The Facts in the Case of Patient S.

Tonight, we'll unravel the sordid mess,
From the Facts in the Case of Patient S.

The patient was a female with cerebral palsy,
    in a paraplegic condition,
She was also mute, had been so since aged three,
    With Doctor Marcus as attending physician.

Patient S couldn't speak, but her mind was sharp,
    Although she was mute, you could not call her dumb,
She used her phone to speak, for the most part,
    By texting her words, with one thumb.

Although most impressive, this caused tendonitis,
    constant cramping, and repetitive strain,
So, Doctor Marcus sought out a new means for this typist,
    To get the words out of her brain.

And that's when he started to make a device,
To interpret her brainwaves, into signals precise
    With brainscans, computers, and predictive text,
    To translate her thoughts into what she'd say next.

Although the machine was incredibly clever,
    After tweaking, and testing quite vigorous,
It took three weeks of trial and error
    To make a sentence came out of the gibberish.

"Doc, can you hear me? Doctor Marcus, hello?"
    Even Patient S's mother was surprised.
The doctors and men all shook hands at the breakthrough
    And Patient S had tears in her eyes.

They interviewed S, asked her perspective,
She said so many saw her body defective,
    But the body she had was "granted by God",
    She was truly unique, that's why she seemed odd

She said she was glad when her Mum took her phone,
    Although she was stiff, and her legs felt cold,
With the freedom to talk, she did not feel alone,
    She said "Now I can walk in my soul".

But don't yet rejoice, it would be in haste,
For you see, there's a few more facts in this case.
    Just a week later, she shocked her physicians,
    When she died... "choked on water", reports the mortician

Although S was deceased, the device kept speaking.
    "Perhaps one day, I'll be able to dance," it said
That's when all the doctors began to start freaking.
    How is she speaking? She's dead!

But even after the wires were cut,
Their talking device still wouldn't shut up!
    They couldn't explain how it worked with her gone—
    But then, Doctor Marcus found her old phone.

One last desperate message on the girl's phone read
<<Someone please help me thats not wat I said>>
    the talking machine that they thought they'd perfected,
    Had drowned out her screams with the words they'd expected,

They'd committed the sin, like so many before,
    For the differently abled among us,
She was not speaking through; she'd been spoken for...
    when we confuse what they suffer for justice

Although you may think I declare it in haste,
I think that is the crucial fact in this case:
    When we fail to listen, all we do is supress.
    That's the Fact in this case of Patient S.

One Word at a Time.

Dyslexia
Knot a purse on our tier under stands me,
  Bee cores I have all weighs bean the sway,
Beak awes it’s not allot descent stew me,
  Gnome adder what though spear pull say,

Icon tall weighs say, what need stew beat old,
  Eye contour way seer wot is said,
So with our ten knee body to hear me,
  Their are sum time sigh wish shy was dead,

But in a whirl dove such con few sing ways,
  It twist sand it old dements,
And all though eye ham dis leg sick,
  I’m aching theme most cents.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Huh, does that feel like enough? It doesn't really feel like enough to me. Okay, I should explain. This is a poem that I wrote over ten years ago (I was still in highschool that's how long ago it was, jeez), and that's why it's much more dramatic (I'm much less likely to dip into the "character is suicidal, therefore deep" angle, these days). But, I am fond of it. It has a simple conceit - being illegible when read literally, but makes sense when read phonetically - and doesn't outstay its welcome (in case you're wondering, yes, this was inspired by Ode to My Spell Checker). 

The main problem with it is it's not the story I wanted to share. See, I've been doing this Halloween Countdown for a few years, and every single time, I enjoy the hell out of it. I love writing contextual posts for a scary concept, I love doing the research and learning new things, I love sharing fiction. But, sometimes, the deadline is too much.

On several occasions, I've had plans for this which I've had to abandon, because I ran out of time, and today is one of those occasions. I was writing a two-part story in the same universe as "Operation: White Christmas" and "The Ambrosial Glass" - I call that series the Lockburn Files, and I love writing it because I like the horror in it, and it's fun exploring more of The Kitchen. I started working on a story idea that I've had for literally years, a story exploring more of The Dishwasher, the department that cleans up the mess that the Kitchen sometimes leaves behind. However, I have so many new characters in that, and it introduces a whole new department, and would require a tonne of research. So, I put that on the backburner, and decided to focus on another story - this one simply about a long-distance transfer of some freight which is so dangerous that nobody's security level is high enough to know what they're traveling with. Lots of fun, a basic story, and something that could easily be a two-parter (because of the long distance).
However... I haven't finished it yet. I have to post it today, and it's not finished. It turns out that this one took more research than I had anticipated, and much more planning than I had, well, planned for. So, instead, you get this poem, and tomorrow, instead of part two to the story you're not getting, I'll put up another poem I wrote a while ago, but which I still think is worth reading.
At least I wrote a few more posts in advance this year, but I should really work on these much sooner... I've been saying that for years, and this year I managed to do that with almost half of them, but now it's catching up with me again.

