Would you go to school reunions now, and share old classroom tales?

If you’d opened up, so counselors could understand you fully,

Would the knowledge they’d acquired have taken more wind from your sales?

(2)If you’d stood up to your father, when he made you go to Uni,

Doing courses you detested, would you like your new career?

If you’d gone to the gymnasium, when ladies called you puny,

Would you soon have gotten married to the one you thought was dear?

(3)If you’d worked your own agenda, and then gone the extra distance,

Would that usage of your time have given you a just reward?

If you’d left the church’s leadership to other working Christians,

Could some social life nostalgia moments of those days be stored?

(4)If you’d tolerated evil, when the time had come for battle,

Would you now retain some friends, who then became the foes you fought?

If you’d been content participating in the pointless prattle,

Would you now feel more accepted, less alone and overwrought?

(5)If you’d pushed aside your limits, thinking they could be exceeded,

Would you make the roadways safer, as you struggled at the wheel?

If you’d gambled with your destiny, when hesitance was needed,

Would the period to follow have been less of an ordeal?

(6)If you’d listened to the voices, who determined what was trendy,

Would you know yourself today, while drowning in the status quo?

If you’d thrown out childhood literature, like Peter Pan and Wendy,

Would your adult way of life enable you to truly grow?

(7)Would attempts to make lasagna not be misconstrued as arson,

If you’d done a course that taught you how to imitate a chef?

Would these skills have brought you and your girlfriend closer to the parson,

If you’d settled down, before your time in nightclubs turned you deaf?

(8)Are you just the final product of the choices you decided,

Back when you were far too young to take your whole life by the reins?

Do you shoulder blame for errors made, when help was not provided,

When you found yourself depending on your instinct and your brains?

(9)If you had the chance to start again, and take the road not traveled,

Would the outcome take you closer or still further from your goals?

If the tapestry of threads that were your life became unraveled,

Could you sew them back together, without leaving any holes?

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at RIDES NOT TAKEN.

The boy and then teleport him to the place of his choosing at much reduced size.

He used it at random, and found himself suddenly out in a lady’s backyard.

The 21 year old housewife soon detected his presence; and his way was barred.

She captured the boy, and went into her kitchen, and taunted the boy, with great mirth,

Announcing intentions to eat him for lunch. So he looked at her favourable girth.

She warmed up the oven, and placed him inside it, until he was warm, but not hot.

He wondered if he would remain in her thoughts, or become the meal she soon forgot.

She went to the table, with him on a plate, and sat down, with her huge threatening tongue

Preparing to act as a path to her throat and her stomach, where fate had now flung

His future. He looked at her opening mouth, as she lifted him into the air.

Now laughing, she soon placed him into her mouth; and she gobbled him down without care.

He settled himself in her stomach, enjoying the comforts of its inner wall,

Until, to his utter surprise, the device brought him home with its auto-recall,

Restoring his size. Then the boy was reluctant to go on a second shrink test.

He thought of the woman who’d willingly gulped him to somewhere quite close to her chest.

At twenty he went to a party and met her again. She had been through divorce,

But still enjoyed life, thinking she had consumed him forever, devoid of remorse.

She wasn’t aware, that the boy at this party had once been diminutive prey,

Which she had enjoyed, in the past, when he’d gone to her backyard, so tiny, that day.

She asked the boy out on a date, and he welcomed the chance to enjoy a nice kiss.

Then after three months, he proposed, and he knew that it would be most surely remiss

Of him, not to tell her how they’d met before. So he did, and enjoyed the riposte.

She said, “If you don’t wish to marry me now, then the love that we have will be lost.”

“I do,” said the boy, “So I wanted to tell you the truth of that day when I shrank.

You’ve made me so happy, since we started dating, that I can remember your prank,

With joy, since the mouth you made use of, to eat me, is now free to kiss me instead.”

So, once they’d prolonged their engagement, the boy and the love of his young life were wed.

