Duct Tape & Daffodyls by Ven (epub e reader txt) 📕

Duct Tape
&
Daffodyls


All works ©M. L.Voss (Ven) 2005


Comments to the author can be emailed to:
[email protected]


British Library Cataloging-In-Publication Data
A Record of This Publication is available from the British Library
ISBN 1905363966
First Published November 2005 by Exposure Publishing,
an imprint of Diggory Press
Three Rivers, Minions, Liskeard, Cornwall, PL14 5LE
WWW.DIGGORYPRESS.COM


AUTHORS WARNING:

The following literature includes some "controversial content" that may be unsuitable for overly sensitive persons with no sense of humour, low self-esteem, fear of deviance, fanatical religious beliefs or racial hang-ups. If you believe that any of the above is applicable to you my personal recommendation is that you read the poetry anyway and then *lodge your complaint in whatever way you deem to be most appropriate.


N.B. * Not to me ... 'cos to be perfectly honest,
I really couldn’t give a toss !


P.S. Those of you with an overwhelming fear of the subliminal will be gratified to learn that there are no hidden messages revealed by reading any of the following poetry upside down, backwards or mirrored.

With special thanks to three of four

Ain't I Grand !

Night approaches, Muse encroaches
on the minds of writers who
seek solace to drink sorrow still,
- sip self pity to their fill
and dip the poisoned tip of quill
in ink of solitude until;
words emerge from deepest dark
of hell, (where poet souls embark)
on nightly roamings, often time,
in rhyme of "thee" or "thou" or "thine"
- but better this self loathing phase
than listen to the endless days
of "big up me" and "ain't I grand",
now metrical is in demand
for banishment of poet black
revives the ego and brings back
the killer stroke and swift attack
of the rhythmic megalomaniac.


Crazy !

I want to be nice.
I want to be !
I know that I shout but that's not really me. It's just that today life is driving me crazy, so please, let me gouch on the couch
and be lazy
My patience is shot and my nerves are grating. It's nobody's fault.
I'm just menstrual hating.


Watching Summer Die

Wiping down the misted windows,
peering out at a dismal sky,
as clouds the colour of age stained linen
pour down autumns tears.
Weeping,
watching summer die.
Drawing curtains on early darkness,
hearing the wind whistle by
as the first bars of fall's lilting harmony
turn to winter's song.
Wailing,
watching summer die.


In Self Defence

I'm building an ornamental mind castle
with turrets made from high ideals
and moats of endless possibilities.
Archery slits for shooting critics
and a portcullis of thick skin
to keep them out ...
and keep me in.


Literary Bliss

Pin me down, stroke my mind.
Create a scene, affect me !
Tease me with rich simile
to cure me of my apathy.
Stoke my mind with thoughts sublime
and wording that astounds me.
Weave wonderful lies
leave tears in my eyes
twist your skills around me.
Swathe me in felicity.
Stun me with synchronicity
and fabricate literary bliss for me,
for this to me
is divinity.


Simply Be

Rising always by the clock
each moment filled, each tick, each tock.
Each second of each task filled day
Tempus fugit (as they say)
and life flies by chore by chore.
This can't be it, there must be more.
A little something just for me,
some time when I can simply ... Be.


The Importance of the Trajectory !

I calculated the status of the statistics.
Logged ( in my log ) the logistics
Analyzed the shields characteristics ~
but failed to consider the angle of the ballistics
~ Ouch !


Is (and Was)

This land of the Bard
scarred and marred
by a concrete
Criss-crossed
paving slab embossed
Mish-mash
of
tarmac
and car parks
as progress embarks
and takes its toll
on the rolling green
awesome scenery
that is (and was)
the Land of my Fathers.


In the Eye of the Beholder

"The wind farms are beautiful" she said …
but ~ not thirty miles North, nor forty minutes later
as if by contrived contrast, Trawsfynydd intruded
and made foray into her head
rendering her eyes peeled and salted
with its harsh and sinister visual.

A digital mind recorded the scene
transcribing its eyesore imagery
to a slide-show set between
what was; and all she hoped could be,
posted (all be it in washed out Conservative green)
upon her deceptively delicate
and easily offended sensibilities.

She disregarded the diversion and
in an act of deliberate denial,
over-papered it with quaint zephyr blade images
borrowed from the start of this excursion
hoping only now
for the meandering sway
of an easy day
on the curves of an idyll mountain road.

and exactly so it ribboned forth
from patchwork fielded,hedgerow hemmed farms,
through manufactured forestry, deliberate made,
Square … and all too familiar
to this;
Her coddling, cushioned,
green and rolling Wales
transformed by gradient degrees
of tree-less bleak and blackened block-scape.
and turned then to harder shades.

Grey-scale misted mountains brooded ominous
and left her thoughts half and half mixed
with equal allotments of oppressed and transfixed.
Each new view
inspiring future rhyming writes
and abstract,
slate shaped,
palate knife paintings.

