The Word Cloud

FACING EVIL....

As the wind did whistle over the hill,
It brought along fear,aswell as chill,
For there in the darkness lurked an evil,
With saliva dripping from fangs primevil.

Frozen with fear,yet couldn't see,
The evil ahead,just watching me,
I had no choice,must press on,
Just prayed the dawn wouldn't take too long.

With bated breath & pounding heart,
Was onward for me,must make that start,
Toward the evil i began to head,
Not sure if i'd end alive or dead.

With menacing snarl the evil sprung,
I froze again,nowhere to run................

..............AND FIGHTING FOR............

........It stood a good foot taller than me,
From side to side swaying with glee,
Its' evil grin did seem to say,
Your certain death's not far away.

A weakness i did look to find,
It cannot fight if it is blind?
Massive muscles in its' arms did nestle,
T'was far to strong for me to wrestle.

This evil creature was way to high,
For me to gouge its' evil eye,
Time was short-i had to think,
The pit of death-i'm on the brink.

Then i thought of its' weakest part,
And such a thought did cheer my heart,
So to its' surprise i moved in fast,
As with mighty wind its' claw swung past............


.......MY RIGHT TO PASS.

......I struck as hard as i possibly could,
Aimed my blow where it did most good,
Between its' legs my blow it fell,
And in great pain the beast did yell.

A thunderous echo from its' roar of pain,
And in a flash i struck again,
The beast recoiled & staggered back,
In awesome pain from my swift attack.

I struck a third as its' claws swung past,
Then fourth & fifth went in there fast,
My heart was cheered,it was on the brink,
But like a fool........i paused to blink.

In that split second great pain i knew,
As via its' claw through the air i flew,
It shattered my ribs & blood flowed fast,
With flailing arms at a tree i'd grasp.

Whilst crashing through this mighty tree,
The beast below awaiting me,
A snapping branch i grabbed so tight,
It came down with me at the end of flight.

As i did fall-branch pointed first,
Through the beasts' own throat-it did burst,
The beast it roared & gargled blood,
And i hit the ground with an almighty thud.

In Gods sweet dawn i opened my eyes,
And looked upon that beast & his demise,
In searing pain,got to my feet at last,
And smiled 'coz i'd won....................
........MY RIGHT TO PASS.

Murfy

THE LONELY SOCK

I looked down at my feet one day,
One sock had a hole,so i threw it away,
But my remaining sock it looked real sad,
And so,in turn,i felt real bad.

I tried to explain to my surviving sock,
But he didn't reply,must be deep in shock,
I even tried to bring him cheer,
With a few good jokes & a tin of beer.

But the sock remained just looking glum,
And i really felt the guilty one,
But then i thought of an idea,
I'd found a way to bring him cheer.

So in next days paper i put an add,
For a lonely sock anyone had,
I needed a reply soon enough,
For a lonely sock,life is tough.

Then my phone did me alert,
To another sock to cure the hurt,
So i rushed out to get it fast,
And knew my sock would smile at last.

I brought it home to my lonely one,
They romped & played & had great fun,
I smiled to see them happy there,
No lonely sock,...just a contented pair.

Murfy

Burnt Sugar
You say, you cannot live without me.
You whisper honey.
 
You turn away like a friend
In times of need.
 
You breathe through tender eyes,
You whisper and you scream.
 
I love
The tender light in you,
Your nose,
Your soft skin.
 
Often, too often,
You are burnt sugar, you are old milk,
Your freshness crumpled, sweetness spilt.
 
Thirty-five,
And your heart holds a stick!
 
You are like a child
When you love me;
 
Like an adult
In your rage.
 
And like an aged woman
Through the day.
 
I wish
The night between us,
The night inside me,
The dark that doesn't breathe,
The heavy air...
I wish we could belie nature,
Her unstable sun.
 
If only you were like the sweetest pear
And came undone.
And if by climbing up a stair,
At night,
I could have your sweetness like the touch of angels!
 
Ah! But I must wait...
Nature's cycle comes around,
Soon or late.

e rose and wound his coverlet round his waist.  Livid, exciting thoughts filled his head and kept him awake all through the night.  Restive, he imagined the world outside - a world of freedom, which he had longed for, freedom of his soul and of his body from the fear and daily angst for what lay ahead of him, his misty future.  He yearned for freedom; freedom from the jeers of the village’s evil ones; freedom from the repression, oppression and unfairness of the village elders; freedom from the heckling and contemptuous glances of his fellows; freedom from the community where he could not assert his right, though he had been born and raised there. Freedom in its total sense was his craving.  His imagination was in flight. 