Return to Top

(for Amanda, who wanted to shrink and eat me. Sorry I can’t agree, but here’s your fantasy brought to life as is best possible).

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at YOUTH IS TASTED ON THE TONGUE.

And soon after his next birthday, her old mansion would be sold,

Since she died, and he would miss them both, as nine years changed the date.

He completed school, did two years work, and started college late.

(2)At the end of his first Uni year, he used semester break,

To get on his pushbike, ride ten miles, and use the street to take

Some new photographs of that old house, that stood in Memory Lane.

Then a lady pulled up in the drive, and Tom had to explain.

(3)So he told her how he’d visited his great aunt, and she’d died.

She invited him to take more pictures of the house inside.

They exchanged their names, and hers was Angel. She had long blond hair,

And she wore a dark blue dress, which caught his eyes and made him stare.

(4)Angel showed him in, and chatted, as the camera’s shutters moved

More than those beside the windows, and he noticed she approved

Of his dedicated efforts to preserve the life he’d known.

He used up his roll of film, while she was talking on the phone.

(5)He soon asked her if he could come back, when he had bought some more.

She took out an unused roll of film she’d kept in her desk drawer.

“You can have this as a gift, if you could stay for lunch as well,”

Angel told him, and he found himself enchanted by her spell.

(6)With her wedding ring to think of, he stayed focused on the shots

That he took of her interiors, while Angel warmed some pots.

She prepared a tasty pasta, which they ate, while she detailed

How she’d married, bought the house, and then her husband’s health had failed.

(7)For two years she’d been a widow, and the house was now a shrine,

And the memories of their lost loved ones would start to intertwine,

As a thirty year old widow, and a boy were growing fond

Of each other, with that mansion as a setting for a bond.

(8)He told stories of old visits there, and picnics on the lawn.

Then the sunlight shone upon her face, as Angel had to yawn.

She proposed that they might have the next day’s lunch out on the grass,

And he thought of Angel married, when those years had had to pass.

(9)Now they shared the common ground, specifically that block of land,

And the ghosts they knew that no-one else could ever understand.

He accepted her proposal, and soon bought a “Thank you” card,

And some chocolates, which he handed her, as they walked through her yard.

(10)They enjoyed the picnic lunch, and she invited him to stay,

For a chat up on the balcony, and let him lead the way.

She was thrilled by how he knew his way around each nook and cranny,

And he told her how he’d used the cellar once, to hide from Nanny.

(11)They walked out onto the balcony, and Tom said, “When I came,

I was glad to see the garden and the house looked just the same.

It feels just like fifteen years ago, on days when my great aunt

And I both looked out at every creeper vine and growing plant.”

(12)”Tom, you’re sweet to buy me chocolates,” Angel candidly responded,

“And it’s nice the way we’ve shared the stories of this house and bonded.

For the first time, I’ve met someone who has helped me break the seal,

Of the lonely widow syndrome, but I don’t know how you feel.”

(13)”I feel nice,” said Tom, “It’s special to be spending two days here.”

Angel thanked him and then asked, “But have I got the wrong idea?
What I mean, is: Do you like me, or do you just like this place?”

He had never had a girlfriend. Now this doll was giving chase.

(14)”Yes, I really like you, Angel. I’m just scared to mix my past

With a future that could hurt me, if your feelings might not last.”

Her mouth opened in surprise, and she said, “You’re the younger man.

But you’ve thought this out so deeply, since your visits here began.

(15)I have turned away proposals from each Dick, and every Harry,

But not every Tom, because you’re one, whom I would love to carry

Me across the threshold in the future, once we two have dated

For the next two years, until such time as you have graduated.”

(16)Tom said, “When I first met you, I was unnerved about one thing,

As I came to take the pictures, and I saw your wedding ring.

I still thought it would be wrong to interrupt your right to grieve.

With my photographs all taken, I decided I should leave.”

(17)”You don’t have to leave,” said Angel, “With your help, my grief has gone.

