when you are three you will bring home your first tracks of mud from the garden when you sneak out of the door to play. i will wash the grass stains off your socks and tell you to wait for mummy to come out next time too.

when you are four you will bring home your first macaroni necklace from nursery school and try to eat it raw. i will put it around your neck and we will make pasta together, minus the glue.

when you are five you will bring home tears and your first bleeding knee after falling off your tricycle. i will clean up the wound with antiseptic, put on a smiley face band aid and tell you it is okay to cry.

when you are six you will bring home your first finger painting from kindergarten and a white tee shirt that is streaked with a myriad of colour. i will place it on the laundry pile and we will stain canvas with paint coated fingers for the rest of the afternoon.

when you are seven you will bring home your first report card and babble excitedly about the A you got in art class. i will tell you i knew your teacher would love the tiger you drew that had too many teeth.

when you are eight you will bring home your first best friend and you will ask if you can have a sleepover. i will bake you cookies and put up a tent in the backyard so you can fall asleep under the blanket of stars.

when you are nine you will bring home your first 100 on a test and ask me if perfect is a good score. i will hug you and say that no score can be more perfect than you are.

when you are ten you will bring home your first girl guide badge and tell me you need it sewn on your uniform. i will teach you how to use a needle and thread and see your pride at accomplishing the task on your own.  

when you are eleven you will bring home your first medal from a junior fencing competition and tell me you love the foil but you are scared of the older ones who use epees and sabres (even though one day you will be one of them, too). i will hang the medal on your bedpost and show you my rusting sabre in the storeroom and tell you my stories.

when you are twelve you will bring home your first case of chickenpox from the girl who sits next to you in class. i will make you chicken soup and we will make bad puns about poultry for the next two weeks of quarantine.

when you are thirteen you will bring home your first failure on a test paper. i will sit with you in your room and go through your mistakes and we will learn together, because you are more than a number and i never want you to forget that

when you are fourteen you will bring home your first questions about why the girls in school giggle about boys when the name you doodle in your jotter book is the one of your hauntingly beautiful social studies teacher. i will tell you that love is whatever you believe it to be and who you love is less important than why you love them.

when you are fifteen you will bring home your first can of beer in an effort of rebellion and try to hide it in your room. i will get out the wine and we will share it and i will teach you all there is to know about alcohol and being careful around it, and regale you with stories about the fact that i am a happy drunk.

when you are sixteen you will bring home your first attempts at a resumé and tell me you want to find an internship. i will watch you with pride as you make your own way as part of the working crowd for the very first time and learn more than i could ever teach you on my own.

when you are seventeen you will bring home your first girlfriend and introduce her to me, blushing and stammering. i will smile and ask her if she wants any orange juice from the fridge, and watch you give me a grateful grin.

when you are eighteen you will bring home your first college application and all the relevant documents. we will sit down over the kitchen table and discuss the pros and cons of local and international schools.

when you are nineteen you will bring home a suitcase and some assignments when you come back home during break. i will watch you tuck in to local fare ravenously and listen to you dreamily talk about the girl you share your dormitory with.

when you are twenty you will bring home your first paycheck from a part-time job you’re holding while studying for your degree. i will joke with you on what blue chip stocks to invest it in and we will go out for dinner at a swanky restaurant together.

when you are twenty one you will bring home an engagement ring and ask me if it is too young to ask your dormmate turned lover forever. i will remind you that love has no age and preconceptions have no place in devotion.

when you are twenty two you will bring home everything you need to propose to the love of your life. i will watch her stare at you in shock and fall into your arms and cry, and i will smile at the way your breath leaves your lungs, and you cry along with her.

when you are twenty three you will bring home your first pre-wedding jitters and be fretting about tomorrow’s ceremony. i will reassure you that everything will be perfect- even if it isn’t.

when you are twenty four you will bring home your first spare key to your new place and entrust it to me. i will bring over the dishes you and your wife love every sunday and we will have dinner together, talking, teasing, and laughing till we cry.

when you are twenty five you will bring home your first daughter you have adopted from the orphanage.

and daughter, i hope you will tell her the things i have told you.

