and pencil. The day had been an eye-opener, and by the end of his shift Joseph felt tired and was functioning on automatic pilot. Walking almost robotically back out into Hillend Street, he silently manoeuvred out into the black night.

His temporary accommodation was a ground floor flat on the other side of the town. At a steady pace he had made the journey to the town centre that morning in around fifteen minutes. Now, however, as fog began to fall, Joseph realised, for the first time, that he was unsure of the direction in which he should go.

Following the written instructions had seemed so easy during the hours of sunlight, but as he wandered methodically through the waterfall glow of lampposts, he struggled to find any clue which would tell him where he was going. He walked on, feeling more and more uneasy. Darkness had come quickly, chasing away any signs of life from the streets he walked on. Like a restless ghost treading the same ground over and over, unable to rest in peace, Joseph merged with the mist. He was lost.





You may wish to read more about Joseph. Here is where his story begins:　
http://nd-mitchell.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/unforseen-arrival.html　
　
　Posted for Theme Thursday: Rebirth 　
　
　

Haiku from the EK Centre 22/12/12

Busy and buzzing
Mall in a fast forward loop 
Bodies grabbing gifts.
           ----
Window wonderland
Victorian heartstrings tugged
Fake heartwarming snow.
           ---- 
Shoppers go shuffling
Monkey arms, wilting flowers
Trying to keep faith.
            ----
Keep cool in the queue
Angels may be serving you
Waiting for their wings.
             ----
Try to stay civil
If bells, baubles and Buble
Are not quite your thing.







Posted for Haiku Heights-Snow
(I realise I've taken a slight liberty with this theme!)

18/12/12 from 13.13 @ Strathclyde Park

Encroaching,
marching on their own two feet,
an army of mercenary mallards
are
besieging,
beseeching me
to be fed
until,
realising that i am ill-prepared,
they are
retreating,
reproaching me
for lack of foresight
and lack of bread. 

Trudging on empty stomachs
in solitary single file,
waddling into water,
their V-tides rippling from webbed feet,
they are troops
in green camouflaged berets,
reforming their formation
gliding the glassy surface,
swimming on in sadness.

Still wishing to be their general,
i walk into peace time
where stark proud trees
are resolutely waiting:
red-veined shrubs
whisper coming Christmas
as dewy grass is glistening.

At the dam,
crashing its crescendo,
warlike water eddies
towards the quiet truce
of the relentless river,
until
the magnetic cry of gulls
is turning my head;  
hovering and hollering
a call to arms
that reaches shore.

In the distance
the army of ducks are advancing,
embarking from the loch
towards their own happy ending:
a Dunkirk where
all that's waiting is
a couple bearing food.

Swarming from the water,
giving full allegiance,
standing to attention,
around their feet,
they wait
and eat.





Posted for Poetry Jam: A walk to remember

The 10pm Sky Guide mash-up

good luck garfield

idiot minds

question bullseye

spooks tonight

celebrity hell swap

psychic eye

europa teen mom

cop squad guy

naked jamie

uk tings

fleetwood jingle

shanghai sings

ghost soillse

dexter fly

rugrats giveaway

c.s.i

wife swap taggart

under siege

bargain scandal
pawn disease
graveyard airplay
mourinho dance

upfront vegas

a league of trance

texas e news

springer mac

cleveland baywatch

ghostquake jack

sex and spartacus
nightly sands
true grit diary
in god's hands