If you’d like to see some more of me, I’m ready to move on.”

“I sure would,” said Tom, “if I don’t disappoint you. Being new

To this dating thing, I guess you’ll have to teach me what to do.”

(18)Summer sun lit up the garden, but the balcony was shady,

As she smiled and moved towards him. “Have you ever kissed a lady?”

Angel asked. He said, “I’ve never had a girlfriend, so to speak. ”

Then she smiled, and put one hand behind his neck, and kissed his cheek.

(19)Then she placed her other arm around his back, and took the lead,

As she taught him every kissing move, until they both agreed,

That the time had come to move inside and use the couch instead.

They were both too clean in mind, to jump the gun, and use the bed.

(20)They sat on the couch, and felt the cushions underneath them dip,

And he ran each finger slowly over her soft lower lip.

They embraced, and felt their touching cheeks was unity assured,

As Tom realized this vacation would leave no time to be bored.

(21)She’d inherited a chain of fashion stores, that dealt in flowers

As a sideline to enhance the atmosphere in business hours.

As the owner, she could take time off, to coincide with his,

Angel told him, as she poured some lemonade that kept its fizz.

(22)With the daylight saving sunlight still to last for quite a while,

Angel’s bicycle and his went wheeling round, until a mile

Of her suburb had been covered, and he hazarded a guess

That her own department store supplied her flowery white long dress.

(23)”I designed this one myself,” she said, “with flowers in pale red.

They’re the same as those that grow around the mansion’s old back shed.

Then the “tailor made” department had it made in several days.

Will you let me read your college work: those stories, and the plays?”

(24)She was lost in everything he wrote; and used her drawing skill

To make illustrations for the novels he worked on, until

One book publisher, who’d previously turned his books away,

Had a change of heart, and knew that now the customers would pay.

(25)When his college course was finished, and he didn’t have to cram,

Putting dates with her on hold, the night before his last exam,

He rode out of university, a bachelor of study

Up to Angel’s suburb, skidding on some road that rain made muddy.

(26)He fell off the bike, and hit his head, and passed out on the road,

Where his girlfriend lived, while clouds above went into downpour mode.

Then eventually her car pulled up, when she came driving by,

And she thought that he was dead, and stroked his head, and had to cry.

(27)”Tom, I loved you more than even my old husband. It’s not fair,”

Angel wept, as he woke up, and felt her fingers on his hair.

“It’s alright. I skidded off the road, fell down, and then I must

Have collapsed, once I had hit my head, and ended up concussed.

(28)Roadside grass has saved me from a bruise. I’m glad you came and found

Me down here, and kept me safe, since there was no-one else around.”

She secured the car, and left it, and they walked the pushbike in,

And she bandaged his right hand with rolls of something soft and thin.

(29)Angel gently held his hands and said, “I thought I’d lost another,

And before we could get married.” Then she used her lips to smother

Him with countless lovely kisses. Tom said, “Does this really mean,

That you’re seriously willing to get married? I’m still keen.

(30)And in fact, that’s why I cycled up. I hope this isn’t rash.

Could you help me open this? My hands are clumsy from the crash.”

He took out a small container, and she lifted up the lid,

And she saw a wedding ring, and said, “Of course I’m still keen, kid.

(31)Now I guess it’s time to take this old ring off, and start anew.”

“You don’t need to take it off,” said Tom, “I’m sure there’s room for two,

Your first ring is on your right hand, as a memory and a token,

And this new one tells the world the sleeping widow has awoken.”

(32)”I can’t believe how sweet you are,” said Angel, “I’ll do what you’ve said,

Now I think you should lie down, since you just hurt your handsome head.

I’ll still stay and keep you company, and make some wedding plans.”

They discussed things, and her sports car soon drove westward, dragging cans.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at THE MANSION IN MEMORY LANE.

And carelessly stepped on the Moss;

Who delivered a lot of unbalancing shocks,

While trying too much, to be boss.

Though I usually found my feet able to grip,

At this time, I started to skid.

