Author Archives: Mark

A New Collar On My Shirt

The soft chair time is over.
Safety videos and handouts are done.
OSHA ten hours has finished and
The PPE assigned.

There will be no swivel chairs on wheels,
No cubicle with ample desk space;
No roomy overhead bins;
No filing cabinet and pinboard walls;
No frequent wanderings for multiple
Bathroom breaks or cups of coffee.

A different color collar makes for a different world:
Hard and dirty; tough and safe;
Instant camaraderie, nicknames flowing as
I’m overwhelmed with the feeling of working –
Really working – a gratifying sense of a void filled
Underlying the happiness of this new experience.

The transition is hard, yes,
But it is good, too.
And I feel like the All-American guy
Sung of by Springsteen or Mellencamp.

An original poem – please seek permission before reproducing in any way.

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To enjoy the more of my creative writing, check out the rest of this blog. You can also purchase Morning Meeting and other works (In My Words Vol. 1), and Needing Sleep and other works (In My Words Vol. 2), both available exclusively on Amazon Kindle, for just $0.99 each!

A Short Ode To An Enderman

Red, flashy Enderman,
don’t you like the rain?
Red, flashy Enderman,
does it give you pain?

An original poem – please seek permission before reproducing in any way.

….

To enjoy the more of my creative writing, check out the rest of this blog. You can also purchase Morning Meeting and other works (In My Words Vol. 1), and Needing Sleep and other works (In My Words Vol. 2), both available exclusively on Amazon Kindle, for just $0.99 each!

Small Bearing, Black Ink, Heavy Paper And Thoughts

Scratching across the thick paper
my modern implement connects me
to all those before me, using stylus
and wax, chalk and slate, quill and parchment.

Not always scribbling down the mundane
articles of life, sometimes the lines formed
special meaning for the slave or the country
or as a place to escape to, in myth and fantasy.

Carefully crafted, of curves and lines, of dots
and crosses, of punctuation and doodles.
Lines to bring a smile; paragraphs to bring grief;
tomes to bring energy to our lives.

We all can write.
We all are poets,
authors and philosophers.
We all are of worthy thoughts.

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The Meeting Place

Coffee shop observations.

The scratch of a pen.
Notebook leaves flap.
‘Phone ringtones buzz
and sing and ring, starting
one-sided converations.
Friendly chats around the
tables, over cups of steaming
and iced beverages.
Laughter echoes.
Students. Business people.
Unemployed.
Middle class homemakers,
getting in a break from
their runs and then
off to the high end market
or for a beauty treatment
before home to catch up on
their daily dose of soap operas.
We are all here.
The fix we need comes quick,
whether caffeine, company
or that wireless connection
to the wider world,
outside of this oasis.

An original poem – please seek permission before reproducing in any way.

He Sat At His Desk…

…surrounded by stacks of files and listening to the ever jolly holiday tunes on the radio. The files of people’™s lives meant nothing to him. He loathed his job. He despised the stupidity and slap-dashedness of colleagues and those who worked in the organizations that were used for other aspects of the process of which he was at the arse-end of.

And added to it all was the fact that today was payday, yet here he sat, looking at the computer monitor in front of him. The bank’s website showed him the truth, though there were occasions where even they would lie to him, drawing him deeper into the smothering feeling of poverty and self-loathing.

“Fifty-eight dollars and change”, he thought.

He clicked the “Log Out” button and hung his head, letting out a short, raspy, life-weary sigh.

His hands lifted and cupped his head. His wearisome, fatigued and stressed head. His throat now felt like someone was gently choking him, the same kind of throttling that he last experienced when his doctor checked his glands. His eyes felt like they were bulging dams, ready to release the salty streamlets of sorrow that his soul, or at least what was left of it, wanted to free for all eternity.

