Training Without Calves (or, Cows With Guns)

See what I did there? Okay, well it sounded funny at the time*.

I have been lying in bed recovering from my torn calf for the last week and a half (grrrrr…). Being the fitness-addicted idiot that I am, I decided that it was time to get back to exercising before I went stir crazy. Here is the routine I worked out to ease myself back into the big stuff:

  • 3 sets of sit ups (40 reps per set) – core/abs
  • 3 sets of push ups (15 reps per set) – chest/arms
  • 3 sets of bicep curls (10 reps per set) – upper arms
  • 3 sets of tricep extensions (10 reps per set) – triceps
  • 3 sets of dips (10 reps per set) – chest/triceps
  • 3 sets of bent over rows (10 reps per set) – back (make sure you are supported so there’s no weight on the offending leg)
  • 3 sets of pull ups (10 reps per set) – back

I do warm ups/stretching before starting. You will note this is all upper body (I’m a fitness idiot, but I’m not stupid). Avoid leg work for a few weeks (if you regularly work out you will know it is an in-joke that most gym heads avoid leg work like the plague, so it shouldn’t be too hard…). Remember: If you have a torn calf, do NOT stretch your calf unnecessarily while exercising – you risk tearing it again. If you feel any strain on said calf (it will ‘moo’ at you – just kidding), cease and desist immediately.

This work out is pretty easy considering what I did prior to my injury (you can check out some of my workouts here), but I’m taking it slow to start with.

Ahhhhhhh…I’m feeling better already (the calf’s not, but you know what I mean).

Health Warning: I’m not a doctor (despite past girlfriends assuming I was a gynecologist), so if you aren’t used to training, or if you have torn your calf, make sure you consult with a real doctor (no, not your workout buddy at the gym) before attempting any new training routine.

 

* Didn’t get the reference? Do yourself a favour and check out ‘Cows with Guns’ below:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQMbXvn2RNI

The Wall Between. A poem.

I built a wall
Between the two
A wall to separate
The me and the you
Bricks and mortar
High as the clouds
And when I was finished
It stood tall and proud

But even with a wall
I could feel you there
So I watched the wall
With a longing stare
Because I realised then
It was my mistake
To try to interfere
With the path of fate

But the wall was built
And you drifted away
And before I knew it
It was far too late

So next time you try
To protect your heart
Tear down the wall
That keeps you apart

Elemental. A poem.

If you were all the elements
Of the earth, air, water, fire
You would still be more than all combined
You would shake the earth and change the tides
Be the greatest storm and the hottest pyre
And I would still worship you from afar
The deepest truth and the deepest lie

Lightning. A poem.

The words flow
Like raindrops before the storm
Then the downpour
No stopping them
And why stop?
When the muse hits
Like a lightning strike
All I can do
Is write

Awards! Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em

I have been nominated for the Real Neat Blog award by Alma at Bookish Endeavours. Thank you, Alma; I most graciously accept your nomination in the most pretentious and snooty way possible (I bow, like that guy on Sleepy Hollow. It was cancelled. Oh, I’m sorry everyone, too soon?).

Being as unaccustomed to fame (and the lack of it) as I am, I have decided to post this award with my many (read: few) others, answer your delightful questions (in a pretentious and snooty way) and nominate several other worthy blogs.

The rules are simple: two go in, only one comes out. Or something like that.

Oh, sorry, that’s Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome (showing my vintage, there). Back in the days before Mel Gibson imploded.

Actually, the rules are more like this:

  • Put the award logo on your blog
  • Thank the people who nominated you, linking to their blogs
  • Answer 7 questions asked by the person who nominated you
  • Nominate any number of bloggers you like, linking to their blogs
  • Let them know you nominated them (by commenting on their blog, etc)
  • Ask your nominees 7 questions

I’m worn out already. You have to remember, I’m laid up in bed with a torn calf muscle. It’s not fun. And I’m feeling my age for the first time in my life.

So here are the questions I have to answer. If you have seen my previous answers to awards (here and here), you’ll know I tend to go on a bit.

My nominees and my questions are further below.

 ANSWERS!

One fictional character that you hate and why?

Alpha Girl. She is my arch nemesis-sis-sis. Say that five times fast. I dare you.

If you could have one superpower, what would it be?

