Adrift on her very first voyage
With the sea coursing in through her bow
Lay the cruise ship, the S.S. Lumbago
There was scarcely a chance for her now
But Ahoy! On the western horizon
In a flurry of yellow and green
That ender of blight and a damsel’s delight
And he’s always on cue for his scene

It’s Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
It’s got seating for seventy people
And the service is well above par
There’s an adequate medical unit
And a modest but elegant bar
What more could a man ever dream of
In a Luxury Budgerigar?
Well…

The forests of England were burning
So the foxes escaped to the city
The badgers had taken to looting
And the squirrels had formed a committee
But who should arise from a manhole
With a confident gleam in his eye?
That destroyer of woes with a spring in his toes
And he’s quick with a witty reply…

Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
With adjustable hose pipe attachment
It’s got wheels like a feathery car
The forests were dowsed and the fauna re-housed
With a three day retreat at a spa
It’s a thing to admire and surely acquire
The Luxury Budgerigar!
But…

Susan was stricken with sorrow
Twas her darkest, most fearful hour
A spider had wrestled her out of her bath
And set up his home in the shower
But who should jump out of the wardrobe
With an innocent look on his face?
That singer of shanties, remover of *******
And first in an obstacle race

Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar
With a sucker for spiders and beetles
That deposits them into a jar
There’s a tiny wee restaurant to feed them
It was given a Michelin star
A remarkable thing with retractable wings
Is a Luxury Budgerigar

So if you should be in a pet shop
And you see just the critter for you
Please heed this advice: make a note of the price
Then proceed to the back of the queue
When you ask for your preference of creature
Should it whistle, slither or waddle
Do as Sir Patrick Stewart did
And opt for the Luxury model

if every color
could be explained
by an action

if every action
was determined by a letter
could we...

perhaps get a color to be better
when we spelled
something completely profane

the circle of four
colors swim together
but offer no wisdom
rotate around your broken heart
you remain nothing
a blank rock in an empty solar system

When I charge ahead 
Try and forge my own way 
Even my best laid plans 
Are rubbed and washed away
In the ever  shifting sands 

And I'm left on hands and knees
Scrabbling round in the dirt
Bruised and battered I bleed
My Spirit crushed and hurt

So I'll climb back onto the solid rock 
And root myself to the spot
Nourish my soul in the psalmists words 
Terra firma, taking stock

I am a single point
I am a hole between
the threads of a quilt
these strings amongst me
are my thoughts intertwined
with the words of others wound
around countless other spaces,
little voids filled with warmth of
fuzzy yarn spun from the
tongues of old
days past
Oh, how this fabric
so filled with holes
keeps me from trembling

Follow me through skies of Grey
through murky marshland mire.
Accompany me through forest
labyrinths and fields of pale rye.

Step carefully through old mine
fields and feel my chest fall silent
for momentarily my heart skips,
caught by the long grass stalagmites.

The imagination coils up horrifying
imagery, a moment in time where
warriors flee, outmanned and gunned
down, the indigenous falls to his knees.

Look up and seize my thoughts
from falling into the past, for life
is like a bike ride, and in order
keep a grasp, head forward

following an orbit and do not
lose sight of the tunnels end
for satellites which go off track
crash, break, smash and bend.

Sat in the grass staring up, you
giggle and pull my legs, I trip
on accord and hear the twang
of an IED before crumpling

like folded paper, onto a jagged
boulder, feeling a pain in my head.
I roll onto my back and face up to
the battlefield where hungry farmers

fend off intruders who gun them
down again, blink and they’re shackled
as the decorated men of war crack
out cigars, sip from crystal and cackle.

Scrunch these lids and rub my eyes
the image raids from red to yellow
crimson streams appear to mellow
as your face above me, draws calm

overhead, forget the cries of war-torn
towns and villagers who bled
to keep their crop in the forlorn
era which saw many a soldier dead.

A soul escapes and floats past
your face we pause and marvel
as it pirouettes smoothly, spiralling
slowly into the fog and falling back

down in the adjacent swamp. Trudge
and trace footsteps west of the border
As the scenery picks up, you nudge

my ribs and point down the valley,
towards the green and golden leaves
of Burma where our journey ends.