I write mostly poetry, ranging from serious to just plain silly - and you'll probably find some bits of prose around here as well. Hope you enjoy them!
To read my travelogues, click here.
Sonya
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Last updated 05-11-03. A-Z Index:
What exactly happened during those first few hazy hours of Isidro’s existence is unclear, first there was the explosion… or was he already there? Whatever the true sequence of events, there he was. It was almost as if he was created out of all the radioactive dust clouds, war-cries and half-formed, confused battle plans of the Great Battle – but he didn’t quite look the part, in fact, he was a young boy, dark haired and freckled with a smiling, if rather confused face and thoughtful, inquisitive eyes. Somehow, he seemed completely unpeturbed by the explosions and violence arouund him.
Clumsily, he clambered out of the crater, the sickly mushroom cloud rising about him as he stumbled over the smoking debris.
There was innocence about him, yet at the same time, he seemed fully aware of the horror around him.
Isidro walked through the shattered town as conflicting faiths rained down around, he didn’t understand – why were they all fighting? Shouldn’t the world seem the same to them all? To him, life was simple: he was Isidro, and he was alive, and that’s all there was to it.
Spurred on by his curiosity, he headed towards a large crowd... “Away in yer birdie world again?” A harsh voice plunged her back to earth and out of her reverie, “wastin’ yer time over silly dreams,” continued her mother, “I tell yer Caliga, if humans were s’posed to fly they’d be given wings, so enough of your wishing nonsense and mind yer don’t go far – the storm’s comin’!” with that, she turned and bustled back towards the house, muttering about unhelpful children and peas that needed shelling.
Caliga sighed, ruffled imaginary feathers, and stared after her mother with what she hoped to be the superior, defiant glare of an albatross. Then, ignoring her mother’s words, she stalked off towards the forest, once again lapsing into her daydream of flight.
As she walked, something came back to her again and again, the story of Volucris... It is a dangerous time in which we find our young hero Geoff Stogley, knight in training and seeker of adventure – the land was barren, the people were hostile, and worst of all: the fridge was empty…
“More cake dear?” asked Geoff’s mother coming in from a fresh batch of baking, jam making and every other culinary, maternal pastime that, for her, involved too much sugar and not enough attention.
“No thanks mum,” groaned Geoff resignedly. He’d seen this coming, he knew that a visit to his parents would result in being plied relentlessly with burnt, sweet offerings, debated with himself endlessly about whether he really needed the extra glucose and pleasantries of an awkward family gathering, but in the end, the void in his fridge won out… besides, his shirt needed ironing.
“So, how are you getting on with work dear?” asked his mother, iron in one hand and a fresh batch of scones in the other.
“Mum, if you’re asking whether I’m still a knight searching for adventure then –”
“I do wish you’d stop calling unemployment that Geoffrey...
SH.
A man sitting opposite on the Underground, Another Working Day, Anti-fur, A Part of Your Verse, Barsucks, the Battle (short story), Caliga (short story), Double Maths, the Elephant, Existence, Geoff and the Dragon (short story), I'm Drawing the Line, The Journey of a Leaf, Killing Time, Ode to the Lemon, Seven/Eleven, the Unrequited Love of a Pigeon, What next?
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Note: the pieces below are in no particular order, please consult the A-Z Index (above) if you wish to read something in particular.
The Unrequited Love of a Pigeon
Let your wings be mine,
Let us dine on a crumb together;
My feathers are yours, dear-
From claws to beak I seek no fairer.
Please, let us share our fleas
And rest in one nest above Boots.
Accept this cosy posy of twigs,
(Only the best dregs for you dear).
I'll even care for our eggs.
You are my bird of paradise,
Let me be your dove,
Your love-er true,
I 'coo'
You.
The Response
Your sentiments are sweet,
I must admit I like the way you tweet.
But alas, I don't give a hoot
About Boots,
I am no owl.
To tell you the truth
I think you are fowl,
You think that life's a lark;
A flutter down the park.
I hate the way you strut,
You're out of luck,
Chuck.
We're not of a feather, see?
Don’t flock with me!
This piece has been chosen as a 'Guide Pick' in About.com's Teen Writing category.
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Another Working Day
Silent as a burglar,
The light stole upon the rooftop plated, night sedated atlas of The City.