If I was normal, I’d say flying or something like that. But as I’m not: an automatic umbrella that pops out of my head when it rains. Or when I see people I really don’t want to talk to.

Actually, I’d like the power to light my own farts, but instead of a little flash, a huge firestorm would erupt. Okay, that’s a bit stupid. I’d be burning down everything in sight. Maybe it could work like a flame thrower? More selective with targets, that sort of thing.

Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead.

Marvel or DC?

When it comes to comics: DC all the way. Their Rebirth initiative had me at ‘Hello’.

When it comes to movies, DC and Marvel. They each have different styles – DC is a bit grittier, Marvel’s a bit funnier. Yes, it’s possible to love both, people!

Pretzels or bagels?

Bagels aren’t that big in Australia. Not in size, I  mean, but popularity (imagine if bagels were tiny little things – how would you butter them?). I love pretzels, but I’m talking about the little ones, not the big ones you guys in America have. We’re all topsy-turvy down here.

And do not say ‘down under’, or I will be forced to decapitate you. With a tiny, razor sharp bagel.

What is your go-to coffee order?

Long Black. Very unpretentious. I drink coffee for the taste of the coffee. Adding milk, chocolate, caramel, crème, egg, enchiladas, dog biscuits (or whatever they add now) is just spoiling it.

The problem with drinking long blacks is it’s easier to tell when the barista has screwed it up.

“I love the smell of coffee in the morning. Unless you’ve burnt it, damn you!”

How did you decide that you’d be starting a blog on WordPress?

I was a sad sack who wanted a public place where I could post sad stuff about my sad life. It was cathartic.

And sad, when you think about it.

One movie that you can re-watch?

I have so many…Alien, Blade Runner, Star Wars, The Accidental Tourist, Man of Steel, Memento, The Dark Knight, Unbreakable, Arrival. The list goes on…

I would hate to be in a movie. Maybe I am. Maybe my life is actually a movie, and I’m just the understudy (do they even have those in movies? No, that’s plays). That would explain a lot.

NOMINEES

https://lilpickmeup.com/

https://nicolesundays.wordpress.com/

https://dpadjoy.com/

https://littlefears.co.uk/

https://thelonelyreaderblog.wordpress.com/

https://bennettoblog.wordpress.com/

QUESTIONS (for nominees to answer)

  1. If you were a pizza, what type would you be? If you answer ‘plain cheese’ you should give up blogging altogether. Just saying.
  2. You have just won the gold medal for mawkish pretentiousness. What’s your speech? It has to be in the third person, just to make it more obnoxious.
  3. You have a choice to save the world, or save your pet. Which do you choose? If you don’t have a pet, you may save your favourite DVD. But not the DVD player. That’s going just a bit too far.
  4. If you were to make a movie about someone famous, who would it be and who would star in it? If they starred as themselves, would the production implode in some kind of freaky mirror-dimensional paradox? Or would they multiplex into multiple versions of themselves and play all the parts? I don’t know, you’re answering the question.
  5. Desert island: you can take one thing. Yes, it can be your girlfriend or boyfriend. But if you had a choice, would you take them? Maybe there’s only enough food for one. What happens then, huh? And if the two of you only had each other to talk with, how long would you last before it turned into The Hunger Games? Didn’t think that one through, did you?
  6. Have you heard of that old BBC show The Onedin Line? If you say yes, you’re lying. Yes, it’s an actual show. Google it. I’m not doing all the work, you know.
  7. What’s your favourite colour (that’s English spelling, not American). Why so boring a question? Because I haven’t finished. Now that you’ve told us your favourite colour, imagine the world in only that colour. Everything! Walls, floors, cars, people, dogs, cats, fields, countries, sky…how long until you absolutely hate that colour, eh? Burn!

Thanks for the nomination, Alma!

If you liked what you read (or even if you didn’t), please support my narcissism by following my blog. I don’t make any money out of it, but it keeps me from being sad(der). All it takes is a click – save a depressed person today!

Cheers

Steve 😊

Sorry. A poem.

Sorry is all I can say, but it’s not enough
Ordinary words seem out of place, and no
Remedy to everything you think and feel
Remember I wasn’t always what you imagine me now to be
Yell at me, from this guilt I won’t be freed

The Example. A poem.