So I panicced, and had to inevitably slip,

To land on my skin, God forbid.

As I fell down the hill, and continued to roll,

My body drew close to Split Creek,

Which would chill heart and body (but never the soul).

I felt myself growing quite weak.

I reviewed the deceptions of Moss, which pretends

To be rosey red, when it’s green;

So decidedly green, that it willingly lends

Itself to cause me to careen.

Though my injuries had been already accrued,

From bumps I sustained in the fall,

They were nothing, compared to what might have ensued,

In Split Creek, if I couldn’t stall.

But like Jonah, commanded to speak; but who had

A Whale of a time out at sea;

Still reluctant to talk, lest I make the Moss mad,

I suffered what happened to me.

I remembered the thought of a mountain top queen,

Before the fall sought to distract.

I rhetorically asked myself “What does it mean?”

And stopped rolling, ready to act.

Then, rebuking the Moss, I was quick to regain

My vision of queen of goodwill.

Then I thought (as I realised I couldn’t complain):

I might have climbed up the wrong hill.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at SLIPPING ON THE MOSS.

To provide me with some novelties, at all those garage sales;

And I don’t think I’d be interested to own a pachyderm;

But White Elephant retailing’s how to end a school’s third term.

I’ve a china cabinet (from a second hand store) filled with wares:

China animals in jungle grouping, farmyard. I’ve got shares

In the leftovers of households who, on one promoted date,

Will have opened up their front yards on a Saturday at eight.

I’ve got jackets you can’t find in any modern fashion store,
And a book collection, gathered from what others read before.

I must feel no shame in willingness to treasure someone’s trash,

When the value of their hand-me-outs exceeds the parting cash.

If you saw my rooms, you’d never tell which fine upmarket brand

Of equipment came with shop receipts, and which was second hand.

But the stuff that I end up with’s really only half the buzz.

It’s the driving ’round and finding it, that drives, as driving does.

There are friendly looks from people, who’ve enjoyed the goods they sell.

Now they’ll pass it on, just glad that you can use their things as well.

It’s a chance to meet the locals, just before they relocate,

Or perhaps it’s how you’ll find an old elusive china plate.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at SATURDAY’S GOODS.

(From when optimism shined, and felt no need for second sight);

And contain it in the formula, that I’m preparing now,

I can climb the trees in modern woods, and never break a bough.

Should I snatch a scrap of Paris, clasping firmly with my grip

(So the fancy streets and shining lights would validate the trip);

And include that with more images collated in this art,

Then the collage of experiences needs no counterpart.

When I borrow just a tune from one musician’s repertoire

(Such that self-expression of another touches my radar);

And it’s added to the inspirations daydreams might compile,

I can move on, with a melody to motivate my smile.

I might revel in a chapter of the nicest story told

(Where the narrative has reached its peak, and calls for semibold);

And incorporate that into memories, gathered up, to date.

Its invigorating influence might prompt what I’ll create.

If I use a pinch of this, a dab of that, and shape the clay,

(I’ll unite my favourites into what I’m mixing up today).

Such a cocktail of connections would mean I’d be nine tenths there.

But that ten percent is vital; since it’s: knowing that you’d care.

Und du hörst das Wort ich sage; aber du verstehst mir nicht.

Ob in English oder Deutsch, ich doch vertraue mein Gedicht.

Gehst du Osten, Westen, Norden, Süden (Flugzeug oder Floss),

Wirdst du finden was du suchst, wenn du besuchst an meinem Schloss?††

Translations:

† Collective in the Castle

††And you hear the word I say, but you don’t understand me.

Whether in English or German, I still believe my poem.

If you go East, West North or South (by plane or raft),

Will you find what you’re seeking, if you visit my castle?

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Pieces of Where and When (Sammelwort in dem Schloss†).

With scenery improving, once I’d gone past Emu Plains.