He raised his head and looked to the ceiling, all the while his hands stayed on his face; masks of impenetrable grief and anger. His hands slipped over his head and back to his face several time and a growl built up in him until it was released between the clenched teeth of societal censorship, issuing forth as a guttural hiss, barely perceptible by those around him.

His hand now fell to the desk, his right hand finding its way to the headphones lying there. He put them on, grabbed the mouse and clicked the button that set off the more favored Holiday tunes; the one of a dream dashed yet still held onto; the one of the reality of growing up. Despite their realistic and bleak words, they eased the melancholy.

“Something’ll work out. It always does”, he thought, remembering that Christmas meant a little extra cash, in the way of much appreciated presents from generous relatives.

His mood lifted.

They would just have to careful, that’s all. After all, they would usually have to stretch such a trifling amount to the next semi-monthly wage.

He hated this lifestyle: scrimping and saving; robbing Peter to pay Paul; paying a token to the creditors in the hopes that it kept them from releasing the financial hounds on them.

He did have a plan. He just needed the grace or good fortune to find himself a new job. He didn’t care whether or not it was one he would like, as long as it meant that the take-home was enough that it meant bills could be paid fully and on time, groceries and gas could be bought and they would still have enough for treat, luxuries and the non-essentials that makes one feel like more than a workhorse.

Autism II

Contains some profanity.

You took my son!
You stole our boy!
I hate you, you bastard!
You fucking bitch!

He was beautiful before,
full of smiles and laughter,
but you came and made those
oh so rare, from that point, ever after.

You silent seeker of childhood,
leaving your dopplegangers in their stead,
our lives turned upside-downwards
because of the thief they keep within their heads.

I see you smiling with devilish delight.
Oh! I see you now, but it’s all too late.
You robber of family harmony, of emotions,
and learning, you promoter of selfish hate.

You teasing whore of hell, taking not quite
all of their thoughts, leaving enough
of the sweet and the good that the
sad, tempestuous patches seem so much more rough.

An original poem – please seek permission before reproducing in any way.

Autism I

I look and listen as you roar,
so unlike the child you were before,
all full of kisses, hugs and love.
But now your demons have you shove
and scream and kick, your angry show
makes me hate the Hyde in the boy I know.

I doubt myself
and my place in this
family of ours,
so often stretched,
to breaking point,
because of this wretched
condition of yours.

But just like that, all is, once more, serene
but we know we’ll play out this scene
sometime soon: days, weeks, maybe months, if we
get lucky. We wait and see.

It disturbs the rhythms of our life.
School and work; child and parent; husband and wife.
We all get hurt, some more than others.
Feeling so lost, it stifles and smothers.

An original poem – please seek permission before reproducing in any way.

Grown Up

Where are those days of unbound joy?
Of happiness just for the moment and
living for the shared social whirl
of real ales and board games?
They are in my childish past;
back in the days of youthful abandon
where responsibilities were given little
thought, as they were the realms of others.

But I am now one of those others.
I am a husband and father, a head
of a household in need of upkeep so
neighborly do-gooders do not look upon
the abode with snide, holier than thou
sneers upon their twisted faces.

An original poem – please seek permission before reproducing in any way.

Poem For An Unremembered Experience

I sit, eyes closed, ears open.

Your ethereal lilts are like ghosts,
haunting the corridors of my
memory and the rooms of
sensory enjoyment in my mind.

Now you are soft spoken and sung
with a feeling of silk roughness
which comes to my ears like a
lover’s mouth, gently nibbling at the lobes.

An original poem – please seek permission before reproducing in any way.

Dingo

The first two lines are all I can remember of this poem I wrote when I was about nine years old, during a lesson on acrostics. I’ve always wanted to miraculously find the paper I wrote it on or remember the whole thing. I have often contemplated “rewriting” the last three lines, but for some reason, leaving them blank, but for their initial letter feels more “right” to me.

Dog-like am I,
In the Outback, I live.
N
G
O

An original poem – please seek permission before reproducing in any way.