I watched TV
Saw an interesting story
A man with no arms and legs
Overcoming every challenge
Every adversity
And I thought to myself
In a moment of epiphany
If he can do the things he does
Without a fuss, without complaint
Then surely I can rise above
My own misbegotten woes
I’m no saint
I’m no fool
But I’ve screwed up my life
Worse than most do
But time has come
To follow the example
Set by a man with no hands or feet
Who walks tall without them
And who lives life
As it’s meant to be lived

The Sale. Part 7. A short story.

The musty corridor receded into the darkness. Silas, holding his lighter aloft, turned and beckoned me to follow. I trailed him as he crept forward, sweeping dusty cobwebs from the way as he went.

Before long we came to a ladder marking the end of the passage. It led up into the dark and down through a square-cut hole in the floor to the depths below. “We have a choice, sir,” said Silas, glancing up and down. “Which way do you suggest?”

I eyed the ladder, touching the rungs gingerly; they were cold, metallic. “This ladder is made of metal. And it’s not rusted.”

Silas peered more closely. “So it is, sir.”

“Looks like stainless steel,” I said. “Not the sort of material available in Civil War days.”

“Curious. Perhaps it was added at some later date.”

Something wasn’t adding up here. “I don’t even want to think about what’s below this house. Let’s go up.”

“After you, sir.”

I  smiled. “No, I insist. After you.”

Silas climbed creakily up the ladder, awkwardly cradling his lit lighter as he did. He climbed more slowly than he walked, each rung a superhuman effort. I started up after him.

Eventually Silas reached the floor above: another dim, mouldy corridor receding left and right. More cobwebs. I pulled myself up and stood beside him (his prodigious height made me feel like a dwarf).

“So many choices, sir.” He smiled, showing whitened teeth.

“There must be a way out somewhere,” I said. “Let’s try left.”

The left corridor ended after twenty feet. “It’s the back of a secret door, sir.” Of course it was the back of a secret door. What else would I expect to find in this crazy house?

“I can’t hear anything, sir.”

“Then let’s get out of here.”

The door opened into a master bedroom, illuminated from above by a chandelier. It was lavishly appointed (if a bit old and worn) with a four-poster bed, antique cupboards and dresser, with floors of  polished wood. I slipped over and tried one of the windows. It slid open, but the shutters beyond wouldn’t budge. “The shutters are jammed.” I tried another. Same thing. “This one, too. What the hell is going on here?”

Silas looked suitably vacant. “I’m not sure, sir.”

I sat on the edge of the bed. “How am I going to get out of here?”

Cold fingers grabbed my lower leg. I screamed.

To be continued…

Dawn. A poem.

Dawn peeks in through the blinds, seeking the one behind
Laying here in bed, yet to face sun and sky
Yet to feel the warmth and to stretch arms wide
Yet to start the day, nothing changed by the night
No miraculous cures or incredible saves
Nothing more than pleasures we indelibly crave
When your feet hit the floor, sunlight leads the way
Every morning follows night
Every night follows day

Sucker Punch. A short tale.

Here is another piece I wrote for a recent course that is now finished, so I’m free to post it.

Cheers

Steve 🙂

punch

I feel the fist as it hits me hard in the jaw. My head shakes violently; I hear the soft crack at my jawline and a seeping pain overwhelms my thoughts. I stumble sideways, my arms up, guarding my skull. His blows come in a flurry, faster now but imprecise, attempting to break through my defences. At times, he varies his attacks, all of them with self-righteous fury but a lack of finesse and no other purpose than to pummel me into submission.

I feel his knuckles crunch my nose, sharp pain smashing straight through and my skull snapping back and forth like a bobble head on a spring. It gives him an opening and he smacks the side of my head just below my brow, where a ring he is wearing cuts deep. Blood flows freely, down through my eye (sticky, stinging), down my face, along my neck and soaking into my shirt collar. I stumble, my vision blurring, arms still up and aching from bruises that seem to echo through my bones.

Time has slowed, and I sense others pulling him back as I fall to my knees. I’m lucky. At this point he could have taken me out, killed me if he wanted. My mind is adrift in a haze of shapes and motion and as darkness closes in I barely feel the pavement as it greets me with one last sucker punch.

Mirror, Mirror. A poem.