So, in a way, it's ironic that this is a poem about someone who struggles to communicate, to put their words together, because that's literally where I am at the moment - I have so much I want to do, but I ultimately can't, because I'm struggling to write everything I want to write before time is up. Now, don't worry, I won't just throw my story in the trash - I will see if I can salvage it for either a later post. I don't think I'll wait until next Halloween Countdown. I've been dreaming up what the theme should be for next year, and I don't think the story suits it very well...

Anyway, I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, and I'm sorry that I couldn't post as many stories as I had planned, but I'll do my best to post more in the future. Until Next Time, I'm going to finish off the last few posts and get ready for Halloween Itself!

Australian Poetry Slam 2020 - Albury Heat, "WAM Zoom Slam" (2nd Place Finalist)

Nightmares

Daddy Daddy, there's a monster that lives under my bed!
He wants to chew on my my toe-nails, and rip off my head!
  Hush kiddo, let's see... no, no monsters down here.
  When I lift up your mattress, there's nothing to fear.
See, monsters don't live in these dark, scary places.
They live in our suburb, and wear regular faces.
  Real monsters will kill you, or rape you, molest you,
  Use you, abuse you, exclude you, detest you,
They call some men "faggots", and some women "whores",
And they only like privilege, when it's not yours.
  But all of them deep down enjoy all this violence.
  So their victims must choose between death and silence.
See kiddo, no monsters, hiding under your sheets,
They're behind the closed doors, now go back to sleep...

Mommy, mommy, come quick! There's a beast in my closet!
It wants to tear out my insides - it's real! Yes, I saw it!
  Well, let's look... baby, look, no, it's just your reflection.
  So let's just turn the mirror in a different direction.
Because that's the real beast here, depression and stress,
and the more that you fight it, the more you repress,
  Till you cut yourself, kill yourself, drink, drugs or worse
  you might start to hurt others, just to manage this curse,
Your my child, I love you, and I'll give you my best,
But I don't understand how you feel when depressed,
  Or anxious or manic or with P.T.S.D.,
  Some try to, god bless them, but most just cannot see.
So let's switch off the light, baby, go back to bed.
There's no beast in the closet, it's all in your head.

Mommy! Daddy! Come quick! There's a ghost in the yard!
It wants to haunt me, and take me away in the dark!
  Let me see, let me see, let me turn on the light...
  No honey, just a shadow that gave you a fright.
Ghosts don't exist, they don't hide in the black.
When you die there's no ghost. Nothing dead can come back.
  So don't be scared of the ghosties and ghouls, it's a lie
  So some folks can think they're not dead when they die.
Even thoughts in our heads are just sparks in our brains.
But when that spark goes out, just our body remains
  Then we're put in the ground, where our bodies will rot,
  Until all of the things that you love are forgot.
There's no ghost here to haunt you, my dear, close your eyes;
Just the haunting reminder that everything dies.

So don't be scared of the monster, the ghost or the beast,
These are fiction, they can't hurt you, not in the least.
  Because nightmares are easy, make no mistake...
  It's the world that we live in that keeps me awake.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

[Author's Note: This is only a written form of the poem, but I actually performed it as part of the Albury Heat of the 2020 Poetry Slam. The recording is not publicly available at this time (and may not be available at all) so I'm afraid you can't see it for yourself.
However, as I scored high enough to earn second place, I actually go to the next round, which means that you can still see me perform at least one more of my poems, for the Australian Poetry Slam 2020 NSW Finals. If you would like to attend, you can get tickets online at the Australian Poetry Slam website, right here! This is an online event, so you can take part from the comfort of your own home. I do know that it will be a part of the Word Travels' festival Story Week, November 6th-14th and the poetry slam itself is on at 8pm, November 11th - the recommended price is $25 for a full-access ticket, but the cost for a single event should be just $5 (or less, depending on your situation).
I am not asking for you to come just to cheer me on, or even just to watch the poets perform - in my experience, book, fiction, story & writer's festivals are an absolute blast to attend. When I lived in Queensland, I attended the Brisbane Writer's Festival every year; and this year as a newly-housed New-South-Welshman, I happily took part in the Write Around the Murray Festival, and very much enjoyed the many and varied performances, seminars & stories available. Even though it had to be mostly online due to the current pandemic, I still had a blast, and I will definitely be attending next year as well, it was a lot of fun. So, please, come along if you can and see what there is available online - it's well worth the price of admission - and if you want you can see me and the other poetry slam finalists perform, you can at 8pm, November 11th. I hope you find yourself there.]