Wishes and false promises
On moonbeams and on stars
A year of dreams and nightmares
Of newly healing scars

Dreams are a seduction
An illusion of the mind
Dreams are for the children
They are movies in your mind

Age tones down those images
Dreams forgotten in the wake
Dreams vanish in reality
And that's the form they take

A dream left in the storeroom
Of a mind, with room to grow
Will flourish and grow steadily
And be shared for all to know

Dreams, are our existence
In the real world and the night
Dreams are full fledged wishes
That will die if not made right

Never lose the child
Keep dreams and wishes near
Keep fairy dust in packets
Of the darkness have no fear

Dreams are just illusion
but illusion isn't real
a heart can be un-broken
if you dream that love is real

share your dreams and feelings
write them out and read them too
never lose the dreams or wishes
they keep the child light in you.

My Mind
An inner sanctum of peace
Where the calmest whisper can be heard over a thousand miles of tranquility

My Mind
A battleground
Where a thousand thoughts clash
Each seeking to find the truth

My mind
A storeroom
Filled with a lifetime of memories
From infancy to manhood
Each shaping my views and perceptions molding me into the man I am

My Mind
A green field of grass
Where dreams come out to play
Where imagination makes out with reality on a stack of hay

My mind
A growing tree
who's branches seek to absorb rays of knowledge passed down from above

My mind
A caricature of a person born a little over 22 years ago

My Mind
A lone bird soaring through a tumultuous sky, unfazed by its surroundings steady on its path

My mind
A dessert Island
A place of beauty un-compared where mathematical equations are laid to rest effortlessly

My Mind
Um....:) sometimes goes blank in the face of beauty

My Mind
A jungle
If I let you explore do you promise to keep its treasures close to heart

My mind
A fine African automobile
On a slow Sunday afternoon drive, appreciating the scenery we call life

My mind
A classic beat
Who's calm melody is ripped apart by compound metaphors and violent punch lines

My mind
.....doesn’t always agree with my Soul

My mind
A train laden with thought north bound
Stopping off at reflection eternal
Hoping to reach Zion’s Holy ground

My mind
Two things all at once
Light and dark
Right and wrong
The past and future
Its here right now while its away

My mind
Made up its own mind
To define my destiny

My mind
Untamed
A beast born off black and white

My mind
A speaker
In this box called my body

My mind
Open
Independant a Government in its own

My mind
New
like shool, a resident of the condition

you see before i moved to canberra i moved to woodberry, woodberry, a place where

if you have a mental illness you are declared CRAZY, you see i was hearing voices

when my brother was joking around with me, the voices were saying, your a **** and your crazy

you don’t belong in this world, i know i belong in this world, i love life so much, but all the time

i was hearing voices saying you are a yeah mate yeah kid buddy, ya know a nerd, and you don’t belong

anywhere on earth, it was a crazy country town, you see i remember getting a taxi to school, getting bullied

in the taxi, which made the voices go completely crazy, dad kept on saying don’t be shy brian, i never liked that

but in hindsight, he was trying to get me to have fun, you see i used to in sort of a way never telling lies

oh well, that all changed when i moved to canberra, but i needed a way to calm the voices, of we don’t like you

you don’t belong in this world, i know i belong in this world, i am a lover of life, you see i remember hearing that

same bully say to my brother kidnap yourself buddy, cause you realise you are from that family, he just wished

i was aware, but all my life i have been hearing voices, maybe it was me pooling my pants, i don’t do that anymore

you see, what i don’t understand, why can’t people respect me when i say i am a nice guy, and that is what lately people can’t

respect that i wanna move on, i have had more teasing than anyone, i need a break, but as soon as i moved to canberra

the voices left my head, but when they gave me wee and locked me in the storeroom, oh well, the voices started up again