Mirror, mirror
What do you see?
Just a reflection
Of who I could be
Should I rise
Or should I fall
Could this reflection
Be ignored

Mirror, mirror
Who am I here
My imperfections
Perfectly clear
Have I lost my focus
Have I lost my will
Have I fixated on
A bitter pill

Mirror, mirror
Save me tonight
Let me see
A perfect light
Don’t let me waste away
Inside my mind
Let me see the good
That lives inside

Irony in Injury. A poem.

Lying in bed
Frustrated
Lazy days
That pass
Ineffectually
Intellectually
Books and net
Despondency
Navel gazing
And regret

The sooner
I get over this

The sooner
I can do all
The same things

Standing up

Essence. A poem.

The essence of you
Like perfumed tea
A higher state of being
Rain falling on the sea
And the solitude of trees
Taking me away
To a far better place
The essence of you

The Lesson. A poem.

Fitter than I’ve ever been
Big, tanned and super lean
All it took was one little tear
And suddenly I’m geriatric
Limping like an old man
Bent over and wizened
Amazing how an injury
Can make the years catch up
A vision of my future?
Perhaps, perhaps not
I guess I’ll warm up more next time
Before I walk the dog

Not Without My Calf! A true story of cows, muscle fibres and underinflated ego.

Today, I tore my calf muscle.

For those of you not familiar with the calf muscles, they are not part of a cow, but located on the back of your lower leg. They are important for balance, walking, running and generally being human. When you tear your calf muscle it normally happens high up on the back of the leg. It’s similar to an Achilles tendon rupture – you could be walking or running and then you hear a pop and feel intense pain. In my case it felt like the muscle had left the bone. The muscle has major tears in the fibres (muscles are made up of fibres. These present as striations under the skin in very thin people or lean weightlifters – Dr Steve. Note: not a real doctor).

I was running with my friend’s dog (whom I used to walk when I was house sitting recently, and so I’ve kept up the visitation rights) up a steep, slippery, grassy knoll. Nothing could go wrong in that situation, right? Doh.

So, now I’m down and out for several weeks (more if I don’t let it heal properly, but hey, why would I want to use it earlier than recommended?). This is NOT a good thing. As some of you may know (or none of you, based on the number of views on my blog – just kidding), I’m a bit of a fitness fanatic. I work out four days a week, ride and walk regularly. With this injury I can hardly walk at all.

I am going to go cray-cray.

My fitness routine is part of my mental health regime. It’s a vital part. I’m not a fan of depression, and I don’t like the prospect of slipping backwards as a result of my injury.

It also means I can’t drive anywhere (despite the fact that I drove home VERY painfully). I have a manual car (‘stick’ for Americans), and using the clutch is agony. And doesn’t help my recovery time any. So Kung Fu is cancelled. Psych appointments are cancelled. Dinner with friends is cancelled. D&D is cancelled (NOOOOO!!! Notice how the nerdiest activity is missed the most).

At least I can still do my uni work, blog and write my novel. Maybe it won’t be so bad.

Hmmm, I guess I’ll keep telling myself that.

Flutter. A poem.

My heart beat
Skips
Flutters
When you’re near
Not a heart attack
(At least I hope not)
Not indigestion
(Couldn’t be)
Butterflies
Nerves
Anxiety
Confusion
(Obviously)
If only I could
Pull myself together
Long enough
To tell you
How
I
Feel
(Not the indigestion)
Sometimes
I’d like to punch
Myself
In
The
Face
To wake me up
So I could tell you
How much I need you
But by the time I get through
All of this

You’re gone

Damn

The Dark. A poem.

The dark encloses me
It is bloated and vampiric, just fed
And I am a foetal ball of fear
Nested in a womb of my own making
And from this poverty of light
There is no escaping
Perhaps there is a tunnel’s end
That in my blindness I cannot see
But until then
The dark encloses me

Memento. A poem.

The rain falls
And every drop
Is a memento
A moment of you
Remembered
And merging
Into a pool
Of longing
That grows
By the hour
Until the sun
Comes out
And every
Shiny fragment
Disappears
And like you
It’s gone

Copyright Means Rent.

This was a submission for a uni course I recently finished, answering a question about Australian copyright law.  I included Alpha Girl and Beta Max because copyright law is pretty dry, and I don’t actually say that much about it here.