I did not know the passengers around me, but perhaps one

Might care to play a card game, since we’d only come to Lapstone

(2)I closed my vintage fiction novel fast. So I could then look,

To see surrounding bushland, as the train pulled out of Glenbrook.

The concrete steps and walkway, over roads and rails and tracks stand

Beside the station fences, built more recently in Blaxland.

(3)Excited tourists took in views, and were not sorry too,

That urban redevelopment had not occurred in Warrimoo.

The summer sun that made them hot, and burnt their skin shall be

Forgotten now in Springwood, not too far from Winmalee.

(4)The clear far western air was like that from an open fridge:

And all the fruit was tasty at the shops in Falconbridge.

I underlined one station on timetables, with a thin pen.

You need to tell the guard if you intend to stop at Linden.

(5)My carriage weaving past the hills would often strike a good chord,

As I looked up at overpasses linking roads to Woodford.

My adult self did not forget the early childhood days he took

Excursions with school second class beyond the streets of Hazelbrook.

(6)The bushwalks were worth doing, and these verses should endorse one.

My ears repressurized, to suit the greater heights of Lawson.

The fields were green, and gumtree trunks a somewhat duller colour,

And horses drank fresh water from a pond in Bullaburra.

(7)A roundhouse in a paddock, with tall arches in its walls,

Preceded several pine trees that I passed in Wentworth Falls.

The suburbs further on provided still more atmosphere:

The highest peaks and widest views that came with that lost year.

(8)The weekend trips grew cooler, as the months became a memory:

February, March and April. Each of them was only temporary.

The further up I went each time, before I’d be alighting,

The more the sights I saw up there were ever more exciting.

(9)The red leaves looked as they did, in a 1900s autumn.

I needed winter gloves, and found a clothing shop, and bought some.

The flowers in the gardens of a holiday retreat

In bloom would make the image in my photograph complete

(10)In Medlow Bath, a friend and I went searching for an airstrip

Out somewhere in the bush. I asked a lady with a hairclip,

If she might know the route we’d need to find our destination.

The travel map I’d used had aged too much since publication.

(11)That 1997 afternoon in mid-July

We waited for our fellow mountain walker’s best reply:

“I haven’t come across that place in any of my walks,”

She said, as night began to fall on dandelion stalks.

(12)My friend and I discussed new ways to make the night go well,

And watched the lights go on outside that suburb’s grand hotel,

Enjoyed its lounge room fire, and then went home by heavy rail,

Imagining those three explorers charting out a trail.

(13)Thankfully, since they produced their maps on ancient parchments,

No-one found a way to bulldoze through those high escarpments.

Now, years later, still convinced that mountain life was best,

I relocated to this land beyond the city’s west.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at NIGHTFALL IN MEDLOW BATH.

All the minor faults of Christians, while I miss the love of God.

I defend my rights to swindle you, as long as I can pick

One cathedral in a hundred, where the dead have caught the quick.

So I shun the men, who promulgate and serve communion bread,

As I justify the heartless things I’ve done with life instead.

I’ll attack the credibility of all religious creeds,

To procrastinate the chances of the pastor sewing seeds.

I’ll ignore the fact that Jesus came to die upon the cross

To redeem the sins that brought my soul near such a tragic loss;

As I focus on the things that drag the Lord’s name through the mud,

Never mindful of the way He offered up his precious blood.

I’ll enjoy the jokes that paint the Bible’s narrative with smut,

While I overdose on drugs to dull the anguish in my gut.

I’ve no time for church on Sunday, since I’ll spend the day in bed,

With a hangover of damage to my liver, lungs and head.

But this doesn’t really matter, once my high tech microscope

Helps me spot the spec in your eye; so that I won’t need to cope

With the knowledge that my vision’s been distorted by a plank.

When I’m barred from Heaven later, I’ll just have myself to thank.

I will question those afflictions that a God of love permits,

While I bless the world with dodgy deals, to prove the slipper fits;

So that God becomes a scapegoat for discomforts men have made,

Like depletion of the ozone; though God’s trees have yielded shade.