and every time i got teased by anyone, a voice came into my head saying, i might kidnap in a minute, i remember a voice saying

i am going to bash you up, i hated every negative voice that cam into my head, my mum and dad liked how i never told lies but

i needed to get on with my brother, so i played with him, but what i didn’t understand was dad was suffering with my constant yelling

and he probably went to his grave thinking what he was doing back then was wrong for me, i am reformed now, and i am on medication

there are voices in my head saying, take brian’s pension away from him he’s not like me, i said as a joke, and give me superannuation

but i at that stage, very much of a ******, i hate this other voice saying, you are the only one who is getting hassled, i never hassled

anyone like these voices are hassling me, i understand paul berenyi if he is dead hassling, because i was staring at him, i used to stare

at everyone, but i am trying to get reformed, i used to stare at my family as well, and that is why dad lost his cool, saying i don’t want to be cool, how weird is that

you see, i hated being treated like a man to a tease, because it was ******* me, i was starting to think that these voices were just voices, but outside the

charnwood inn some dude grabbed me, i struggled and ran up the stairs, you see when daniel pederson died he got inside my head to make me a big man

too uncoil for his family, but i don’t really like being a big man or a big young dude or a big kid or a different person, you see when i was at school i said

i was different, but that was just school talk, it’s hard being treated like a different person, like tonight, i was walking over to the sink to do the washing up

and i felt fatigued and i felt fatigued when i bought the garbage out and the voices were saying, you are easy to tease, i don’t want to be easy meat

i want to reform my brain enough, you see there is a movie group i went to as well as a writing group but i can’t socialise because of the buses and

my blasted voices, there was this other voice saying as i said, i want to be normal, the voice would say be like us then, i don’t want to be treated like my brother anymore

i am like one person and that is brian allan,

I could feel his breath on me
Filled with heated lust
Triggering my visible spine
Any moment, the fangs could ******

He counted my heartbeats
Slowly nearing my ear
Whispered, delicious blood
And that ignited my fear

Holding me tight, yet being gentle
He had on a mesmerising scent
Looking deep into his eyes
Felt like my veins have burnt

A starry full moon night
And being caught up as a prey
It almost seemed liked midnight
Yet, in his strong arms, I lay

Pink blossoms, showered like rain
As the winds increased its pace
His warm lips gently touched mine
And, I was taken into galactic space

He embraced me like a flower
And continued to kiss me
Like there won't be a tomorrow
For me to ever see

I didn't fight back or resist
Perhaps I was hypnotized by him
But a night, I will never forget
When all lights slowly go dim

A life spared but repaid with lust
To the dangerous, night walker
An everyday trend
Meeting up, by the storeroom locker!


©sim

Sometimes I cry for you
And sometimes I cry for me
But my eyes leak for us.

Fish cannot fathom the rivers I have created for Us.

The Us that runs to me like a child with open arms
but I am tired
too tired to pick Us up
spin Us in the air
make Us a laugh..

It needs water
but my spirit is parched.
It needs food
but my storeroom -heart is empty.

I want You
to meet Us

I want Us
to spend time with You and I.

I fathom fantasies that can turn
a U into a W
and a S into an E…

What is a thought,but words left unsaid
Confused little letters locked deep in my head
Why do I hide them, what do I fear?
They want to get out for someone to hear
The brain is a storeroom , but where is the key?
I've got to unlock it so I can find me
The past and the future will live with my soul, but without expression one cannot grow old
With this silent pencil, I'll let out the words, and in peaceful contentment
I will be heard!

Bouncing back
From cold shoulders
And many a rejection,
Resilient,I throw
My full weight
To get
What me await
In the storeroom
Of fate!

Reach to the back of the old,
Reach behind the boxes entrenched with dust,
Reach beyond the shelves of tarnished trophies,
Reach beneath the tarpaulin brittle with age.
Reach and ignore the stains of the years
Stretch, *****, seek
And your fingers will brush
Against unfamiliar, new-to-you gems.
Reach and from unexplored corners
Reveal new treasures from the storeroom;
Treasures to enlighten
Treasures to surprise
Treasures to delight
The disciples of the kingdom.