Mister Midnight

Mister Midnight
Don’t turn off your streetlight
        ‘cause the night can be oh so cruel,
    So have a sleep tight.
    And dare not let the bugs bite;
        As they might, just be after you...

Mister Midnight,
Teeth crooked as a gravesite,
        Like the wolf from the fairytales...
    Up his suit sleeves.
    No aces hidden, never deceives.
        But no fool could mistake those nails...

There’s a creature,
A truly dark, foreboding preacher,
        Of those beasts that avoid the light,
    And he’ll make you,
    Pay attention or they’ll take you,
        And his name... is Mister Midnight.

Is he nasty?
with his claws; and cackle raspy,
        And his eyes, like a dark, grey, rat.
    or is he classy?,
    With pinstripe vest & rings all brassy,
        And his small, blackened trilby hat

At the right time,
As he creeps inside your night mind,
        And he smiles with his grin so kindly,
    And if you catch him,
    You’ll start to wake and he’ll start cacklin’,
        As he says, “You will never find me... ”

Cos he’s a madman,
Doesn’t mean he is a bad man,
        Even though he may try his best
    But he’s trying,
    Through his evil, tricks and lying,
        To be as nice, as a demon gets

But He just might dare,
To creep into your nightmare,
        While you sleep in your bed so tight,
    And we fear it,
    Most people shiver when they hear it,
        “My name... is Mister... Midnight.”

The Magpie

As the daylight darkened, dimly,
On his haunches, knelt him grimly,
        Such a beauty he had simply, never seen out back before.
    The farmer stood, and grabbed the shovel,
    Pierced the red and rusty rubble,
        With heavy heart and weathered muscle, to meet the burden of his chore.

Dry grass and gum trees swayed serenely,
As darkness cloaked the farmland scenery,
        But his eyes stayed focused keenly, on digging deep with breathing tense.
    In brown grass, Southern Sun had scorched,
    The sheepdog laid out by the porch,
        But a shotgun, large sack, hat and torch, were piled beside him, by the fence.

With sudden click, and snap and swoop,
A bird flashed past, in flying loop
        He took a moment to recoup, as it perched upon the gate.
    The farmer groaned, resentful sigh,
    'Twas nothing more than old Magpie
        With feathers black and white, and eye, so glaring full of hate.

"Fuck off, you bastard," he snapped, upset,
Pointing shovel, in unveiled threat,
        With heaving lungs, his brow soaked wet, and cheeks now flushing red,
    The bird looked back, its head askew,
    As though to judge his threat untrue,
        "Quardle-oodle-ardle-wardle-doodle-oo", the magpie said.

He chuckled, smirked, said "Cheeky bugger,"
And bent down to the hole he'd dug her,
        Ignoring the bird, with its stare so smug or, was that just in his mind?
    To deepen the pit, this rustic grave,
    He scooped more earth with rusty spade,
        But once more flinched, and spittle sprayed, As it swooped him from behind.

To the gate, the magpie once more flew,
The shovel dropped, his temper grew,
        "Quardle-oodle-ardle-wardle-doodle-oo", the magpie said.
    "You little shit," the farmer yelled,
    And bloodied hands, to the bird he held,
        As he shook his fist, and ran, compelled, to grab that magpie by the head.

Up in the air, the magpie sprang,
He charged the gate with a metal twang,
        And as though a dog with slavering fang, "Now, fuck off, bird!" he cried.
    He grabbed his hat from the fence-side pile,
    The sack, now red, having sat a while,
        Pulled akubra tight, and darkly smiled, with a simple sort of pride.

But before he even touched the trowel,
It swooped once more, that chequered fowl,
        With startled yelp, and deepened scowl, the man picked up his gun.
    The barrel, even now, still warm,
    Was pointed at that feathered form.
        "I'll kill you motherfucker," swore, the man "I've still got one."

But even guns could not renew,
Fear in this bird, its stance held true,
        "Quardle-oodle-" BANG! . . . the shotgun blew; the magpie dead.
    The man stood there, the sunlight gone,
    Lowered the gun he had just drawn,
        Then twinkling bedlights flickered on, as folks got out of bed.