When I undertake university courses I see questions like this all the time, and think to myself “I’ve just read the subject matter, do you want me to parrot it back?” Perhaps I’m being a bit petulant, because I know we have to demonstrate that we have a working knowledge. So, rant over.

It is vitally important that authors today (or their agent, if they wish to employ one), have a working knowledge of the legalities of copyright and contracts. I know in some of my previous posts I have facetiously commented that “I’m lazy and would rather have the agent do the work on the legal stuff”, or words to that effect. Reading the week 8 study guide notes sparked my interest, calling to mind my times working in public policy, interpreting and clarifying legislation.

(“Did you just say you worked in policy?” says Alpha Girl, torn away from her magazine and ongoing role as permanent lounge fixture. “I thought you were too stupid to work anywhere—isn’t that why you laze around the house writing blogs all day, instead of getting a real job?”) 

Knowing your rights as an author in terms of the publishing, sales of rights and distribution of royalties are important to ensure you aren’t ripped off, for want of a better term.

(“You’ve been ripping me off for a while, now,” says Alpha Girl, under her breath. “I know ‘writing’ is your excuse not to pay more rent.”

“I can still hear you,” I reply.)

I found the section on What copyright covers interesting. Plagiarism is something that we are constantly reminded of as students, and I like to know that my own work is protected just as others are. Moral Rights and Fair Dealing (along with PLR and ELR) were aspects I wasn’t familiar with prior to reading the guide.

I found the most interesting section to be the Author Contract, and could see why the author’s (and/or his agent’s) knowledge of the contractual process could be so important – not only in regards to retaining rights in international territories, but also to include clauses on remaindered works to ensure options for buying old stock (as no royalties are available on them), Scope and Quality (the power of knockback!) and Subsidiary Rights (on-selling rights into other media).

(Beta Max bounds in after a hard day at work and equally hard session at the pub. He smells of stale sweat, alcohol and Winfields.

“What you working on, bro?” he says, staring over my shoulder as he opens a beer can.

“Copyright law,” I reply. He switches off, leaps over the back of the lounge and plants his butt on the cushions, spilling beer in the process; we both laugh. Alpha Girl scolds him with her rolled-up magazine.

“So, does that mean you’ll make money from your writing, now,” she says, scowling at Beta Max all the while.

“It means I know about contracts and protecting my work, just in case I get signed as an author,” I reply.

“So much for extra rent,” she says, rolling her eyes.)

Movie. A poem.

How dark the walls
That hide our shadows
Dancing in the light
Of images cast brightly
Mapping regions lost
And angst so bold
To fill sedentary lives
With excited sobriety

Last Breath. A poem.

My very last breath

Suspended and succinct
Drawn fatefully in duress
Through a lifetime of failure
And subdued success

A turn of the corner
Like a turn in my eye
A fitful melancholy
Forever present in mind

My black dog companion
Always here by my side
The pall of loneliness
More expansive than pride

Who is there to remember
All the good that I did
All gone now, replaced
By a requiem of sins

And what now of love?
In truth, all I needed
That unrequited soul
To whom my heart seceded

This very last breath
Perhaps like this will not pass
Let this seed, this thread
Weave a brand new start

Take my very first breath

Survivor. A poem.

Survivor
You seek the truth
Perhaps you’ll find it
So full of survivor guilt
In time your questions
Will be answered

Survivor
You toss and turn at night
Reliving all the moments
That can’t be changed
Will you ever
Overcome your pain

Survivor
Get to your feet
Climb back from the brink
This is not defeat
But a new beginning
Only you can choose to be
Born again

The Sale. Part 6. A short story.

I pushed off the door and bolted to the pantry, glimpsing back briefly to see the flame-haired mistress of the blade standing in the frame as the door swung open and hit the wall.

The pantry was bigger than I expected, a central corridor lined with shelves of food products—more like a mini-market than a larder. The old butler was beckoning from a shadowy open space at the end. I ran and dived in. He slammed the door shut behind me. It was black as pitch for a moment, until I heard the click of a zippo and a small flame illuminated his ghoulish features.

“We’re safe for the moment, sir,” he said. “I’ve locked it.”

As if on cue, the sound of knife striking woodwork. The butler jumped. “Just to be safe, perhaps we’d better move on.”