Charring Cross to West End Lane,
The vanishing moon dragging off it's star filled swag-bag,
Sideling off to bed with cats and nightshift-workers.
And still, the reports go on:
"A chance of rain, light cloud coverage."
A hint for escape from the solar searchlight -
A hint lost to the oblivious incarcerated,
Whose paper-weighted limbs have learnt to respond
When tickers buzz and buzzers click,
The gearshift and lift,
Of another working day.
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Existence
Eons away, across the Vast Expanse
A cloud
Explodes
And a new star is born.
Fuelled by its fiery birth,
The star hurtles across the expanse of human infinity
Space is great to the newborn
As the star rises on an alien planet,
Spilling its light across the fathomless vacuum,
Lightness and dark entwined.
Forever hidden in the mystery of the universe,
The star lives out its turbulent life
And slowly ages
Then finally,
After inconceivable millennia –
Death…
Yet there is no Death,
Only the movement of particle to particle,
Time to time,
Never ceasing
Never ceasing
Never ceasing
Existence.
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The Battle
(an allegorical tale partly in response to recent events)
Thunder rolled on the scene of battle as the armies of Beliefs and Opinions clashed. Utter chaos reigned, nobody knew who was winning or losing, yet each was convinced at having reached the relative high ground of Moral Hill – nobody really knew where that was either, but all claimed to have found it, this only made things worse as numerous warlords fought to gain the title of ‘The Ultimate Truth’… the definition of which was also disputed. Blood flowed like water.
(To continue reading, click here)
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Ode to the Lemon
O lemon on the table top
Don't you stop
To think about the zestiness of life?
Before the knife
Cuts through your skin,
And flesh?
Ponders thou philosophy
From when you grew upon that tree...
Until the squeeze,
Until the cup...
Lemon, do you think a lot?
Evidently not!
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Double Maths
Please speed up the timeless clocks!
Time runs slow until this stops.
The lesson seems so infinite,
Endless and indefinite.
Numbers churning up my brain
That ceased its function with the strain.
Nothing left ('cos I can't sue),
But grin and say that I can do
Those simultaneous equations,
And (half) positive correlations.
And then just scribble in my book,
Hoping nobody would look,
And see the crossings-outs that say:
"Hurry the bell! NO MORE TODAY.”
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Killing Time
An aged clock had once told me
That time is for the spending,
But now I've killed another day,
I'd best stop re-offending.
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Caliga
(A short, mythical tale about man's longing for flight)
I saw the clouds come chasing ‘cross the sky,
Riding fast on cool and lonely breeze,
It told the birds that it was time to fly,
Away from storm and to the shaded trees.
Caliga watched, marvelling at how the sombre movement of the clouds contrasted perfectly with the birds – quick and agile, sleek plumage glittering in the fading light of the sun. Each so different, so beautiful, so perfect, each in flight. And once again, as Caliga had felt many times in her childhood, she wished that she could be like them, to soar like the eagle, to perform acrobatics like the sparrow, to cut through the air like the swallow. She stared wistfully after the birds, now just small dots in the distance.
(To continue reading, click here)
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The Journey of a Leaf
To chase the clouds across the endless sky,
To ride the wind across the depthless sea,
To twirl and dance where men have lived and died,
The Journey of a leaf blown from a tree.
"Hear me, I am the child of oak and elm,
Of yew, of pine of rowan and of beech,
Once I had made the twisted roots my realm
But now unto the heavens I shall reach."
The leaf had died but still it journeys on,
It travels on the breeze it surfs the air,
As others like it crumple one by one,
They leave their homes but never shed a tear.
They ride the air and surf the waves at sea,
The journey of a leaf blown from a tree.
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The Elephant
(One of my first pieces)
I saw an elephant in the sky,
It had great wings and soared up high.
Pink with purple spots it shone,
Gleaming in the setting sun.
It flew with grace,
It flew with ease,
It flew into space,
And through the trees.
No one'd believe what I had seen,
(Perhaps their were not so keen)
But on that evening I did spy,
A flying elephant in the sky.
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What Next?
(A poem about the future... 'cos that's where we're headin'!)
Someone once asked me, "what next?"
And I thought of all the possibilities,
Endless probabilities-
What next?
What will emerge
From the verge of the future?
What will happen to me,
Or to you,
Or you...