The Mason and His Statue

at first, I am a block of stone
and you are a chisel
carving pieces of me away
and then you are a diamond drill
and then I am polished
mounted
wheeled out of the room covered in stone dust and into the liquid darkness of a hallway
and ten arched windows pass me by
for the very first time I can see the sky

I’m in the middle of the room
with a nameplate on a stand beside me - did I have a name before?
I’m just me
and there’s more of me all around me
standing
sitting
eyes reaching… quiet.
The doors open and the footsteps arrive
I hear water outside and see out the windows at the end of the hall and sometimes if I’m lucky they open them and I feel a breeze on the side of my face
but the funny part is -
the best time of day is when they close all the doors
and it’s just me and the janitor who’s mopping the floors

in case you were wondering
why I’m not there anymore
in the middle of the room in plain view on my pedestal
they took me down
too dated or too worn or just not new
wrapped me in canvas and put me in the back of a storeroom
where for the first time I experienced damp, and cold
and I learned that it was a bad thing to be old

but
then I was worn enough to be disposable
and they put me in the park
I’m by the fountain - come and find me
there’s no barriers and no nameplate telling you what to see
and yes, the wind blows and I’m a little more exposed
but I’m free

the words slide off of my tongue and I think I am going to be sick
how could it happen like this?
in the back of a storeroom covered by nightfall
I spill all of my secrets
about how I am barely sewn together
and I'm holding on to nothing
and I cry
and you care
you give me advice about being myself and how everyone will love me
and even though it has nothing to do with the situation
it helps
to know
you tried

Stored in my grandmother's back room
Storage held shelves and shelves of cotton covered trinkets
and odds
and ends
Sundries that held old funny stories
and cans and old flyers that held little more history
than the **** I took this morning

But upended, on side
collided with time
was a heap of old wicker bough baskets
stacked in heaps and heaps
but guarded and carefully covered
Covered in cotton lace.
Tatted in tantalizing
waves of rings of knots, holes, and wide open spaces
The treasures I found measured in yards of cotton lace.

There’s not much of anything I can recall
From the time that we lived in the lane,
Only the puddles of rainwater eddying
With the wind’s gusting refrain.
Pamela knew, she was older than me
So absorbed all the essence of fear,
And many a time when she’d panic and whine
I would cry out ‘There’s nobody here!’

The trees were too tall and they ruled overall
By keeping the house in their shade,
The garden was cold and the rocks would grow mould
From the damp, in the part that I played.
The wind would come sniffing around from the trees
And shiver the hairs on my spine,
And then in a wheeze like a voice in the breeze,
‘You shouldn’t be here, this is mine!’

Our parents were never around it would seem,
Our time was spent mostly alone,
It’s true that I grew to be sensitive, too,
To the visions and sounds of my own.
But Pamela, she became crazy with fear
At every strange creak in that house,
So then when she’d scream, I’d say, ‘It’s a dream,’
And place a cloth over her mouth.

The house was three storeys, we never went up
To check out the topmost floor,
They said it was storage, and not ours to forage
So kept a stout lock on the door,
But Pamela said she heard noises above,
Like somebody padding around,
It couldn’t have been, or they would have been seen
Between the third floor and the ground.

But out from the garden I’d often look up
To stare at the sole window pane,
The one that was muddy, or could it be ******,
The colour was almost the same.
It was strange they insisted the stairway was locked
Could there be a grim secret to hide,
The darkest of murders, hidden away
And the storeroom above? Well, they lied!

Then Pamela said that she saw someone,
A shadow that fell on the pane,
Strange that the mud had continued in place
In spite of the seasonal rain.
Muddy or ******, it wouldn’t wash off
Though I stared and I stared, and I smiled,
The indistinct face that I saw staring back
Was the face of an evil child.