Voices perked, as people yelled,
They came outside; he said "Oh, hell . . ."
        And from his jeans, he took a shell, and chambered in the round.
    When neighbours came, all full of strife,
    They found he'd taken his own life.
        Laid down now, dead, beside his wife, in a large sack on the ground.

Grash

In my lounge chair I sat sinking,
With my mind a race of thinking,
And I stared at space unblinking,
Just as I had done before.

Deep inside the velvet lining,
Sitting thinking, so confining,
Almost felt that I was hiding,
From the shadows on the floor.

From the fireplace shadows leaping,
With each flicker light came creeping,
Through my mind it came in seeping,
And my thoughts became distracted.

And I sit there disbelieving,
At what both my eyes perceiving,
Together all the shadows weaving,
All within a womb compacted.

The shadows all together formed,
To make a black cocoon of thorns,
And from it, unknown devil’s born,
My heart was thumping faster.

From shadows it had been revealed,
And on the rug I watched him kneel,
I scarcely could believe it real,
Here stood an evil caster.

Unusual was the beast I saw,
From each black arm hung thrashing claw,
And jagged teeth poked from his jaw,
In whole he looked disgusting.

He stared at me with gleaming eyes,
And then he spoke, to my surprise,
With voice that sounded very wise,
And yet did not seem trusting.

“My name is Grash, so do not fear,
There is a reason I am here,
I am a soul misfortune seer,
And I’m here to tell bad news.

I’ve seen your death, seen with my sight,
I’ve seen it’s going to be tonight,
But only if things don’t go right,
You still have time to choose.

Because you know, your fate can change,
It is no longer prearranged,
I think to you it may seem strange,
But now I’ve let you know.

So watch your back, and watch your front,
I have more matters to confront,”
So with a most inhuman grunt,
He turned around to go.

Toward the fire with a crash,
He leapt amongst the wood and ash,
And that’s the last I saw of Grash,
It happened all so fast.

I think of all of what he said,
‘If I’m not careful I’ll be dead’,
So many thoughts go through my head,
‘This night could be my last.’

I lean, to stand up from my chair,
When something makes me stop right there,
I run my fingers through my hair,
“Could this cause what he said?”

I see the rug upon the floor,
It looks more slippery than before,
If I stand, and it slips some more,
I’d fall and bang my head.

I stand and jump the rug’s floor space,
To something else before my face,
I look up to the great bookcase,
It’s bigger than before.

If I’m not careful, it could fall,
It is so heavy, and I’m so small,
It’d hit me head to foot and all,
And squash me in the floor.

From the bookcase, I jump clear,
When above me I see more to fear,
Above me was the chandelier,
Right above my head.

It may have been stuck to the roof,
But say it isn’t falling-proof
If it swung hard and then broke loose,
It’d cut me down to shreds.

It’s an unlikely circumstance,
But I don’t dare to take a chance,
I do not take a second glance,
Away from there I leap.

But one thing I forget to do,
Is watch where I am jumping to
Toward the fire, before I knew,
I fell into the heap.

The flames come burning through my skin,
I scream and flail, I toss and spin,
Right then I knew I could not win,
I knew I would be killed.

Before I died, I swear I saw,
Those gleaming eyes I saw before,
He smiled with his tooth-filled jaw,
His prophecy fulfilled.

I see his truth, I see his lies,
I’m seeing right through his disguise,
He makes me think to realize,
He caused it all along.

He caused my fear and second-guessing,
He caused my worry, and my stressing,
And then what makes it so depressing,
Is in the end he won.

He laughs out loud, in evil glee,
And begins to fade in front of me,
Till the only thing left I could see,
Are the gleaming eyes of Grash.

Then after all the flames went cold,
And all was left was ash and coal,
Forever had been locked my soul,
Amongst the dirt and ash.