I got up, dusted myself off and looked around. The flame from the lighter didn’t provide much illumination. The corridor was the width of a small closet, and extended away into the darkness. Dust coated every surface, and cobwebs hung low from the ceiling. The smell of mould and wood rot assaulted my nostrils.

The sound of battering from the door ceased.

“She’s stopped,” I whispered.

“If I know the mistress, she’s thinking of another way,” he replied. “She’s always been quite dogmatic in her pursuits.”

“She does this often?” I said, looking up at him (still an imposing figure, even at his age). “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m John.”

He shook my hand warmly, a strong and faintly sweaty grip. “Pleasure to meet you, sir. I am Silas. I have been the butler of this residence for over fifty years. Mistress Junifer Vasilikov is the latest in the long line of tenants to occupy it.” A pause for effect. “And possibly the maddest.”

Silas smiled, and pointed down the murky corridor. “Now, I think we had better get a move on. I’m sure Mistress Junifer will be back soon.”

As he languidly hobbled away, I glimpsed back at the sealed secret door. Stuck in a dim, dank corridor with an old guy and a lighter. I guessed I wouldn’t be making a sale tonight…

To be continued…

Tide. A poem.

Your sins were profligate
Rose and fell with the tide
But the full moon did wane
And the tide it did change
You found absolution
Nearly drove you insane
Arose here in the twilight
A much better man
Left behind your trespasses
Washed away out of sight
But reminders remain
As they should, of the pain
A better man arisen
From the tide’s angry refrain

Dance. A poem.

Do you dance
Upon my grave
A smile and a tear
Washing away the dirt

Do you twist
Do you turn
Arms upraised

Do you hate me
Do you miss me
In a frozen moment

Do you dance for you
Or for who we were

The Sale. Part 5. A short story.

I ran.

The old butler had a head start into the corridor, but he was shuffling at such an antiquated pace I easily overtook him.

I glanced back at the mad woman approaching from the living room, knife flashing in time to each stride. “Where?” I yelled, manically.

“The kitchen, sir,” he replied, pointing a gnarled digit to the door opposite.

I rushed inside and waited for him to catch up, which he did just as the crazy lady exited the lounge room. “My mother was killed by a vacuum cleaner,” she cried, stabbing the knife into the outside of the door as it slammed shut.

The butler and I had our backs to the door. We could hear the mistress of the house wantonly assaulting the woodwork. The kitchen was spacious, with old fashioned appliances, a solid oak island and a large open pantry off to the right. No other exits. “Suggestions?” I said.

“If you hold the door, sir, I will do some investigation.” As he removed his considerable weight to toddle off to the pantry, the mad woman got some purchase and started pushing harder. The narrow gap between door and frame was a combat zone in miniature.

“Why did you invite me in if you knew she had such an issue with vacuums?” I yelled after him. “My mother was killed by a vacuum cleaner!” came a muffled reminder from beyond the door.

The butler’s wizened head poked out of the pantry. “I’m so sorry, sir. My memory’s not what it used to be.”

I rolled my eyes and put my shoulder into the door, reducing some of her progress. The butler stuck his head out again. “I have found a solution to our quandary, sir. There is a secret door in the pantry.”

I looked at him, dumbfounded. “A secret door? What is this place, a gothic castle? Who has secret doors in their pantries?”

“I believe it was left over from the days of the Civil War, sir.”

“So how do I get to this secret door?”

“You’ll have to run.”

“But she’ll get in!”

“I hope you’re a fast runner, then.”

To be continued…

Souls. A poem.

These souls have travelled far
Worn down to the quick
In need of retreads
And emotional glue
So they can walk
Together again

The Spell. A short tale.

I saw you again today.

You hadn’t changed at all, but of course I shouldn’t have expected you too. After all, it had been but a few weeks, and nobody can be expected to change much in that time. Your beauty outshone everyone else in the room, like a lighthouse between hazardous reefs. I could only glance for a short while, lest I be blinded by your light; I was far too unworthy.

You didn’t acknowledge me at all, and although I was saddened by this apparent rebuke, I understood. You were so infinitely far away, and yet only a few steps lay between us. I was distracted by others, by casual, innocuous conversation, and by the time I looked back again, you were gone.

I smiled grimly as I left that place, knowing that you were a pipedream, an illusion beyond the power of choice. As my eyes moistened, I wondered if I would ever be free of the weave of your magic. Perhaps not.

