A Whole mess of Poems

Instability

When I was younger I always used to think
The daleks were particularly scary,
Especially when they patched up the chink
In their armour, and made the Doctor wary.
When you realise the enemy at the gate
Has a tank which can defy the laws
Of physics, float over your guns; levitate
It's a state which makes any sane man pause.

No longer are automata victims of the high-rise,
One push or a dodge and they share the fate of grandma
In her wheelchair, the very same look in their eyes
As a foot slips on a step and the roar turns into a stammer
Then the squeal of a pig like ED-209,
Stuck on its back and no longer roaring like a Jaguar.

Nowadays we introduce a little instability:
Enter ASIMO with an AK like, "hey, remember me?
I used to be the golden boy in modern robotology
But climbing stairs is not a trick when every other robot leaps
Tall buildings in a single bound like Superman,
Or can fall apart and pull itself back into shape again."

Of course, in that case I guess we'd just flip a switch,
I bet Honda's star child can't stand up to a big magnet.
And he doesn't climb stairs all that quickly, we could make a getaway
By shoving a dresser in front of the nearest doorway.

But that won't work in fifty years, when the next big leap comes:
Already we've got scientists teaching robots how to jump. 

How to Make a Poet

Step 1: take a human,

Young, new, a blank slate,

And stuff them

With:

Words

Letters

Beauty

Light

Happiness

Hope

And the knowledge that they can be what they want to be.

Step 2: mix with other humans. Allow a few years to mingle, make friends, gain LIFE EXPERIENCE. Let them learn that words are power, that emotion is beautiful, that happiness is everywhere.

Note: at around the fourteen-year mark, you may see a rise in poetry and the emergence of dark clothes and a pale complexion. THIS IS NOT THE FINISHED PRODUCT. Skim the surface to get rid of terrible poetry, add more hope and stew for another few years.

Step 3: now put your poet in another place with other humans, and say:

YOU ARE DIFFERENT

YOU ARE WRONG

IF YOU ARE NOT LIKE THEM YOU WILL NOT SUCCEED IN LIFE

YOU WILL NOT BE RICH

YOU WILL NOT HAVE A HIGH-PAYING JOB

YOU WILL NOT BE ACCEPTED

YOU WILL NOT BE SUCCESSFUL

Step 4: wait for your poet to stand up, and say "No. I'll be happy." Set aside to cool for a few years.

Note: sometimes your poet will instead bow their head and conform. If this happens, clear it away and start again, adding more hope and happiness.

Step 5: pack with inspiration, other poets, hardships, beauty, truth, injustice and wonder. Allow a few years to set. Store in a cool, dark place, away from distractions but taking out occasionally to brush with societal injustice and the beauty of life.

A well made poet will keep for generations.

Disappointment

I'm sorry, mum and dad,

That I didn't disappoint you;

That I became exactly what you wanted.

I'm sorry I became rich, found success,

Taught the world it's better to impress

Through words and actions than through war;

Or that I helped people in need, saved lives

In developing countries, or found a cure for HIV;

Or that I stood up for the little man

Against the big business's hand, pro bono

My Latin attacking the rich shark prosecution,

Persona non grata in this courtroom execution.

I'm sorry I sang for my supper on the cold city streets,

Scrappy guitar in my hands and a pick between my teeth

As I finger a few strings which hum in and out of tune,

As I smile, exchange pleasantries with busy suits

And explain that, thanks, but a three-album contract

Isn't exactly my goal, but I know some people, keep in contact.

I'm sorry I shivered in my sleeping bag

And fished off the banks of the urban river,

Canal basin fish taste terrible but it's better

Than trying to hitch to somewhere it's wetter

Like the coast or the Lake District, because I know

I can catch fish here, but I can't fish on the road.

I'm sorry, mum and dad,

That I listened so intently.

You said with focus I could be anything,

That the world was my oyster, I was amazing,

And I was amazed, so I focused like you

Said, and that's when EVERYTHING hove into view.

When you said I could do what I want I took it to heart,

But I ran into a problem just deciding where to start.

So I'm sorry, mum and dad,

That I didn't disappoint you.

I found fame a wealth, poverty and cold,

I did everything that I could do.

I started as a rich man, made shrewd investments

Before I found God, traded it all in for vestments.

Then I became Buddhist for a bit,

Meditated on what it would be like to be a poet.

Then I picked up a guitar and became a street musician,

You'd be surprised how quick you can go from there to royal physician.

I packed my bags when I was tired of worrying over the Queen's every cough;

To tell the truth, I was bored of work, I'd had enough.

So I became a tramp and slept in my own litter

Before doing construction work, and getting much fitter.

I soon realised I had a yearning for open roads

So I packed up, headed out, stopped lifting heavy loads.

I fished on a trawler out on the icy seas,

For a time was down in Suffolk, keeping bees.

I learned the selling trade each week in market towns

And talked to competitive rappers to improve my beatbox put-downs.

I started marriage counselling, like the love guru or Hitch,

But that didn't work out, so I ghost-wrote for Critchton.

I played jazz trumpet for Ella Fitzgerald, she invited me to tea once;

For a few weeks I worked in the Swiss Alps, designing ski jumps.

Hovis and Warburtons employed me to make the perfect bap,

And I spent most of my free time patenting a better mousetrap.

So I'm sorry, but don't worry because I'm having fun, and I'm not sad;

I'm just sorry not to disappoint you, mum and dad. 

Deal with the Devil

I was walking through town one day

When a stranger in strange garbs grabbed my hand

His mouth was twisted in a smile which held me in a supernatural sway,

And his eyes were like no other eyes I've seen in all this land.

"Hey mate," he said, "I'm Lucifer, pleased to

Make your acquaintance. I am, as you may know,

A denizen of the underworld, an angel who ceased to

Be one. So now I peddle my wares to those who want their influence to grow.

So," he continued, and I saw the gleam in his eyes,

"What's it to be? I can give you anything you desire in your heart."

I thought about my dreams, perhaps to be infinitely wise,

Although wiping that stupid smile off his face would be a start.

I thought about my busy workaday life,

Never able to give an individual the time of day,

All of my bosses and colleagues causing me strife,

But what was there that I could do to have my way?

So I said to the Devil, "I would like the power

To stop time for just five minutes every day.

I don't need an age to relax, not even an hour,

Just five minutes to relax, let the world slip away.

Time to gather my thoughts in the week, take in life's beauties,

Stop and smell the roses on my way to work,

Time to plan some time away from my duties

Or calm myself when someone's being a jerk.

I've seen people in the customer service queue

Gasping for their next cigarette.

Well, I guess you could say I'm on my last gasp too,

I just need my five minute mood reset."

I grabbed the Devil by the lapels

And practically sobbed into his jacket,

"Please, Devil, work your spells!

Another day without rest, I can't hack it!"

The Devil took my hands from his chest

And gave a little devilish laugh.

"Sorry pal, no can do," he said. "No jest,

This Deviling's a full time job, if I could do that I'd have used it from the start."

And with that he disappeared into the crowd

Facing me all the while.

The last thing I saw as people swarmed around

Was that stupid, self-satisfied smile.