Parody Week 2: One Thousand Lights

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WHAT DOES 'ONE THOUSAND LIGHTS' MEAN? I first discovered the thousand lights blog because I was intrigued by the name. It inspired something in me and I read a few of the posts. Now, while I don't really like the site per se, I don't dislike it and I think that anyone else that does appreciate it deserves to, hence why it's the first blog I'm impersonating - a good lot of effort has gone into it. But despite not really being a fan, I am drawn to it. Especially because of the name. I wondered what exactly it means. The first thing that comes to mind is Thomas Edison, and his thousand tries to invent the lightbulb but I don't think that's right. Firstly because Edison is kind of a douchebag (that's why I made the character Inspector Edison, I wanted a "nice" Edison). But more importantly, Edison DIDN'T make the lightbulb 1,000 times, rather patented over 1,000 inventions created by the people in his employ. He was moreso a Capitalist than an Inventor, never forget that. So, if not him, as the blogger, Aziza, is a fiction writer, I thought perhaps this was in reference to the "lightbulb moment". The little cartoon DING! Of a lightbulb when a character gets an idea, so this means "1000 ideas". That's kinda cool, but when you think about it, if people live to be about 100, that's just ten ideas a year . . . that's less inspiring. So, what about something more esoteric? It's not called "1,000 lightbulbs" after all, the picture's just distracting me. So, perhaps these are the lights in the dark. Considering the happy-go-lucky, positive content of this blog, it would suit if the name represented hope; the light in the darkness. 1,000 points of light to guide you in the dark. To be honest, I don't know. But, if I were to hazard a guess, I would assume the name pretty much means all of these things, and more. That's why it resonates with me so much, it's meant to inspire, but not in a limiting way. Perhaps, in fact, each light means something different. It's not 1,000 ideas, 1,000 lightbulbs or 1,000 beacons of hope. It's a thousand different things, a whole spectrum of concepts which - in their own way - brighten up your life. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - CATEGORIES: POSTS TAGS: COMMUNITY, HOPE, LIFE - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS Why do people like sunrises? I mean, the light is right there during the day, what's so special about a sunrise? Well, for one thing, it's because there's only one per day and it's always early (that's what early means after all, it's the first part of the day) so it's not easy to see them. But, people seem to covet the times they see the sunrise.I think part of the reason for that is because sunrises are so dark, before being brightened by the sun. It's special because, on that canvas of black, the sun shines all the brighter, and fills the land with light. Why do people like spotlights? Well, for one thing, it focuses our attention. When a singer or maitre d' stands in a spotlight, we can't be distracted by the orchestra pit or the stage, we are being shown what we ought to see. But more than that, I think it's the contrast. A person standing illuminated on a stage of darkness is a more captivating image, a more dynamic image, numbing your thoughts to the periphery and focussing the mind on centre stage. Why do people like candles? I think you might be seeing the pattern by now, but if you'll humour me for a moment. For one thing they are masterfully designed, they can smell nice and there's a romance to it, a notion that pervades back through history to a simpler time when our only choice was eating or writing via candlelight, or just sleeping. But moreso, I think that it's the radiance, the luminescence that pierces the darkness with a sprite of fire. In the light, it's merely a flame, but in the darkness it becomes a beacon. You see, I think that the dark aspects make the light brighter. Not literally, but due to the contrast we appreciate it more because of the dark. But this isn't just true of illumination, I believe this is true of moral or emotional light. We appreciate gain more if we understand loss. We appreciate happiness more if we have seen sadness. Love feels more precious through heartbreak. It's why fictional characters need flaws, it's why hope needs reality and why I hate glurge. Reality is flawed, and so imagination, fiction, dreams & hopes should be flawed as well. It's so that we can appreciate what good there is. These things need to be flawed, to make them perfect. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - CATEGORIES: POSTS TAGS: CREATIVITY, HOPE, WRITING - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - FLASHLIGHT I clamber around the cold basement, breathing heavily, searching for my wife.   "Honey, where are-" my foot kicks something on the ground, and I stop for a moment. Crouching down, I pat the ground and my fingers find a torch. I dust it off and switch it on. The peeling, green wallpaper on the wall beside me is highlighted by the bright circle. "I found a torch, can you see me?"   "I can." replies a voice. I turn the light on her to see a huddled, shivering form. I head over and help her to her feet.   "Are you okay?" she asks, fearfully.   "No, that thing's still down here," I whisper. I scan the room with the light, when I hear a loud growl. I spin around and shine the light up at it. Clinging to the ceiling with sharp claws; long teeth dripping with blood; wiry tangled, fur and yellow, piercing eyes.   "Turn off the light!" she squeals, hiding behind my shoulder.   "No, stay with me."   "It can see us," she whispers harshly.   "But we can see it," I reply. "Do you want to fight in the light, or hide in the dark?" And then the creature pounced. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - CATEGORIES: POSTS TAGS: DRABBLE, FEAR, FICTION, LIGHT - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - PARODY/SATIRE/HOMAGE/REFERENCE I don't hate One Thousand Lights, but I certainly don't like it. No unkindness to Aziza (the author) but the content is too sappy, sugary and saccharine for my liking. I just don't think the world works that way. For that reason, I've had to consider how I would want to parody/homage it. I'm not here to tell you to be a fan because I am too, I'm here just to say "here's a thing, you decide if you like it". See, the reason I admire the site is because I think it's pretty, it's a very nicely designed site with an eye-catching name and theme and the content is well written, I'm just not the target audience, but I can appreciate a wall of words well weaved. So, for this satire/reference, I won't be "replicating" 1,000 Lights. Not only because I don't do sappy stuff well, but because I don't think that does it justice . . . so for the sake of this parody/satire I will recreate the style, but my content - this content - will be focussed towards "cruel hope". Some may think that makes this not a homage/reference, rather plagiarism of the art style. But I prefer to think of it as like a revamping or a reinvention of the original. It exists to make people feel good because "gosh-gee, isn't life inspiring, sometimes?" and yeah, it can be, but more often than not life kinda sucks, but you can still find joy in it. That's what I want to write about. I can see why some may think that a weak satire/homage, since that's not the original at all, but I stand by it because . . . well, that's what I find inspiring. Parody/Reference isn't always about imitating the original, it can also be about capturing that essence in a way that glances, cock-eyed, at the original and says "I can see what you're trying to do, but I have a few things to say about that." And that's how I feel about onethousandlights.com, it's a site that I wish I was the target audience for, even though I'm not. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - CATEGORIES: POSTS TAGS: PARODY, HOMAGE, REFERENCE, SATIRE - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - LIGHTHOUSE The storm churned the sea like a mad god, severing the darkness with flashes of lightning. Within, the lighthouse, the keeper ate supper; soup and bread. With a crack of thunder, the table shook and all of the lights blacked out.   “Bugger,” said the keeper. dropping his bread. Searching blindly, he found a lantern. Lighting the candle, he climbed the spiral stairs to the lamp above. The rain rattled the windows, and the wind whistled as he knelt by the backup generator. He pulled the ripcord to no avail. It needed fuel. Then, lightning struck near the shore. The brilliant light revealed the silhouette of a ship, headed for the bay.   “No, not the rocks!” screamed the keeper. With shaking hands, he grabbed the jerry can and struggled to pour the fuel steady. When it was filled enough, he dropped the can and pulled the ripcord. The generator chugged, and the lamp lit bright. With a sigh, the keeper looked through the window to see the ship turn. His blood ran cold. The coming ship flew the flag of the enemy. The ship docked in the shore and soldiers charged the bay.   “What have I done?” said the lighthouse keeper. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - CATEGORIES: POSTS TAGS: DRABBLE, FICTION, LIGHT, REGRET - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - THE CANDLE Cradle close the candle’s fading spark, Hold the warmth and let go of your fear; Burn, burn away the unforgiving dark. Though in your hands the flame can scorch its mark, The shadows fade when glowing hope is near; Cradle close the candle’s fading spark. For wiser men have warned of demons, hark, That dance around your spirit, cruel and queer! Burn, burn away the unforgiving dark. Should fire falter amid the empty park, You’ll lose your way, no matter how you peer. Cradle close the candle’s fading spark, It matters not, how vivid or how stark; Blackness fades where even embers leer, Burn, burn away the unforgiving dark So e’en where demon fly and hellhounds bark, They can’t fight fire, no matter slight nor mere; Cradle close the candle’s fading spark. Burn, burn away the unforgiving dark. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - CATEGORIES: POSTS TAGS: LIGHT, LOVE, POETRY - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - IT'S NORMAL TO BE A FREAK My aunt is Schizophrenic. I don't know why, she just is. She started hearing voices a couple of years ago and was hospitalized, then finally let out with medication as a result. I still feel the same way about her, and she's still her down-to-Earth, fun-loving self. She's just a little kookier now, and she says some odd things at times; but she's not that crazy. See, one time, she said something that I think is more true than we realize. She said that she thinks everyone has some kind of mental illness. She was referring to other members of my family, and I think that's true too, but I'd like to take that a step further - I think everyone in the world has a mental illness. I don't mean some hyperbolic "this world is a sickness" way, no I mean literally. Everyone single adult suffers from a mental disorder or dysfunction which negatively affects their life. I mean, think about it: Anxiety, Depression & PTSD identifies a lot of people first off. Most people have those, beyondblue.com.au even estimates that one in six Australians have depression and one in four people have anxiety (one in three