But if never, then what a fine spell to be under.

Love in Vain copy

Little Thieves. A poem.

You were a little thief
Who stole my life away
With lies and deceits

I was the little thief
Who turned your life around
With misguided conceit

Behind our facades
We were together as one
Just little thieves
And now our day is done

The Dance. A Haiku Trilogy.

Awkward

Somewhat awkward glance
I should look her in the eye
My reservation

Enigmas

Small talk at table
Wondering if she’s like me
Enigmatic souls

Fear

I should ask her out
Fear gets the better of me
Together alone


Love myself some haiku. No better way to express poetic whiles then in the confines of a 5/7/5 syllabic structure. I could build a wealth of poems on such a foundation.

You can read more of my haikus here.

Beacon. A poem.

My light and my guide
Through deep waters wide
Your beacon a warning
Rocks and shoals in the night
If I’m caught in the storm
And blown far off course
May your lighthouse deliver me
For better or worse

Remember. A poem.

Remember life
The semblance of
Before the fall
(So far you fell, maybe you’re falling still)
When integrity, respect
Were friends on call

All you’ve done
All your transgressions
You just wish it wasn’t so
Accept the facts
(False truths are outside your control)
And move on, go

Kneel, head down
Pray for rain
(Forty days and forty nights should be enough)
To wash your sins
Down life’s ever circling drain

For an end to hurt
And an end to pain
(Through pain you endure, through pain you survive)
For a little daylight
Through the clouds again

The Sale. Part 4. A short story.

The crazy lady was right up in my face, spittle flicking onto my cheek as she voiced her objection. I backed up, hands raised. “Look, I’m really sorry,” I said. “I really didn’t know you had a tragedy related to…cleaning products.”

As if from nowhere, she extracted a huge butcher’s knife from its hiding place behind her back. It glinted malevolently in her hand, matching the glint in her eye. The yelp that escaped my lips was more feminine than I would have liked. My eyes widened to the size of saucers, adrenaline surged and my voice trembled. “I can see you’re probably planning dinner, so maybe I should take my leave.” I continued backing away.

The redhead stared at me through eyes that were a thin line of vehemence. The knife blade shimmered in the firelight. “My mother was killed…by a vacuum cleaner.”

“Sir?” From behind me, the butler’s shaking voice.

I didn’t dare turn around. “Yes?” I said, my voice breaking involuntarily.

“Run.”

To be continued…

Wounds. A poem.

Time passes
Wounds heal
Leaving scars
And memories
Of tragedy
That fade
But never disappear
Completely
But make us
Who we are

The Sale. Part 3. A short story.

The living room was immense, I almost needed binoculars to identify the furniture. This consisted of a few ornate and dusty lounges, chairs and a worn coffee table, all encircling a huge twenty-foot wide hearth, a fire burning briskly within. Exotic, cobweb-covered chandeliers shone dimly from the ceiling far above—the light they cast had very little impact on the dancing shadows cast by the flames. My previous confidence in a quick sale was evaporating, unlike the sweat forming on my brow from the heat in the room. The butler lurched to a stop by the door, out of breath.

Standing before the crackling fire was a short woman: young and thin, attractive, with shoulder length red hair, dressed in a twenties-style shimmering knee high cocktail dress that had seen better days. “So, you’re a cleaner?” Her voice was accented, something European, but not easily definable.

I smiled and held out my hand. “I’m John,” I said. “I’m here to clean one sofa or floor, obligation free. And all you have to do is watch a demonstration of the amazing Dirby Vacuum Cleaner.”

She shrank back in horror. Guess my pitch needed some work. Her face screwed up in a look of angry intensity, verging on rage. I was taken aback—it wasn’t like I was a Jehovah’s Witness or anything. As she spoke, she ground out each syllable through clenched teeth. “My-mother-was-killed-by-a-vacuum-cleaner.”

Well, that was unexpected.

To be continued…

(And my apologies to any Jehovah’s Witnesses reading this. I have nothing against you, it just sounded funny in context.)

Puzzle Piece. A poem.

You are the final piece
Of this eternal puzzle

The final piece
To intersect
And combine
To make the parts
Into the whole

Bringing purpose
And new life

Complete

Powered by WordPress.com.

Up ↑