Mind Burps - I, Poet Series, Vol 3

by Anthony North

  Either that, or totally

  Absolutely,

  Undoubtedly insane

  AN AVERAGE DAY

  Woke up happy, never sad,

  Kissed my wife, made me glad;

  Got up, washed, went to eat,

  The kids were waiting for me to greet;

  Read the paper, knew the world,

  Current events as they unfurled;

  Got in the car, drove to work,

  It was a thing I’d never shirk;

  Enjoyed my lunch, with my friends,

  Talked about the latest trends;

  Finished work, went back home,

  After dinner, read the latest tome;

  After supper, said goodnight,

  In bed I held my wife so tight;

  Imagination I did display,

  About my life, and my way;

  Nothing else, can I say,

  Since I died yesterday

  A BEAUTIFUL WORLD

  What a pleasure it is to live,

  In this world with lots to give;

  The end of strife, the end of war,

  And for all, food galore;

  We love the planet, we’re so green,

  To animals we are never mean;

  Anger gone, there’s no crime,

  No criminals left, to do time;

  Poverty was banished long ago,

  To money itself, we said no;

  For every wrong we reimburse,

  In this parallel universe

  WHIMSIMAN

  Did you like my joke? I told it well,

  And now you all think I’m swell;

  I’m the clown you all adore,

  Briefly taking away things you abhor;

  I’m the brief respite from hell,

  And the daily problems upon which you dwell;

  I’m the joker who’s good for a laugh,

  Even though you think I’m daft;

  You come to see me full of hope,

  And afterwards you think: I can cope;

  This is my role in the life I’ve created,

  Good with humour, I was fated;

  Always smiling, never blue,

  Bringing joy to all of you;

  But tell me this, if you can,

  Under the facade I’m just a man;

  So who can I go to when I’m down,

  Who’ll make me laugh, take away my frown?

  No one! ‘Cos I’m all alone,

  The tragic,

  Soulless,

  Pitiful clown

  FOCUS

  Come on, now, think, we’re a focus group,

  We want your opinion on this can of soup;

  Does it taste nice, do you like the can?

  There’s no additives or colourings for people to ban;

  What do you mean there’s no real ingredients in?

  Are you saying it isn’t what’s said on the tin?

  Well never mind the soup, how about this car?

  It’s really got the edge to take you far;

  What do you mean it isn’t very green?

  In what colour do you want to be seen?

  Okay, thanks a lot, we’ve got your opinions now,

  We’ll tell it how it is; of that we’ll vow;

  We’re going elsewhere now, to see what others say,

  Opinions we love, analysis not delayed;

  So come on, now, think, we’re a focus group,

  And we’ve lots of people to convince, persuade,

  And dupe

  SCRATCH IT

  I want to scratch it, it’s a bitch,

  You’ve no idea how much I itch;

  It’s gone on for days, the infernal thing,

  So bad at times it starts to sting;

  It isn’t your average annoying stigma,

  But it certainly is one big enigma;

  My finger works, trying to ease it quick,

  Causing effects that, frankly, would make you sick;

  Where is it? I hear you, pray,

  Below my neck is all I’ll say;

  Other than that I’m telling you,

  You’d scratch it yourself,

  If you only knew

  TO DOODLE

  To doodle is to draw,

  Little images galore;

  We do it absent-minded,

  With no thought confided;

  But it is also an analogy,

  For which we have an allergy,

  To doing things with thought,

  Which we know we really ought;

  So to doodle is to live,

  Chaotic as we give,

  Not a hoot to how we plan,

  Our entire life’s span;

  So doodle away through life,

  Ignoring trouble and strife,

  Doing just as we please,

  Going nowhere fast

  With ease

  A FANTASTIC DREAM

  Dreams are crazy, all full of fantasy,

  Yet they’re symbols of real life, as you’ll see;

  My dream last night was just such a one,

  There, in my mind, and as quickly gone;

  A plastic bottle from which to drink,

  A symbol of mind, full of things to think;

  A hockey puck made a quick appearance,

  Reminders of sport, and my adherence;

  Wrapped in a dirty handkerchief? This I knew,

  Recalling that I’d recently had flu;

  A crumpled note left me puzzled for a while,

  But it was my last poem, not in my style;

  The unhinged door was easiest to explain,

  ’Twas my life, all open, ‘cos I’m not vain;

  So dreams may be full of much fantasy,

  But it’s still related to my life, you see;

  A dream can be explained; is not full of malice,

  You just fall down the rabbit hole

  And meet Alice

  ENGROSSED

  What is this beauty I behold?

  Within my mind it does enfold,

  Its grace and elegance for me to see,

  As if an answer to a plea;

  Such posture, grace, and charm are you,

  Your peers are so, so very few,

  A delight, an absolutely perfect scene,

  Sometimes I think it even obscene,

  As every morning,

  In the mirror

  I preen

  TAKE AWAY TAKE OVER

  The slugs they came, crawling along,

  Six foot tall and twenty feet long,

  Run, run, run, try to escape,

  From their manic, gross, gross gape,

  Chomp, chomp, chomp, they eat all in sight,

  Giving us all a damn big fright;

  This nightmare ain’t so far in the future,

  Born from us, and our modern culture,

  They say you become just what you eat,

  And you ate them,

  Didn’t you?