women). Then PTSD, believe it or not PTSD isn't just a war thing. Anyone who was raped (which is said to be 1/12th of the population) or sexually assaulted, anyone who's been badly injured (or seen someone badly injured) anyone who was inconsolably scared as a child, or anyone that's suffered severe stress can suffer from PTSD. Then religion - no not EVERY theist - but, some people follow a religion out of fear of the unknown, or a lack of education, and that's just crazy. Or they believe despite evidence to the contrary, which is delusional; or hardline gnostic atheists which are just as delusional. Then phobias, everyone seems to have some kind of phobia, I have a phobia, that's a disorder since it negatively affects your life. Anyone who drinks alcohol excessively, plays games excessively, masturbates excessively . . . that's a form of addiction that covers even more (and I haven't even mentioned drugs yet; but I just did, and a LOT of people are addicted to drugs). Prejudice is a form of sociopathy, it requires dehumanization. So, any misogyny, racism, homophobia, xenophobia, transphobia, demonization or even idolization is a kind of mental disorder, negatively affecting your peace of mind. So, is there anyone left? Seriously, is there a living person out there who doesn't ascribe to ANY of this? I've never found one. But, I'm not saying this to bring you down. To me, this is a good thing; I think everyone should realize, not only does this make everyone unique in their own way, but if you feel down . . . you're not alone. Everyone suffers in their own way, some more and some less, but everyone's crazy. There's something wrong with everyone. So, What's wrong with you? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - CATEGORIES: POSTS TAGS: LIFE, WELL-BEING - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - NIGHT & DAY Every day on this Earth, we are warmed by the mantle, Of the sun, its inspiring light But the shine of that sunlight cannot hold a candle To the stars in the shimmering night. Although it burns closer, the menacing fire, that shines from our singular star Pales in the night, to those stars up much higher So many, so bright and so far I'll always respect the life from the sun, Which burns above me forever. But those thousands inspire me much more than one, Lighting the night sky together. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - CATEGORIES: POSTS TAGS: LIFE, LIGHT, POETRY - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - HEADLIGHT The long highway slides under me, speeding like a runaway train. My helmet muffles all sound but the roar of the engine. It's a stormy night with no stars to see, and with my wet weather gear, I can't even feel the cold. Hundreds of raindrops shine like shards of sparkling glass before my headlight. The highway is empty, long and straight, fenced in by the trees. It's just me, the motorcycle and the road. But even with the obscuring rain, I saw everything. A black dog ran out of the woods. It bared its teeth. I hit the brakes, but the slick road gave no mercy. I collided heavily, and was thrown by the seat of my pants as the rear tire lifted. The road hit me like a brick wall. I heard the scrape of metal, saw sparks, and felt bones break. I rolled sideways, cracked a rib, and slid before coming to a stop on my back. My neck ached, I dare not move. Hurt and scared, I looked at my bike. it was a twisted wreck, the headlight cracked, but it shone back onto an empty road. No dog. All I see is the dark highway. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - CATEGORIES: POSTS TAGS: BLAME, DRABBLE, FICTION, LIGHT - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - LIGHTS OUT I've always had trouble sleeping. It's not that I drink too much coffee or stay up late reading books, I've just always had trouble ending my days. As a kid it wasn't so troublesome. You need more sleep as a growing kid, and you're tired from a day of being a kid. But, when I grew older, I started to have more energy in the evening. Not necessarily physical energy, since I did do stuff all day, but rather mental energy. I'm quite smart. Don't think that I'm bragging, this isn't something I earned, I'm just naturally gifted. It means I think a lot, and I'm quick-witted, but also, I have trouble sleeping. Going to sleep doesn't require an inactive brain, but it does require calming down, winding down and trying to clear your mind. But, I have trouble doing that. I am literally too busy thinking about stuff to sleep. It's hard to sleep in the light of so many idea bulbs . . . I somehow manage it most nights, but not without effort. I can't go to sleep, I have to fall asleep. I need to tire myself out, or wind my mind down. If I don't, when I lie in bed, I just find myself staring up at the ceiling, thousands of thoughts, stories, imaginary places, characters and ideas dancing around my head. As amazing as all that is, in order to sleep I need to shut all that down, wipe down the bar; turn off the music; lower the curtain; switch off the lights & lock it all up. And just as my melodramatic metaphor would imply, that's a somewhat depressing prospect, to me. But, if I've learned nothing else from this, it's that sometimes we need that. We need the negative side. The Darkness helps us to truly see the Light. Heartbreak allows us to more value Love. Disappointment helps us to understand the need for Hope. War makes us crave Peace; Sadness makes us respect Joy and, yes, we even need Sleep, so that we can appreciate what it means to be Awake. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - CATEGORIES: POSTS TAGS: DREAMS, LIFE, WELL-BEING, WRITING - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - PREVIOUS POSTS

