Fraud (poem/poetry)

Shhhhh! don’t tell, but I’m a fraud,

It makes me cringe when some applaud,

And praise me for what I have done,

Are they telling the truth, or just having fun?

‘Oh, poor love, she gave it a try,

So we’ll humour her with a lie.’

 

I look at things that others do,

And lament, ‘I’m not as good as you,’

But still, some see fit to commend,

As though I am on par with them,

It only serves to confuse,

Perhaps it’s all part of their ruse?

 

Imposter Syndrome is far too grand,

For the likes of who I am,

But an imposter is how I feel,

Just a pretender, nothing real,

Don’t use the writer/artist label,

For me ‘cause all I do is dabble.

 

With educated intellectuals,

My poor mind seems ineffectual,

Enlightened ones in all their wisdom,

I look like a cheap imitation,

Surely someone will discover,

The truth about me and tear me asunder.

 

Fake, Phoney, Charlatan, Sham,

Names I too well understand,

I’m just playing at being clever,

I wonder if I will ever,

Believe the compliments that some give me,

Or forever be burdened by this insecurity?

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Anguish (poem/poetry)

Sit I here,

Eyes in tears,

Mind not knowing what.

 

Throat gripped by fear,

No comfort near,

Stomach in a knot.

 

Heart filled with doubt,

Voice needs cry out,

At betrayal cruel.

 

Can’t have that,

Cause family spat,

Anguish only fueled.

Thorns (poem/poetry)

Prickly, yes,

A good description,

But no plant evolves thorns without good reason,

And so it is with people.

 

Your thorns have grown from your scars,

Battle wounds,

From everyday skirmishes,

That most people have no comprehension of.

 

Wars that only the few have to fight,

From a very early age,

That tear you down before you’ve even begun to grow up,

That define you, if you let them.

 

Some wear their wounds like a badge of honour,

On display for all to see,

A reason to stay stuck, comfortable and familiar,

But not you.

 

You chose to grow,

To fight back and learn from the battles,

To grow around and past the wounds,

Though, naturally, thorns sprung up from them.

 

And the lessons have served you well,

As have the thorns,

Able to embrace every challenge,

While keeping the fear at bay.

 

Prickly? Yes,

A good description,

But a rose cannot blossom,

Without the thorns that protect it.

Inquisitive (poem/poetry)

There are those who chose to live,

Without an inquisitive,

Nature to any degree,

What they don’t believe,

They cannot see.

 

Believe in every religious story,

Believe in myth and allegory,

Never question,

Trust blind faith,

And watch a good mind go to waste.

 

All good scientists scrutinize,

Every notion they theorize,

Careful claiming absolutes,

In their search,

For the truth.

 

I know which is the path for me,

Analyzing all I see,

Open mind and open heart,

Inquisitiveness,

The place to start.

Memory of Place (Poem/Poetry)

I can show you the place where I’ve lived most of my life,

But it’s not the place in my memory.

 

I could take you to the local shops, where the fruit shop was,

Where the fruit was stacked neatly in rows,

The green tissue paper contrasting,

With the red of the apples it was wrapped around.

And Mr Q would give us a piece of fruit to eat,

While he spun brown paper bags of produce through the air to twist their corners.

The shop is gone, as is the arcade it fronted,

The arcade we weren’t allowed to walk down,

Even to this day I don’t know why, I don’t know what went on there.

 

The chemist is still there,

But it’s not the one I knew,

It’s been rebuilt, on the site of the arcade.

Gone are the quaint double wooden doors,

And the scales where we used to get weighed,

The smell is absent, that medical, chemical scent,

With notes of soap and powder,

That somehow reassured that Mr C could cure any ill,

And would reward bravery with a jelly bean or two.

 

Long gone is old Mr R, shopping strip handy-man extraordinaire,

Whose wife couldn’t have children and who had no-one of his own,

So adopted all his neighbour’s kids instead,

And would give us rides on the mechanical kangaroo outside the milk bar,

He’d buy us a Cadbury Cub bar or a chocolate Yogi Bear (eat the hat and tie first),

Or a plastic spaceman of orange drink,

That he would cut the top off with his pocket knife,

Or a cup of milk, from the vat,

That could only be reached with the long handled dipper.

 

Of course, there was more than one milk bar, three or four within walking distance,

And the funny thing is, we didn’t buy milk from any of them,

Milk and bread were delivered to our door daily.

Milk bars were for treats; icy poles, chocolate, lollies and milk shakes,

We were allowed to walk to the closest on our own, with our few cents to spend,

But not to the one up the back, run by red haired ruffians, we were told,

We weren’t to go there alone.

All but one are gone now, put out of business by convenience stores and supermarkets,

And the shops have been replaced by doll-house-sized town houses.

 

Yes, I can show you the place where I’ve lived most of my life,

But it’s not the place in my memory.

Creative Constraint (Poetry/Pantoum)

Constraint breeds creativity,

Stretch your mind,

To overcome difficulty,

Be like Tim Gunn and make it work.

 

Stretch your mind,

Summon your ingenuity,

Be like Tim Gunn and make it work,

A solution can be found.

 

Summon your ingenuity,

Learn to think laterally,

A solution can be found,

Just think outside the box.

 

Learn to think laterally,

To overcome difficulty,

Just think outside the box,

Because constraint breeds creativity.

Future Past (Poetry)

I turn on the stereo and find myself stuck in the past,

When there was this music,

And there was youth and energy and vitality,

And there was dancing,

And alcohol and weed,

And there were boys,

And lust and love and sex,

And hope and dreams and a future,

And no clue that all of it would dissolve into this shitty, little life.