I blame God for child abuse by men who infiltrated deep

Into youth groups; as it won’t occur to me that God will weep

So much harder than the rest of us, when children bear a scar

Put there by someone without the gospel in his repertoire.

I can take the wide and easy road, with words to please the crowd,

Who will never know the secrets I’m afraid to voice aloud,

Of my private insecurities, which God would love to heal,

If my sour grapes gave way to humble pie for my next meal.

I’ll forever point the finger at the preachers on TV

Taking tithes, because I’ve missed the point that my salvation’s free;

If I’d make a true repentance and accept God’s greatest gift

Of the sacrifice He made to fix a most expansive rift.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at My Oculist was a Carpenter.

The Chrono-Car, and used it to explore the fourth dimension.

He revved it up, and traveled back through 23 years’ history,

And then the engine used up all supplies of his magistery.

Now trapped back when his childhood self had only just turned seven,

And frequently thrown out those brown bread sandwiches with devon

His mother made; Brint chose to spare himself the wierdest meeting.
He steered clear of the school, where he’d endured a frequent beating.

He met a blond haired lady his own age, and slowly courted;

And then they got engaged, but his indulgences were thwarted.

She dyed her hair to brown, and now looked strangely too familiar.

Their three year romance took his thoughts to days of juvenilia.

For Tina now resembled all his deepest recollections:
The teacher in his sixth class year, for whom he held affections,

But couldn’t share, because of different ages and those fissures

Dividing them, because her only known first name was “Mrs.”

So “Tina Long,” her married name, before the timeline altered,

Confronted him with guilt; since he had well and truly faltered,

By stopping her from meeting Mr Long, when he had entered,

And tried to buy a life from her, which he had really rented.

Tormented by morality, he pondered all the choices,

Recalling all those recent dates in cheaply hired Rolls Royces.

Should he arrange for Mr Long and her to meet and marry,

And then seek someone single in the past, where he’d still Tarry?

Or should he marry Tina, and let Mr Long be cheated

Of destined love, if what had gone “before” was not repeated?

He thought that she should know the truth, and do her own deciding,

Confessed (except Long’s name), and hoped his teacher would start guiding.

She said, “I’ll marry you, and have no wish to still discover

Identities of might-have-beens,” which made Brent really love her,

“Why don’t you choose an alias, to safeguard your persona

From sharing names with your young self, who must remain a loner?”

Invent a name like Mr Long, and be my true intended.

Don’t worry how the broken threads of time will all be mended.”

“Did you say Long?” asked Brint, “That means the Mrs Long who taught me

Was married to my older self, while 6th class Brint was naughty.

My childhood self was jealous, while I was my greatest rival:

Your adult husband, while my younger self would seek survival

In mucking up at school. No wonder you gave much attention

To teaching him the right ways, and gave him an hour’s detention.”

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at LONG JOURNEY.

That still lives today on Christmas cards all packed up now? Is that so?

Would the lamps that light the pathways put a glow upon her face?

Are these images of fantasies all gone without a trace?

Is she staring from the window of a house, with fascination,

And now totally enthralled by crystal clear precipitation,

Lightly falling down, to make the grass a darker shade of green,

And still willing for the happiness she sought at sweet sixteen?

Is she smiling in the sunshine of the inner city skylines;-

Looking pretty as a photograph unsuited to the bylines

All contained inside newspapers circulating with great speed?

Is she reaching for the clouds, and hoping that she’ll soon be freed?

Could she be a long lost princess, well-concealed within the fog?

Is she now beyond her thirties, and yet free to kiss the frog,

Thus transforming him into the prince he’d never ceased to be;

And especially if that prince of hers is someone just like me?

Is she free of all commitments made before the time was right,

And now open to her destiny in silent streets one night,

To become that part of me, which I have yet to find for sure,

That soft part that fills the void, so there can be no need for more?

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at LADY FROM SOMEWHERE ELSE.