Or even you?
What will we be doing,
What will be ensuing
From us varied bunch?
Scuba diver, lorry driver,
Worm farmer, nuclear disarmer,
Politician, dietician...
Or even on a mission
To be 'lemon of the year'?
Home caller, health restorer,
Business trader, alien invader,
Poet, writer, violin player,
Lighthouse lighter...
Vampire slayer?!
Endless possibilities
To infinite infinities,
This is what is next.
We can't know what's coming up ahead.
I said.
"What next?" repeated the annoyed waiter,
"Coffee or tea?"
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Seven/Eleven
(In memory of the last five years at GCH - The Grey Coat Hospital School)
Who'd have thought we'd spend the last five years in 'hospital'?
Starting in year seven,
As small and scared as fleas who've lost their dogs,
But now at ease.
Now it's school that's small,
The teachers no longer scary, glary eyed but human...
Well almost!
And the years in between,
The stuff we'll remember:
Teacher-reindeers in December,
Sayers Croft, chickpea ragoo,
Crusty lichen, painting the loo,
Grannies' day, water fight,
Homeless dance and you might
Remember Brighton and
The frightening BCG;
Beep-test, footfire in PE...
Even the Tercentenary.
Trip to France - seagull song,
Assemblies that got too long.
And of course,
So much to say about the staff,
That's worth a laugh...
[Warning glare from deputy head]
...ah, but that raises some concern,
As I am coming back, next term.
So now a note to all the change -
The good, the better and the strange,
Growing, hopefully achieving,
And to all those who are leaving -
I hope that we will keep in touch we
Say thankyou all,
And thankyou muchly.
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Barsucks
Seizing a spare minute of my day,
I went into Barstucks Cafe,
"A coffee please," I said
"What kind?"
The man with 'Trainee Barista' blazing
On his t-shirt pointed to a list of every
Coffee-hinted,
Caffeine-tinted drink in exsistence
"I think you would like the Coffee of the Day
Today we have Kenya, slow-drip, sip-dry,
Top-blending, patent-pending,
Low-blow, high-flow, offside, ground by
Native pygmy hippos on the banks of the Limpopo with a long stick."
"Err..."
"Bit strong for you?
Why not try our
Mocha-mochi-moccalato-latte -
Comes smooth or matte,
Fresh ground, low calory,
Biologically sound, high salary,
Blended as nature intended.
Comes with a biscuit."
In desperation I pointed at the cheapest thing on the menu.
Machinery clunked and dunked like a constipated steam engine until...
"Excellent choice! That's £2.54, and here's your
Grande hydro-oxy moreen, added flourene,
Clean tapped, unwrapped,
One blend, one end,
Electro-heated, slow-treated,
High pressure, health refresher special!"
I was candidly handed my drink...
...a cup of lukewarm water.
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I'm Drawing the Line
I'm drawing the line at violence,
I'm drawing the line at war,
I'm drawing the line at hatred
or taking from the poor.
I'm drawing the line at fighting
Or killing with a trap.
I'm drawing a line through my maths work -
My adding-up is crap.
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A man sitting opposite on the Underground
A poet, perhaps,
Mouthing silent beats of secret verse.
Thoughts imbued as much on page as mind,
Lines transcribed in thought and ink,
Sinking deep within each word.
Each broken time and anti-rhyme
Shuddering up the spine,
Jarring like chalk.
He could talk for hours
Within his nib-dipped, pen-tipped galaxy.
Noting inspiration of note as would a reporter
At the scene of a crime,
Forensic fingers searching for the right phrase,
Scalpel eyes poised for extraction,
Stitching the seams of each well-verse operation.
He flutters to a stop,
Leaving his train tracked verse hovering
For another time.
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A Part of Your Verse
Let me be your smile,
A reason for your muse,
The thought between the lines
Of a poem you can’t refuse.
Let me be within
The ink upon your page,
A starting point from which to write
And let your mind engage.
Upon its rhythm, sense and form,
Upon its place in time.
If you are every other word,
Let me be your rhyme.
Let me be within your verse,
As you are in mine.
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Anti-fur
Fur is far too hot,
For this time of year,
And like a ten pound note,
It's neither cheap nor dear!
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Geoff and the Dragon
(The (mis)adventures of Geoff...)
(To continue reading, click here)
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