He was ready to go anywhere, settle anywhere: any village where his freedom would be assured.  Loathsome to him now was anything that had to do with Abule Wasimi, its elders, its youths, its women, its men, even its children.  Anything that stood for Abule Wasimi, even its soil, nauseated him.  He sighed, exhaling a long drawn-in breath. The set time is here at last, he muttered.  He ambled across the mat on which he had laid, mindful enough of not falling over the wooden box, which he had kept close to the mat. Many times in the night, he had sat up and lit the oil-lamp on a big tin by the box.  Twice he had opened the box and upturned its contents, returning them one by one to assure himself he had not forgotten anything that ought to be taken.  He did not want to forget anything, anything that would remind him of the village and compel him to return.  I will never return here, he had vowed each time with supercilious frown on his face.

He drew up the ragged curtain and unlatched the wooden window.  The vicious wind outside took the window from his hand and banged it with a thud against the wall outside, almost removing it from the slackened hinges.  A gale of wind blew against his face. He did not mind.  He held back the window against the wall with force at least to allow him have a passing glimpse of the happenings outside.  The moon had returned behind the mountains and darkness stretched over the land.  Sporadic lightning flashed across the sky, and rumbles that shook the earth followed. In the moments of the flashes, he saw dense, black billows of cloud hover in the atmosphere.  A howling wind rose again and whistled fiercely through the village.  There was tension in the air.  A stampede of goats, sheep and dogs scurrying for safety galvanised the tension.  He knew that a midnight downpour was close, and what’s more, it was still far from dawn. 

He shut the window, blew out the lamp and returned to the mat, lying on his back.  As he gaped at the dark void between him and the criss-cross rafters of the thatched roof, a revolt against Abule Wasimi was building up in him again and he was boiling.  The earlier I get out the better, he mumbled.   He remembered his little farm on the bank of the stream that bordered the village and the forest. What is there to worry about?  Let the elders take that as well, he said with a hiss, rolling over his face.

Not long, the threatening rain began, pouring down in torrents with a gust of angry wind.  He yawned and rubbed his callous face with the back of his hand.  The rain splattered on the grass-roof as though the heavens had been rent apart.  Gradually, he fell into a deep slumber, a rain-induced sleep.  Naturally, his sleep was often profound any time it rained heavily.  

The barking of the dogs and shirrs of the singing birds that tore through the stillness of the dawn eventually woke him up.  As he did in the night, he opened the window and gawped outside.  The moon had announced its late appearance, its light dulled by the sky-blue after-rain-cloud that rolled over its face. 

It was chilly cold.  He felt he did not need a wash.  He dressed up in his short-sleeved dull flowery buba and soro that had many patches at the buttocks.  But the time was inauspicious for his departure, for it was yet too early, even though he did not want too many eyes to see him leave. 

He drew out a stool and sat.  Now, mixed memories of old mama Daodu, his foster-mother, flooded his mind.  He could not help looking toward the room at the other side of the isle that separated the doorless room where he slept and the room where old mama Daodu had spent her last days.  The room, too, had not a door but a ragged calico curtain suspended by a black wooden dowel nailed at both ends to the mud wall.  In her life, old Mama Daodu slept in that room.  Since her death, the room had remained uninhabited. He felt the urge to go into the room. ‘But what is there to take?’ he asked with a shrug.  

Nostalgic reminiscences of his life with the old woman whom he had grown up to know as his mother laced his eyes with tearful abandon. A fresh surge of love rose in his bowel for her.  Never had he realised how much he loved her. How time flies, he thought briefly.  It was now over four moons after her death.  She had been the only reason he had remained in Abule Wasimi.  Her death had removed the only impediment on his way out of the village.

Only one man knew about his leaving, his father’s old friend, the old Asafa whom he addressed as Uncle Asafa.  Asafa was a member of the village’s council of elders.  He alone had stood by him in all his travails and had approved of his leaving the village.

‘Go out, work and return a wealthy man,’ he had admonished him.

‘Return to Abule Wasimi?’ he had asked, grimacing.

‘Sure, you must return to your root, and this village is your root.’

‘No, I shall never return,’ he had vowed.

‘No matter what you become in life, you must not forget your root,’ asserted the elderly one again, a little upset.

‘I do not intend to return,’ he affirmed, unruffled.

‘You must return.  This generation of the elders will not always be there.  You and your like that have fled the village must return to cleanse the village of all filth.’

‘Why should I return to a village that cheated my father’s rights and seized my inheritance, declaring us aliens in the village of our birth?  Never! I shall not return, never return,’ he had stated furiously, snapping his fingers over his head.

‘The injustice of today will be redressed tomorrow,’ argued the elder.

‘By who – the same blind mouths?’ he blared, his eyes dilating.

‘No, by those who know what fairness is all about.’

‘Where were those ones when the gullible elders sold my father’s birthright and took away my land?  Where were they? Or, are they from another village?’

‘They are here, of course.  But be assured, a new breed of elders will emerge, though not immediately, after we have gone.  You are probably one of them.  A breeze of change will blow across the land.’