They say that the rest was over to me
Though I’ll never recall if it’s true,
It’s funny the things that you do in life
That you never thought you could do.
Pamela said I was quite the brat
But then Pamela’s such a liar,
All I recall is the face of a child
As the flames in the window grew higher.

David Lewis Paget

By: Cedric McClester

When black lips
Are out of fashion
Can you imagine
The corrective action
White women take
To get it cracking
And how much they’ll have to take away
When big ***** become passé

When black women
Start to respect themselves
And leave wigs and extensions
On storeroom shelves
You’ll see their true beauty
If nothing else
And their false ideas of what it is
Begins to melt

When beauty standards
Begin to change
And they
starts to have
A wider range
The metamorphous
May at first seem strange
But nobody should feel
Short changed

When we realize
The human race
Isn’t measured by
Just one face
And that everyone
Has their place
The inner self
Will start to be embraced











Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016.  All rights reserved.

The house dated back to the Tudors,
Half timbered, in need of repair,
They offered it me for a peppercorn rent
If I’d do some work on it there.
Right next to it stood the Catholic Church,
All pillars and deep seated vaults,
I thought I could make it a comfortable lair
Despite its old timbers and faults.

But Kathy was not so enamoured,
She said that she’d rather a flat,
‘There’s dry rot and beetles,’ she stammered,
‘So what will you do about that?’
‘I’ll think about that in the morning,
For now you’ll just have to be brave,
You’ll love that old bed, and its awning,
And think of the money we’ll save.’

We got settled in and explored it,
The wainscoting seemed to be fine,
With three rooms upstairs, and an attic,
I seized on that, told her, ‘It’s mine!’
She wouldn’t come down to the cellar,
‘It’s too dark and creepy for me.’
I thought it would do for a storeroom,
It had its own hearth, and chimney.

One day I had leant on the mantle
When something had moved in the wall,
A bookshelf slid back near a candle,
Revealing an ancient priest hole,
But way beyond that was a tunnel
The led all the way to a crypt,
So this was their ancient escape route
For anything termed Catholic.

I thought I would wait to explore it
Till Kathy would like to come too,
But she had just shivered, ignored it,
And said, ‘you just do what you do.’
I couldn’t contain my excitement
As into that tunnel I went,
Imagining priests that had used it,
To burn at the stake, or repent.

Then halfway along in an alcove
I flashed the light, looking in there,
And there was a man in some red robes,
He sat, sprawling back in a chair,
And there on his skull was a mitre
That headdress for bishops of old,
And down by his side was a crozier,
All glittering, fashioned in gold.

But lying between his skeletal feet
Was a sight that I couldn’t absorb,
I felt at a loss, on top was a cross
On a gold and magnificent orb,
Caught short in his flight from the protestant’s might
He was stealing these treasures away,
In hopes that the realm of England returned
To the one true religion one day.

I picked up the crozier, picked up the orb
And I took them from where he had fled,
I didn’t tell Kathy, but thought it was best,
So I hid them both under our bed.
That night we heard chanting, a hymn in the dark
That had Kathy awake and in tears,
While I could see phantoms surrounding our bed
Giving form to a host of my fears.

There was an abomination of monks
That were filling the room from the stairs,
And chief among them was a bishop who stood
At the base of the bed, and just glared.
I leapt out of bed and recovered the orb,
And I handed the crozier to him,
He gave a faint smile, and then in a while
He was gone like a ghost cherubim.

I never went back to that tunnel again,
To tell you the truth, I was scared,
I knew that a fortune was hidden within
But to go back again, never dared.
I’m hoping that bishop has saved me a place
In a heaven for those who are saved,
So I can tell no-one where he lies in grace,
That knowledge I’ll take to my grave.

