Chimney ghost stop wailing,
on this windy day.
I find the noise a-bit scary,
in a mournful kind of way.
With no welcome for you here,
wood stove door stays shut tight.
You want out, go upwards,
‘less you’re looking for a fight.
Chimney Ghost
Tag: poetry
Now, I Only Have to Think.
I understand how social media,
auction sites and search engines,
interweave connections,
passing information amongst themselves,
without any direct,
sapien involvement.
Yet,
now,
I notice my own passing thoughts,
birthed in my brain,
appear soon afterwards as adverts on the computer screen.
I don’t understand how this is happens.
Coincidence?
Clever algorithmic deduction?
Or,
because I am a file within a simulation.
A plaything of a programmer,
who resides in a different dimensional universe.
Hm.
What happens …
if the programmer gets bored with me?
Or decides to eat out this evening,
closing the lid of the laptop.
Is that it,
game over?
Or,
Does the programmer sleep when I sleep?
Does a night shift programmer replace the day shift,
getting busy,
with programming all the mad dreams I have,
every night?
If this is so,
is my ‘day’ programmer boring and unadventurous,
just grinding out an existence,
uninspired,
working to live,
only to pay the rent,
bills and monthly maintenance of an overdaft?
Because,
frankly,
my life isn’t very interesting and if I’m just a file in a simulation,
then my programmer is responsible for my mundane life
(not me).
If I was my programmer,
I’d make it that I won a record money win on a lottery.
Then sit back,
observe how it played out.
I guarantee it would make good viewing.
Maybe it’s because I am a small file,
in a simulation in which my programmer isn’t solely my programmer.
Instead,
the programmer is having fun and dedicating more time with other files,
by-and-large ignoring me,
as a virtual non-entity,
within a much bigger picture.
I don’t know what to do to get the programmer’s attention.
I was never good at getting other’s attention.
Even people who’ve known me well,
have walked straight past me,
without noticing me.
Straight,
past me.
No joke.
Friends, family and lovers alike.
What chance do I have with a programmer from a different dimensional universe?
God damn!
Giant
Unexpectedly rising out of the castle top, the giant rose, furrowing his brow and rubbing his nose, just like he might be about to sneeze. Initially, startled by his appearance, beachcombers on the sand below, felt doubly concerned, with rapid assessment given to the potential outcome. “Great giant, God-like seeming in so many ways, disturbed from your rest, how long have you dwelt beneath this fortress-topped island?” Asked a self-elected representative, as a device for sneeze distraction purposes only, with no real interest in the giant's circumstance. “Who said that?” the giant enquired, peering down and all around. “I!” Yelled a young woman, squinting upwards at the huge colossus, darkly tanned hand, held above brow, acting as a visor to the sunshine. “Well, let me see … " the giant considered carefully, "I reckon, give or take a year or two, using the Gregorian calendar accordingly as a measure of time ..." "Do you still feel a twitch, an indicator for a sneeze?" Interjected the young woman, wise beyond her years. "Possibly." Said the giant, cross-eyed, wrinkling and twisting his formidable proboscis, up and down, to the left and right. "Then kindly," said the brave and assertive young woman, "turn around one hundred and eighty degrees to be sure, Direct your sternutation that-a-way." Her rising out-stretched arm and pointing finger, cut right through the salty air.
©Brinkinfield 2020 All Rights Reserved
Part of the Ekphrasis Project (poem inspired by a picture)
Back at the Nursing Home
It all happened three years ago
Yet I remember
Like it was only yesterday
*
My care-worker Kontiki
From French Polynesian Tahiti
Some warned watch her, she’s definitely sneaky
*
Turns out, she had possession of everlasting life
An elixir that turned back the clock
To youthfulness and immortality
*
But she didn’t want it anymore
Asked me, at eighty-eight years old
To curate it off her hands
*
She’d had enough, alive for over 800 years
Said she’d shed too many, embittered tears
And drank enough substandard beers
*
She wanted out, found death avoidance a bore
I agreed, imagining worldly wonders in store
Only three years on, I’m regretful … I ever opened up that door
*
Aged super fast, became bent over, losing all her aplomb
Kontiki died, realising her wish, just one year on
Graveyard bones, opposite Marx, in Highgate, London
*
It’s not what I thought it’d be
This eternity without destiny
In this forever, without sense of urgency
*
©Brinkinfield 2020 All Rights Reserved
Part of the Ekphrasis Project (poem inspired by a picture)
New York City Cop
They said that I ain't too smart I tell you from the lowest reach of my heart This, is what I appreciate, in artContinue reading “New York City Cop”
Like Someone Coming Out of a Trance
Like someone coming out of a trance. Tie-dye pattern, white, blue and lime green hat. How I reached this seismic fashion statement, Known only to Gods and Prophets. Revelations they're not revealing. Noticed on the street. Pedestrians make way, doors held open, traffic stops. Café coffee refills, merely for a presence. 'Live' advertising, Eye-candy snagging passing trade. Little actual conversation so far, suspect due to shock. Mouths agape, inside empty car showroom caverns. Begging paws shaken, offered by upright sitting dogs. All this life I have felt desired, But now, I feel valued.
©Brinkinfield 2020 All Rights Reserved Part of the Ekphrasis Project (poem inspired by a picture)
Socks-and-Pants
My dearest Jemima Journal,
I am sure you will understand.
It’s time to review that top drawer,
Pull socks-and-pants from a dark hinterland.
Resembling a bloated melange,
Absent form, lacking pairing and folding,
A call for a cull I broadcast,
Cruel riddance applied, not withholding.
They must go! They must go! Go they must!
These relatively old worn-out saggy things.
Slung in the bin and out of my sight,
Before my judgement swings.
Wait, why do I ever feel sentimental,
Over losing cotton or woollen underclothes?
No! I want softness, newness and fresh colours,
To cover my bum, ankles and toes.
(British definition of Pants: men’s underwear – male styling/cut/shape)
St. Michael At The Northgate, Monday Lunchtime Concert.
I’ve not been to one for a while,
A concert at St Michael’s church.
Filled pews on each side of the aisle,
For my sandwich, my knee served as a perch.
I Wore A Leopard Print Shirt
I KNOW what they were thinking, seeing me
wear a leopard-print shirt.
That I was making some kind of statement,
What next, lipstick – a short plaid skirt?
Conservative society (with a lowercase “c”),
You’ve got to stand down, let people be free.
Otherwise…
You validate thugs, to behave how they want.
My advice: mainstream-insiders, just be… nonchalant.
“Ah, but you’re a frilly attention-seeker!”
They say,
“You want us to stare and peek.
You’re an introverted wastrel,
An unnatural freak!”
What did I do, I ask, to generate such hate,
To so stick in your craw and exasperate?
I’m just wearing a shirt of a classic design,
No need to pray, for intervention divine.
“That’s an idea! Strike you down, strike you down!”
Well,
What response to an attitude such as this?
With stoicism,
Since it’s they who free fall,
Into the infernal abyss.
Footnote:
This poem, inspired by a “Hate Crime” experience.
In UK Law, a hate crime definition includes a situation where the offender demonstrates hostility towards the victim based upon the sexual orientation – or the presumed sexual orientation, of the victim.
Heron
Heron, I saw you fly overhead,
To describe better I might say ‘glide’.
I’d overslept, got out late from my bed,
O’er rush hour traffic, your wings spread wide.
That long beak is a good identifying clue,
Then I saw those long legs dangle!
Seeing them, made me smile upwards to you,
From my static, earthbound angle.