‘Until then, I shall never return,’ he had intoned with an air of finality, to end a conversation that was rather dragging gradually to a bad end between him and the elderly one.

‘A river that severs itself from its source shall dry up in no time,’ the elderly one added, not relenting.

‘Abule Wasimi is not my source, and they have told me so.’

‘I have told you, a change will come.  The village that once rejected you as its son would return to tell you your father founded it when you have become a man of worth. So, my son, you will return.’

He had stomped out of the elderly one’s hut and never went back to him again until the night that he went to tell him he was leaving. ‘I shall leave tomorrow at dawn,’ he had told him.

‘But you should not leave until I have come.’

‘Come?’

‘Yes, you shouldn’t leave until I have come.  I must be there when you leave the village.’

He had thought of the elderly one’s request as a gesture of love.  He would honour him in return by allowing him to witness his departure from the village.  Now, it was a worry that the elderly man was delaying to come and he was becoming edgy.  ‘What has held him back?’ he soliloquized.  He rose and came out of the hut, standing in the housefront with arms akimbo.  He stared in the direction from where he expected the elderly one to emerge.  It was a footpath, which snaked through several huddles of banana trees.  He paced up and down, rambling listlessly.

An unexpected gentle tap on his right shoulder compelled him to glare back over his left shoulder, frightened.  It was difficult to have a shufti of the fellow who had tapped him.  He swung round.  A tall man in black, stood, smiling profusely at him.  ‘Omo akikanju, ejiogbe leba ona, how are you?’ greeted the man. 

He was rattled and shuddered intensely. ‘Omo Akinkanju, ejiogbe leba Ona,’ old Mama Dawodu once told him was the cognomen his dead father fondly called him.  Who was the strange man who knew him so well and even his pet name?  Certainly, he knew that the man was not uncle Asafa who he had been expecting.  He stood frigid with fear, overwhelmed.  His head was spinning as the man stood still, smiling and staring into his eyes.  Strange enough, he felt a strong pull towards the strange fellow, who, all of a sudden, stopped smiling and drew nearer to him. This made him retrace his steps.

‘No!’ said the man in a lowered voice.

It was as though there was something in the voice that got him transfixed, for he could no longer move and, even now, he felt the strands of his hair stand to an edge frightfully. Without doubt, he knew there was something eerie, something beyond his understanding about the strange fellow.

‘Where is the sword?’ the strange fellow intoned.

‘Which sword?’ he found himself asking in spite of the tingling sensation he felt.

‘Did you ask “which sword?”

‘Yes, which sword?’

‘Don’t you know you are going on a great mission and, without the sword, you will make a shipwreck of it?’

‘Ah!’ was all he said, gobsmacked.

‘Yes, without the sword the journey is perilous.  Didn’t old mama Daodu talk to you about it?’

Now he recalled old mama Daodu once brought out a rusty sword in a weather-beaten sheath with a cracked hilt and said something he could now recollect vaguely.  Now they have taken everything from you but this sword…this sword… I do not know much about it but it is an ancestral sword.  Your father cherished it so much when he was alive.  He went everywhere with it.  I believe it was so precious to him.  So keep it, old Mama Daodu had said.

‘Now, go inside and bring it.  You must take it along with you,’ instructed the strange fellow.

Without asking any question, as though he was under a spell, he went into the late woman’s room.  He heaved up the pallet under which he had seen old mama Daodu return the sword that night.  He picked it and returned to the man outside.

‘This is it,’ he said, ready to give the sword to the strange fellow. 

‘Hold it, I shall talk to you about it later,’ said the strange fellow.

For another moment, the two men stood there, staring at each other. The strange fellow broke the ice.  With his right hand on his chest, he gestured, ‘So, you don’t know me?’

‘I’m afraid, I don’t.’

‘But you recall old mama Daodu, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.  But she is dead now.’

‘I know.’

‘But, who are you?’

‘I shall tell you soon,’ said the strange fellow, beckoning to him to follow as he took a few steps away from the front of the house.

Keeping a safe distance, the strange fellow spoke in a low but shaky voice: ‘I am glad you are leaving the village. This is good.  But your leaving is for a season.  You must return.’

‘I shall not return here,’ he said sternly, almost with an oath.

‘No, one day, you shall return.’

‘Here, they dealt unjustly with my father and took away my inheritance.’

The strange fellow grinned.  ‘So, old Momo Daodu told you the story of your father?’

‘Yes…and the same people took away my inheritance.’

‘I am aware.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes, I am.  For this reason you must return.’

He did not feel the need to argue with the strange fellow, so he kept quiet.

‘Injustice is everywhere, even in the village you are going.  Besides, the travail you will go through in the village you are going will compel you to return.  Injustice is everywhere.  Unfairness is everywhere – all in a measure.’

