I am a poet. I can make it.
The sea gives me inspiration.
I take it. I hear a call, I fake it.
I am a living being. A mortal.
Standing on the shore staring out.
complete with armour and spear.
a poet of the sea.
She came home with me and the rest, for now, is history, evaporated.
the call of the lady of the sea.
And when I go out I hear her in my thoughts.
And when I pray she is in my thoughts.
But never can I find her gaze in a public place.
What once belonged to me.
To Poseidon, once more Poseidon Do I make myself clear?
Return my lady to me!
Perhaps I am so far away and so commonplace that he ignores me. perhaps he doesn’t even hear me.
I have made the journey, nay the pilgrimage to where once the lady did come to me and I spoke to the God himself but what seems lacking could be chemistry.
tiny as a crab in a rockpool, only a baby, whats left of me.
p-sei-don, ps-eid-on, ps-ei-don I command me!!
So, wearing my badges of time and of pleasure (seemingly fatuous feeling) I perspire freely and march steadily once more to the sea.
Lady of the sea, Come forth, I command thee! I shouted loudly.
A seagull flew overhead and the world otherwise ignored me.
I think being built on pleasure which is shifting like sand no castle could be built upon me. I need the rock of experience to guide me.
And again I returned to the beach and called directly.
And I waited. and waited. Wait some Was I? made famous by the grains underneath me?
‘may I come inside’ which scared me so I said ‘NO’ loudly and went back to sleep.
Oh malady, m’lady mad at lad me! How sorry can I be?
There isn’t a happy ending in sight. How can I put things right?
One day I journey back to the sea and look for the rock of ages.
I bit down on it with all my might and cracked a tooth clean out.
People looked at me like I was crazy. Some lady offered me a tissue and suddenly I felt the pain in my tooth so ran off home.
The next time I sought lady I would be ready. So I called again to the sea every Friday and half-past three until I heard a reply. Three false alarms and a prohibition order I did receive.
I decided that although he was a man of God form I would go for Poseidon and use the CO2 alarm like I did before.
This got me a punch in the jaw.
Forsaken by whom? Didn’t I nurture words from the womb?
Wandering days ensued and with much encouragement, I made a plan. To catch out Poseidon at his own game. I spied upon a webcam someone doing it in a foreign land. Now I have the answers minus one. All I need is to westernise and make them mine.
How folly was I as I was ignored by both Poseidon and his lady, the sea.
One day I tripped on a rock as I aimed pebbles at the waves and fell down upon my nose.
I felt sorry for myself and my woes did proclaim ‘Nobody ever listens to me’ and as snot ran down my nose I knew it to be true. Forever I would be blue.
But then as The sea soaked into my cold trousers and over my chest, I heard a sound a chorus of a melody. I looked up and saw three faces heavenly singing to me. Mermaids of the sea. They smiled and coddled and made a fuss. I felt remembered and alive and did they remain in my memory as I made my way home? I was filled with words and their love.
So the next time I went to the sea I went with a joy that I hadn’t felt for a long time.
I approached the shore put one foot in the water and said solemnly.
‘Poseidon and Lady. You have tricked me. You are heartless soul free beings.
where I have learned to make a stand and not to feel sorry for myself!! No longer like a forlorn wood elf but I make my ribs like a ship’s timbers and say I am not going away!!
I waited and waited then saw in the distance a wave heading in my direction.
It began like so many other stories in the wind, On a hilltop overlooking a vale. A farmers yard, clean except for the odd wisp of straw and a gardeners fork that was resting against a steel gate, the clucking of hens and the mooing of the cows mixed in with the gentle bleats of the sheep and the goat tied on a rope wearing a dog collar. A news reader may have described the scene as bucolic and the scent in the air of newly turned over hay certainly lent itself to that description.
It’s time to introduce our protagonist to this story. It has eight legs and two grasping pedipalps and a narrow segmented tail that ended in a stinger that arched over its back like some futuristic un-yet designed suspension bridge support array. It turned its body by means of complicated manoeuvrings of its many legs and maintained balance like a fulcrum bridge. By this perfect balance it could maintain a spin on two feet like a ballerina in a pirouette a behaviour usually only seen in the wild. Right now it was spinning in an anti-clockwise direction its pedipalps held up in the air and its tail turned over almost touching its own back in a move that would have made Margot Fonteyn proud.But this was no demure female ballerina but a wild rogue male that had been banished from the desert sands by its titular leaders for going rogue and eating its own children and killing anything that came close.
It was the alpha male gone wild that spawned a play by the late great Cuckaburrow playwright the arachnid Bellatrix the female wolf spider. And it was this play that has inspired so many other spiders and many-legged creatures that tonight’s battle would take place to bring the killing to a symbolic end, and to have a damn good show by the fight going to the death of one or more of its competitors. The warm up would be some dancing by both hostile opponents while doing some more killing of other convicted felons. Such was the vicious killing wheel that turned diurnally, day after day, beneath our feet.
Unfortunately, a written account of the actual events was lost in the great fire of ’86 so nobody actually there can testify them all being long preserveI. But i thought I’d share what I know. I imagine the combatants arrived on the wind on threads of silk on the evening breeze..
During a drought everything is thirsty for liquid sustenance. Even the ground itself is parched dry and its wells give up nothing that eases the suffering of the many and of the few.
Meanwhile in the saloon, the old joanna plays a lilting tune chosen by the player in memory of better times when, touched by fortune and plenty, people did come and patronise this small little town in the hills of Setchkwan, Nevada. They came for minerals, buried in the nearby hills, they came for beer and for good times often at the expense of the god folk of Setchkwan who would vote against a casino license but who opened a brothel instead. This happy compromise was soon mirrored by others on the trail and soon you couldn’t go more than twenty miles without getting laid said the visitors to this town.
Now all hope is gone and the dead the undertaker cannot dispose of are dropped over Old Parsons Cliff so they don’t stink up the town. The Mayor dead, the deputy himself hanged, the last cart gone. No water for horses or steed. Only dry corn to chew that makes you cough until one day you have coughed your last and take your place draped over an old family grave a sign around your neck reads’No More Room’.
This one’s for you, my friend.
from my childhood spent spilling blood, unintentionally of course.
Wouldn’t It be nice to have my share?
and purchase a Windows 95 desktop computer with modem and CD Drive and speakers.
Big Spiders and A windows 95 manual the internet, Netscape and Paint Shop Pro!
desktops in our company. Promotion followed and a payrise.