David Lewis Paget

Bellhaven a town of five
Grew in his love and potent flares
She shivered as she dove
Deep beneath his cumbersome faults
To the misty beaches in his eyes

They ran the grocers
Her love of loves
Carrying the parcels to waiting cars
Making bank trips on bicycle seats
******* all night under uncovered bulbs

Market lights on strings of electric
Pattern up the ceiling joists
She travels her journey
In whims of ecstasy
And sweeps the storeroom of tattered webs

Children join the dusty mop head
Ringing the sound of miniature him's
She and he's of minute proportions
Occupy the grocery carts, the
Two wheeled seats of financial ruin.

The market lights on strings of wire
Sputter with the fading current
He ***** the lips of his love of loves
And squirrels his toes behind her ankles
******* the night under unsheltered bulbs

They all are gone now in Bellhaven
The town of five is now beyond the five.
They all run around on seats of bicycles
Bank drafts and grocery carts
All gone to litter.

Her love of love gone down in a blizzard
Her children amassing out there by the highway
Her market light patterning the joists
As she dives deep beneath
The cumbersome faults.

I had no idea of who she was,
But knew she appealed to me,
All that I knew, her name was Roz,
So I wove her history.
Imagination’s a marvellous thing
But that doesn’t make it real,
I thought I could make the whole thing up
But I only judge by feel.

I had her grow in a miserable home
Where no-one could understand,
A feckless mother and drunken Dad
With no-one to hold her hand.
She’d come to life when she left that home,
Left everything else behind,
And if she wasn’t together yet,
Then everyone else was blind.

I loved the way that her hair curled down
To sit at the nape of her neck,
I loved that serious air she had
To hold everyone in check.
I didn’t know if she noticed me
She never gave me a look,
Whenever she passed my desk, I sat
And buried my head in a book.

We used the stationery storeroom there,
It was big enough for two,
I walked on in and I locked the door,
Said, ‘I’ve been looking at you.’
She seemed surprised and had startled eyes
When I drew her close for a kiss,
But she raised her lips and she moved her hips,
So it didn’t seem too remiss.

She met me down at the local pub
To discuss the feelings she had,
‘It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the kiss,
I don’t want you feeling bad.
But I have a guy and he’s awful shy,
So don’t tell what happened today,
Some things are sacred, stored in the heart,’
And then she had walked away.

David Lewis Paget

I'd die in my sleep just to dream again, breath again
I would lie to myself just to pretend that I could move on

Its only as hard as you think it is
The Sentiment's
Only around till the season ends, and I know

I wish I understood where I go
In the moments between, when I'm defined
A map of me, written down on a stereo

I've only got enough change, to make it somewhere close
Where do you want to go?

Days that bleed together come up so unclaimed  
Rising out of nowhere
And falling just the same
Stretching out before me, I see sleepless nights
And  a lifetime filled with pain

The storeroom full of daydreams is looking rather forced
I've used up every fantasy, and still I'm still staying the same course

But here comes the refrain
The mantra I try to entertain
Famine is a constant flame
That burns down to the core of man
And lets you understand
Just how this life will end
And there's no real way to win this game

I think i understand when people talk
Even when there's nothing good enough to say
Everybody's lonely on this road, and as we walk
They just want to stave off the silence

For every tear
You made her cry
God has kept count

And her father
Has a whole storeroom
Filled with the tears
He has collected
Over the years

So don't make her cry

My mind is a garden
  whose plants have grown tall

Their season end harvest
  awaiting the call

Ideas and feelings
  cross over in rows

The laughter of children
  to lead where they go

My thoughts now a storeroom
  the food all put up

Its sustenance waiting
  for time to erupt

The answers gone fallow
  inside of my head

All questions reseeded
   —and pointing ahead

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2019)

I don’t worry.
I don’t concern myself with the branch falling.
I don’t hesitate before flight wondering if my wings will flap.
I. Just. Fly.

My thoughts are present-minded,
Where will my next meal come from is not a concern.
I always gather food.
I always have a place to rest.
Abandonment is not an issue.
My friends flutter their wings and sing to me each day.
Loneliness, I do not feel.

Luke 12:24 Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds!

But, to that bird I say, “What if knowing I am more valued than yourself, makes me feel even worse with the current thoughts flapping within my mind?”

