Musings on a bus

Are the lions drinking or drowning today?
And what sort of whimsy may come into play?
If I skip the long walk and get carried away
By a piper whose horn touts – fat ladies, wahey?!
Do I find inside mercy, or terrible pride?
Am I fearful of friends from whose habits I hide?
Is there just cause to question the ways we go wild?
Or conceal what we feel to keep on in our stride?
With a pace at once terrible, tortuous, slow
We make progress an inch at a time, so we grow
And though others may ask us – do they want to know?
How we got where we’re planning to stay when they go?
I cannot give an answer – my answer is no
Guarantee of it working for anyone, so
Do not plead my response – I don’t do it to show
To the world: mine – the best
Way to reap what you sow.

Survivor

I am right there
Surrounded by cockroaches
Squatting in the ruins,
The wreckage.
Collateral, damaged
In the fallout
Of a truly
Decadent society
That looked up to its
Graven images,
Photoshopped.
Idols, now idle.
How they glittered
In their lame, sequinned
Lifestyles.
Just me – a bunch of
Bad habits
And under the rubble,
One drug-addled
Rock guitarist.
Perhaps if we put our
Heads together
We can try
To find words
To remember.

DElectable

If I were one, not two or three
I wouldn’t care what you thought of me
I’d have the choice to change, to be
The person inside, outside. Free.

But there is you, and her and him
And cool, and chic, and fair and slim
I don’t know where I should begin
To twist myself to meet each whim

Opinions hover overhead
What might she think? What would be said?
You couldn’t tell what’s in my head
I gathered thoughts, but lost the thread…

They’re moulding me to something new
To shine in every interview
And sell my soul – in shades of blue
With hints at things that could be true.

Dish of the day

Piping hot, served on a big, silver platter
With pristine white linen in case it should splatter

Serving suggestion: try holding your nose
(It can be quite fragrant when fresh off the stove)

A gentle reminder – you may burn your tongue
On sauce with such condiments, thickened and mum

Though some find it bitter, you might like the taste
So try not to let what you’ve bought go to waste

It’s strange and exotic, the critics all say
But you ordered The Truth – it’s our dish of the day.

Little Things

You only notice when they’re wrong
A door that’s left ajar
The draught from open windows
Some juice that’s far too sour

The fridge that won’t stay frozen
A tap still dripping – on
The eggs sold by the dozen
That still have feathers on

A bed that’s not been slept in
The car that’s double-parked
Sunglasses in mid-winter
A light on in the dark

The post that piles on doorsteps
To signal no one’s home
The drain that floods the highway
A misplaced traffic cone

The binmen in the morning
That wake the street at dawn
The drunk that sings his way back home
To pass out on his lawn

The bullies at the bus stop
Who pick on younger kids
The parents at the chain-store
About to blow their lids

The problem clearly stated
And obvious to see
We choose the things that matter
Whatever they may be

What do women want?

To be listened to
Sometimes even heard
To be understood
With no single word

Forced to pass my lip
When I’m in a mood
Gain no inch of hip
From the richest food

To have time to learn
What I want to be
With my choice made firm
But not thrust on me

To be given space
Not ignored or dumped
When my monthly face
Means you’re ego-thumped

To be free to choose
What good sense demands
Not resent the use
Of another’s plans

To feel light with air,
Water on my skin
Know that others care
How things sit within

Go at my own pace
Home by hearth and range
Move from place to place
When I need a change

Work for what I want
Hard and fast as Hell
But relax at night
With a friend as well

To have funds enough
For a pair of shoes
Strength to brave the rough
When I have the blues

Words to speak my mind
When I’m tied of tongue
Friends who’ll still be kind
When all’s said and done

So the world may see
With no need to hide
All the truth of me
Who I am inside

Some questions are not meant to be asked

When I was but a little lamb
I rarely pondered why I am.
And yet as now my whiskers grow
I wonder, do I want to know?
Philosophers do quite a bit
Of reasoning on this subject…
Perhaps it’s better left alone
The answer to me’s an unknown.
We humans are a curious lot
And choose to prod more oft than not
At puzzles plagueing to our mind
Not fearing what we seek to find
And rarely pausing in our quest
To ask if knowing why is best?
Some things are meant as mystery
Still others, such as we can’t see
Or comprehend, though try we might
To find solutions to our plight.
Yet knowing not as I do now
Is lesser agony somehow
Than understanding finally
What little point there is to me.