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The Forgotten Rose

I was wandering the city, and about to cross the street,
When a glimpse of red did catch my eye, near the ground around my feet.
I, at first, did pay no heed, Just litter I suppose
But imagine my surprise to find a harmless, little rose.

Down upon the kerbside footpath, in a crack between the stone,
Was the pure, untainted flower, by itself and all alone;
The sight was such to startle me, I stopped, and stared, and froze.
At such a perfect, natural, beauty; and I’m the only one who knows.

Somehow the young, determined plant had flourished from its seed
Even with so little sunlight and the business suit stampede.
But, alas, it was I saw the plant was barely staying strong,
If it didn’t get some sunlight soon It wouldn’t be here long.

The leaves where slightly wilted and the red, begun to fade,
As the poor defenseless flower stood unnoticed in the shade.
Before I knew, I'd heard a noise, a beeping, strong and loud,
I found myself being swept away by a bustling city crowd,

As I continued my way home I looked back across the lane,
And thought Do not worry little rose, I will return again . . .
All that night and then next morning flew by in a daze,
Until I could return unto the rose’s hidden place.

But as my eyes a-focussed and the kerbside footpath neared,
The sight that I was given nearly broke me into tears.
It was then I found disaster, even I could not prevent
Above the path a sign which stated ‘Caution: Wet Cement’

The Rose and all the broken path and concrete was replaced,
Instead there was a large grey slab, a cold and even face.
Through its long and daring struggle, the little rose had now been beat,
Just so that three steps in a journey didn’t worry city feet,

It was just a simple flower, only petal, leaf and thorn,
And yet now that my rose is lost, I dare myself to mourn.
In this grey it was a vibrance that did embrace my soul to bleed,
But to a fastly moving city; Forgotten Rose is just a weed.

A Visit from Ain't Chrissy-mas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro' the web
The bloggers were struggling to paint their sites red
and green, and with tinsel, and a Yuletide log,
In hopes that for Christmas, they'd have a seasonal blog.

Each reader was nestled all snug in their bed,
While the Writer was up, and scratching his head.
  "It's Christmas, for fuck's sake," he said to himself,
And to the Dictionary, up on its shelf.

"And two weeks have gone by, since I last posted Duke,
What the hell should I post now? Please tell me, old book."
The Dictionary glanced at the blogger, unfazed,
then it fell off its shelf, and opened up to a page.

  "Carol, /karəl/, noun.," the words read within.
"A joyful song, especially a Christmas hymn."
  "Well bless me," said the Writer, "don the Christmas apparel;
The Word of Christmas Day, is: 'CAROL'."

Then the blogger retrieved, the wise, ancient tome,
Put it back on his shelf, and started writing, alone . . .
If you ask me, it's odd, that for Yule celebration
We necessitate festively-themed sonoration.

We sing Easter songs; New Years songs; Halloween singles;
Thanksgiving ditties & Hannukah jingles.
Yet Christmas, unlike them, is proudest to boast.
That of holiday sing-songs, Christmastime has the most.

Their prevalence is something I can't understand,
Because every soprano to a thirdrate, boyband,
Insists on recording a seasonal track,
Yet every single new single is absolute crap.

Some even attempt at a Christmas cheer album,
Which is always some half-arsed, insidious amalgam,
Of sugar, elves, tinsel & wintery weather
That some last-minute lyricist cobbled together.

You may think me some uncaring Scrooge, or a Grinch,
But my love of Christmas is what makes me cringe.
When we talk about reindeer and snowflakes and gifts,
It encourages shoppers and other spendthrifts.

When in all shopping centres, it spreads like cold season
Christmas song playlists, repeating ad nauseum.
I wish I could run into the middle and shout.
  "Have you people forgotten what Christmas is about?!"

Each one is just drivel, all saccharine and kind.
About love, family, snowflakes and half-arsed rhymes.
(And let's not forget, all our cards on the table,
that Christmas songs get the big bucks from song labels.)

Plus the God stuff just irks me, if you'll allow me my rants,
That little lord Jesus should keep out of my chants.
I don't hate them all, but they should be sung with care,
In the hopes that the listener's brains will be there.

See, the old-fashioned carols, now that's where I go,
For a dream of "White Christmas", and to just "Let it Snow",
"Santa Claus is Coming" should fill the town hall,
Sing away, sing away, sing away all!

Enjoy your sweet holiday, and even the songs,
I'll be taking a break from blogs, not for too long!
Just past New Year's and soon - if I haven't blundered -
I'll return soon, with post number two hundred.

I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, and until next time,
I hope you've enjoyed this Christmas post Rhyme
Just hear me exclaim, before I slip out of sight:
Happy Christmas to all . . . and that's all I'm gonna write.