Unable to focus just on today because my past mistakes rob me of peace.
Waking up after a few hours of restlessness only to wake up to feelings of despair, hopelessness, betrayal, disdain, fragility.
Fragility.
This one is the most difficult to reckon with. To consider myself, one with years of education, both in the real world and through books, that I could have ended up here.

You, Mr. or Mrs. Bird, have not ripped through relationships, blown up your MasterCard through frivilus spending, or attempted to off yourself by running face first into a window pane.

You have not questioned God for the plight with which you are stricken, or deeply felt loss that brought about a monsoon of tears. For that, I am glad for you.

Your life is not supposed to last as long as mine. Theoretically.
I am supposed to be married, have a home filled with laughter, bake cookies after church on Sunday’s.

I am supposed, now in my forties, to be at my peek existence.
To be in fine health, have a close circle of friends that meet up for drinks or charades.

I am supposed to have a rewarding career, have wisdom for my adult children when they fall, and created a nest egg that will be waiting upon retirement in a few years.

Mr. or Mrs. Bird, I have none of those things.
Having a mental illness has robbed me of those things.
It did not ask my permission to do so.
Kind of just walked inside my home through the front door without knocking. Just showed up. No greetings or introductions.
No deep conversations or a note left detailing how you would affect my life.
You. Just. Showed. Up.

April 30, 2020:

“Today, it is raining. The streets are covered with glistening lights of taxis taking hurried occupants to their destinations.
After work, families will eat a meal together, laugh or cry about an event at work that transpired.
They will tuck their children into bed, say a prayer, then close their eyes in peace.
A belief that tomorrow will be better than today.
An Anne Frank quote about believing there is still good in this world.

To be a bird just for a day.
To trust someone or something will hold you up today.
To know in your heart you can count on yourself to come through. To sing melodies with wild abandon, to flap about in boastful swoons.
To watch the sunrise with hope and the sunset with pride of your accomplishments.
Oh, to be a bird.

Here's the first line
................................
it doesn't sound right
prosaic,  sterile, dry

I'll try again
*****
I quite like
shall start on second line

stuck for words
???????????????
I'll adjust the first line
OK, what follows seems fine

soliloquy 1
(  I have laid the foundation)

the pillars I have to *****
balance they must
and hold the main-frame
shouldn't be too low or high

(soliloquy 2: if I fail, the whole structure
would collapse)

I have no intention to rush
patience is what I require
from the workshop of my mind
and storeroom of my heart-   tools I must find

(on looking back-
that stage was my forging
heart, body, mind
the gruelling and testing)

(soliloquy 3)

now I re-examine
what's in my design
every word is like a *****
that must not misfit--to be fine

how I sweat and labour
into the project myself I surrender

the minutes tick, then the hour
the building is taking shape
behind schedule? Never mind!

at last, through the window
I look from the building done
how lush do the flowers blow
under a warm and smiling sun!

Remembering a dog


When I was young and for us not rich there was
navy academia you could learn engineering, navigation
and catering, with my eyesight I settled for catering
After going through the grades, I got a certificate that I was
a chief steward. a job which consisted of telling the cook what
to make, buying the food needed and to do the books.
The big tank ship, oh so beautiful, sailed from oil port to to
another oil terminal and boredom set in, I left the great ship
in Antwerp and after a week ashore I got a job
on an old freighter going into every port, you could think of
I was in my element; this was a perfect ship.
The officers were not going anywhere, no one wore uniforms
and bothered with titles.
On a French island, I have forgotten its name, a dog came onboard
unseen and since the storeroom was open it hid there
and I didn´t see it before we were on the open sea.
I took the dog up to the old-man he liked the dog it had a home.
Months later, when I was on another ship my old ship was
******* in front of us, the old-man was retiring taking the dog home,
the new captain didn´t care for dogs.
The dog remembered me, and there was a lot of kisses and cuddles.
I'm sure the little dog had a long and happy life seeing
green grass and trees.