  Your hamburger treat

  GREEN

  Beach World ... An English Summer ... Tribal Nights ... Flower Consciousness

  BEACH WORLD

  You’ve got your towel, you lay it out,

  A sun worshipper are you, so devout;

  Those deadly rays, you’ve got no sin,

  You let them burn right into your skin

  But peace is shattered by those silly twits,

  Kicking sand ‘cos they’re unable to sit,

  And later you itch – in those impossible bits,

  And if you dare to bare your …

  … annoyance,

  A wave will come, and you’ve got no buoyance;

  So a bit of advice to surviving the beach,

  A word or two, let me teach;

  Cover up, get real, find a secluded spot,

  Sun worshipping?

  No!

  Avoid the lot

  AN ENGLISH SUMMER

  Gentle sun above my head,

  Birds arriving to be fed,

  Clear blue
sky, all is well,

  All is peaceful, delightful, swell;

  ‘Leather on willow,’ the cricketers play,

  Warm beer, and on lawns we lay,

  Gentle chatter, lazy days,

  Enshrouded in a pleasant haze;

  Children dash, to and fro,

  Arguing, yes, but not coming to blows,

  Civility rules, all stop for tea,

  But sadly,

  Today,

  Just a memory

  TRIBAL NIGHTS

  Tribal man would often leer,

  Into the night, full of fear,

  Of beast and terror lurking out there,

  Lighting fires, safe in their glare

  Storyteller lit by flickering flame,

  Told stories to often great acclaim,

  Of wondrous spirits of the night,

  Gods of wonder, miracle, flight

  Spirit and beast became as one,

  In man’s mythology, tale and song,

  Pushing back fear of terrors old,

  Guardians stood, strong and bold

  Culture, religion rose from this,

  Saving man from a manic abyss,

  Enriching tales that could delight,

  Now destroyed by the electric light

  FLOWER CONSCIOUSNESS

  Watching, watching, watching you,

  Peeping from early morning dew;

  Sunshine brings to resplendent life,

  Antenna petals, sharp as a knife;

  Sentinel over all you own,

  Silently watching as you atone;

  We flowers are everywhere, waiting, tall,

  Bunched up battalions of nature’s all;

  Placed in your heart, you love us so,

  Disinformation, entrenchment, ready to go;

  Vengeful nemesis of nature’s woes,

  One day you’ll smell us,

  And we’ll bite off your nose

  CRIMINAL

  V is for Vandal ... Victimhood ... Burglar ... Going Bad

  V is for … VANDAL

  Smash it up, he can’t resist,

  Destruction offers total bliss,

  He never thinks that it is wrong,

  Anarchy is where he belongs;

  Order is an alien world,

  Law, compassion, never unfurl,

  In his mind where goodness goes,

  Shrouded, hidden, by his woes;

  The world, you see, did him wrong,

  Sounds of destruction his only song,

  He never sees his choices true,

  Are up to him, never you;

  Hence, it’s your fault, never his,

  He rises to frenzy, such a fizz,

  Maybe, one day, he’ll grow up,

  Then with decent people he may sup

  VICTIMHOOD

  Victimhood, a terrible thing,

  Slouch through life, rarely sing,

  As you remember the deed being done,

  Nothing in your life is fun;

  Curse the criminal who did it to you,

  Dark thoughts always imbue,

  Actions that go against the grain,

  No respite, no refrain;

  But remember this as you go your way,

  Demons are always there to slay,

  Rise above this melancholy state,

  Life CAN be good, it’s not too late,

  It’s in your hands, fate

  BURGLAR

  A tiny shatter, window gone,

  Creature of night, comes along,

  Slips in silently, looks around,

  At what booty he has found;

  Grabs a picture, your memory lane,

  And tablet that can keep you sane,

  Lap top gone, your gate to the world,

  Jewellery bagged, you can no longer twirl;

  Silently, he goes, he’s done his worst,

  Sells to a fence, reimbursed,

  But he’s burgled your sanity, spoilt your home;

  Damn him! Catch him! Make him atone

  GOING BAD

  I remember when I was good,

  Nothing wrong, never out for blood,

  A perfect angel, I tell you not,

  Never out for what other’s had got;

  Now I’m in a different world,

  New thoughts constantly unfurl,

  Of vengeance, hurting others for fun,

  Never seeing the eternal pun;

  I’ll howl and scream and bang about,

  Causing fear, there’s no doubt,

  There’s no situation I won’t contrive,

  I was never this bad when I was alive

  About the Author

  1955 (Yorkshire, England) – I am born (Damn! Already been done). ‘Twas the best of times … (Oh well).

  I was actually born to a family of newsagents. At 18 I did a Dick Whittington and went off to London, only to return to pretend to be Charlie and work in a chocolate factory.

  When I was ten I was asked what I wanted to be. I said soldier, writer and Dad. I never thought of it for years – having too much fun, such as a time as lead guitarist in a local rock band – but I served nine years in the RAF, got married and had seven kids. I realized my words had been precognitive when, at age 27, I came down with M.E. – a condition I’ve suffered ever since – and turned my attention to writing.

  My essays are based on Patternology, or P-ology, a thought process I devised to work as a bedfellow to specialisation. Holistic, it seeks out patterns the specialist may have missed. The subject is not about truth, but ideas, and covers everything from politics to the paranormal.

  I also specialise in Flash Fiction in all genres, most under 600 words, but also Mini Novels - 1500 word tales so full they think they're bigger.

  Connect with Anthony

  Smashwords Author page: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/anthonynorth

  Anthony's Website: https://anthonynorth.com/

  Anthony's Blog (inc current affairs): https://anthonynorth.com/blog/blog

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/anthonynorth

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/anthony.north.330