The muse giddy spun,
danced dizzy through her mind
while her cultured guide
(and pilot for this ride)
threw forth reference of history, heritage
and stainless Sospan monuments.
Battle tales of Princes of Wales
recited aloud with a "proud of roots" knowledge undervalued
and seldom now seen
in this modern day hussle-bussle
"Land of my Fathers"

And yet, still ..
the road upward …. onward goes
to ever more dramatic horizons.
Each surpassing its predecessor.
Each flowing … Poetic !
Like rhyming lines and metered text.
Each peak a veritable stepping stone to more
and more
and next

'til crag and bouldered summit silent stands,
in wait of the return of Eagles grace.
Listening as the ancient stories flow
onward down the valley from this place
~ where;
from Fathers voice to Sons it travels on
through names best heard when whispered,
softly spoke,
or even sung, as Celtic history sings
so smooth upon the tip of Cymru's tongue.

Immortalizing many a deed of mettle
lamentful voiced o'er hill and vale it brings
a feeling of at-oneness
with the clansmen of my past
and a loathing of marauding English Kings.


Eros the Chemist

He comes, silent; arrow primed
dipped in sweet attraction.
His purpose is to galvanize
to spark an interaction.
To tease and tempt the chemicals
to maximum reaction
and initiate a tropism of positive attraction. This kindles adoration,
setting off a chain reaction
that culminates in simultaneous
mutual satisfaction.


The Bright Side

It seems I've misplaced the "bright side", probably put it down somewhere silly
or just tidied it away.
Hubby says it's around here somewhere,
possibly in the garden.
He says he saw it yesterday
but I can't find it.
Perhaps if I stop looking it'll just appear like the best things in life usually do.


Insomniac Extreme

Images projected, woollen but strong,
against a backdrop of inner eyelids … Yawn.
A quarter century, of conscious thought. Insomniac extreme, this way born.

Restless nights, break dancing on crumpled linen.
Her over thumped pillow, abused, well worn. Images repeated, sheep jumping fence
10,875 ... 86
and sleep comes, at twenty five, to Dawn.


Dad

( J.R.Baker 1934-1983 )

Forgive me father for I have binned
every lesson you taught me.
I snubbed your teachings
and threw to the wind
each second chance you brought me.
I scoffed at your morals;
laughed at your values;
called you archaic and sad!
But now you‟re gone there's no one to turn to.
I miss your wisdom Dad.


Hard Earned Immortality

Fifty thousand soulless tutors,
time beaten,
dusty jacketed philosophers.
Sat row upon row waiting to impart the facts and the theories.

Each one deathly silent,
neither agreeing nor disagreeing with the next. No breath. No heartbeat. Just waiting ...

Longing for a caressing hand,
a browsing eye and an inquiring mind,
to seek out the gems of humanity's past.

Aching for the interest of but one living soul, to soak up, ponder, and quote their word,
thus sustaining their well deserved
and hard earned Immortality.


The Trooping of the Colour

Spring forth, gallant warrior.
March onward old yellow.
Rush in where pink fears to tread
and worry not of last frosts
nor final breaths of north wind
for thou art the hardiest of foot soldiers.
Occupy the territories !
I assure you
new recruits will follow.
Companies of reds and blues
footslogger whites
and pansies with purple hues
shall trace your maiden course.
Your army will be formidable,
colourful
and utterly unbeatable.
Spring forth and advance
o' valiant daffodil
and storm the verges
'til this drab shade of winter is defeated.


Broken Box

We played charades and monopoly.
We laughed, we talked, we sang
and interacted like family
the night the tele went BANG !


Basking

This incandescent, white hot day,
Sapping my energy. Forcing me out, to lay
face down in sparsely garbed summer idleness.

Much to do but no will to move
as beads of perspiration weigh heavy as lead upon these lightly bronzed
sun lazied limbs.


DOWN-TIME

Not quite a sketch,
simply an outline.
Not the whole story
merely the by-line.
Invisibly boxed,
like in Marcel Marceau‟s mime
Trying to succeed
but suffering down-time.


Well I'll be a Monkeys Uncle!

"So they call this evolution !"
said the old man of the office
to the old man of the forest.


The Freak

They‟re all talking nonsense,
babbling in gibberish.
Can't decipher a single syllable,
think I need a babelfish.
Small green men that baffled me,
boggle eyed absurdities,
they landed by my garden gate,
camped out by my sweet peas
and chatted to each other,
giggling incessantly.
Pointing up and laughing
at the window, when they saw me.
I shouted, "Hey, don't laugh at me"
but then I had a thought.
They couldn't understand me
or the language I'd been taught.
So they simply sat and pointed
and laughed till they were weak
and their thoughts were much the same as mine, Oh Wow ! check that - A FREAK !


Lion-heart Sprite

As magical shades of twilight twist
and hang suspended in the mist
a vaporous sprite makes flurry in
the labyrinth where dreams begin.

Elusive and mysterious,
bedazzled and delirious
she'll whirl and twirl, muted, spellbound unaware she's doomed and hell-bound.

Slipping silent, wraithlike, pale,
o'er dragons wings