Of Stardust Born

This sky, my sky was blue with joy all day. How quickly this sky, my sky turned black from exhaustion; worn out from weary obeisance to King Sun whose splendour is glimpsed one half of every twenty four hours. This night, my night of winking stars; stars shimmering behind fuzzy white clouds; stars alive far beyond the constricted perimeter of our solar cocoon. Tonight’s constellation I can only imagine for the universe, my universe, is walled behind the fog that floats below the sky, my sky. I hear the drones of aeroplanes flying above cotton buds pregnant with vapour and I am comforted that at least someone up there is pondering how wondrous it is to be one with stardust. My stardust.


Nothing To Fear

Craving to be popular and fitting in
Buries our singular individualism
Imitation may be the best kind of flat-
tery; to pacesetters, but not copycats
For a thing to be different
It, first, must not be the same
One might as well quote Foucault
For it’s better to be an originator

Hankering after success
Leads others to like you less
For to supplant them yet remain friends
Is a sore contradiction in terms
Keep your friends in close
And your enemies even closer
One might as well quote Machiavelli
For he was wise to sly demagoguery

Praying for immortality
Denies the evolutionary duality
For as Earth has, its energy, given us
Its fair and fulsome price, pay, we must
All the world’s a stage and we are but
Bit players with entrances and exits
One might as well quote Shakespeare
For there’s nothing to fear, but fear


Ah, Spring … We’ve Been Expecting

Ah, Spring
We’ve been expecting you

Longer suns, shorter moons
Warm dawns, cold monsoons
Long walks, short tempers
Hot Jocks, iced Vanillas

Tank tops, muffin tops, flip flops
Struts and poise, fresh faced boys
Lasses in season, cute belly button
Blushing mothers, incensed Papas
[“You’re not going out in THAT!”]


Old lovers bashful no longer
Car park roving, night time dogging
Primal, tribal, anonymous, perfidious
Pensive, restive
Icky, sticky, licky, messy

[It’s here! ‘Tis the season for ….]
Relatives! Banns! The Expense!
Wedding bells, giddy spells
Telling kisses, fretful Missus
Relatives! Cause such Offence!

Seaside reveries, holiday miseries
Wasp blue loafers
Pool tanned shoulders
Lens, rucksack, cameras
Theft! Damn foreigners

New books, unread tomes
Unrequited looks, forgotten names
Fickle friends, fecund thoughts
Fecal thoughts, Flickr friends

Parades, charades, sunshades, lemonades
Babbles, revels, prattles, drivels

Ah, Spring
We’ve been expecting you

Books, Culture, Musings

Ballade Of The Bookworm

by Andrew Lang (1844-1912)

Far in the Past I peer, and see
A Child upon the Nursery floor,
A Child with books upon his knee,
Who asks, like Oliver, for more!
The number of his years is IV,
And yet in Letters hath he skill,
How deep he dives in Fairy-lore!
The Books I loved, I love them still!

One gift the Fairies gave me:  (Three
They commonly bestowed of yore)
The Love of Books, the Golden Key
That opens the Enchanted Door;
Behind it BLUEBEARD lurks, and o’er
And o’er doth JACK his Giants kill,
And there is all ALADDIN’S store, –
The Books I loved, I love them still!

Take all, but leave my Books to me!
These heavy creels of old we bore
We fill not now, nor wander free,
Nor wear the heart that once we wore;
Not now each River seems to pour
His waters from the Muses’ hill;
Though something’s gone from stream and shore,
The Books I loved, I love them still!


Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea,
We bow submissive to thy will,
Ah grant, by some benign decree,
The Books I loved–to love them still.