His puzzled gaze did not shift from the strange fellow.  ‘Travail and unfairness everywhere?  No!’ he said to himself.

‘Did you say no?’

That the man broke into his unspoken word made him tremble.

‘Yes, travail and injustice.  But there, also, you will discover yourself.’

To him, this could not be true.  Only Abule Wasimi stood for unfairness and cheating, and that was why he was fleeing it.

‘But one good thing is that there you will find the sword useful.’

‘Aha.’

‘You must be careful,’ warned the strange fellow in a whisper as though somebody was lurking around, eavesdropping on the conversation.

‘I have heard you.  But, who are you?’ He found himself asking quietly but courageously for the umpteenth time.

‘Don’t be anxious.  But listen carefully.’

He was slightly shaken and did not talk.

‘Yes and this sword in your hand…’

‘What about it?’

Again, the strange fellow chuckled, “I see, you don’t know?’

‘Yes, I don’t know.’

‘You must not lose it.  You must not part with it.’

‘Aha!’

‘Sure, you must not lose it.  You must not part with it.’

Again, he began to feel a strong kindred bond between him and the strange fellow so much that he made to embrace him as one would at a returning long traveller-kin. The strange fellow instantly stretched out his two hands, warning and keeping him at bay.  It seemed the strange one did not want any physical contact.  He was no longer afraid of him.  It was as if he had known him for several seasons.

Again, the tingling sensation returned and his head loomed large. 

‘Beware of money if you got it.  Watch out for deceitful women who throng you just for your money.’

‘Money and women?’

‘Yes, money begets women.’

‘I have heard.’

‘Especially, beware of your neighbour’s wife.’

‘I have heard.’

‘Beware,’ warned the strange fellow. ‘If you happen to lead a people, lead well.  Be honest.  Be fair to all.  Let the people be the first in your thoughts and actions.  Share your burdens with the people.  Share your joy with the people. Respect no persons in matters of justice.  Close your eyes when you judge but open your heart to appreciate. Be ruthless.  Be merciful.  Be honest.  I have warned you.  Also, work hard.  Till your own ground.  The earth will definitely respond to the sweat from your brow, causing the growth of your seeds and their luxuriant yields.  So, delight yourself only in the fruit of your sweat.  Fare you well.  May the Cloud Gatherer have mercy on you and keep your ways safe.’

Now, the day had actually broken but the weather was still cloudy and damp and the wind blew cold, reminding one of the heavy rain of the night.  The banana boughs flailed joyously and the wind swayed slender trees.

‘But the sword,’ he reminded the strange fellow agitatedly.

‘O yes, the sword. Keep it and tell no one all I have told you about it.  One more thing, do not part with it, not even for a moment.  It is more precious than diamond or gold.  It has an ancient value, more priceless than a thousand horses and donkeys.  Everything they have stolen from you is in the sword.  Some time, some day, you shall need it.’ 

‘The use?’

‘Aha, I almost forgot that.  To use it…,’ the strange one paused, then said, ‘look at this...’ his right index finger pointing at the sky.

His expectant eyes on the strange one’s pointed finger.  Just then, the long awaited uncle Asafa emerged from the opposite direction behind a banana groove. The stranger abruptly stopped mid-sentence, his frigid gaze on the approaching old man.  He knew him. 

Uncle Asafa did not instantly notice the stranger and, when he eventually did, he stood still, staring at him, flabbergasted. A wall of silence seemed to stand between them.  The astounded Uncle Asafa was expressionless.  In another moment, the stranger hissed and a whirlwind rose angrily from among the banana clusters.  The wind passed, and the stranger was gone, vanished.  Another heavy wind followed his sudden disappearance.

Horrified, the young man stood flustering like a reed in a gushing stream.  Uncle Asafa, too, was spellbound.  He leant on his walking stick, nodding erratically.  It took the twosome a while recovering from the jolt of the stranger’s mysterious departure.

‘Do you know the man who was talking to you?’ Uncle Asafa breached the panicky lull.

‘I don’t know him…'

‘I see, for how long had he been with you before I came?’

‘For some time.’

‘Aha, doing what?’

‘Just talking to me...’

‘About what?’

The young man was about to say ‘about the sword,’ but recalling the warning of the strange fellow, changed his mind.  Instead, he said, ‘About my journey, and I wondered who told him.’

The old man heaved. ‘He knew you were going away.’

‘But, who was he, and who told him of my journey?’

‘Didn’t he tell you his name all the while?’

‘He didn’t.’

‘But did you ask him?’

‘I did, but he wouldn’t tell me.  He was to tell me when you came, and he disappeared.’

‘I see.’

Uncle Asafa held his head low and nodded slowly a number of times. ‘You don’t know him?’

The young man shook his head for a reply.

‘That was your dead father!’ he said in a lowered voice but assuredly.

‘My father?’ exclaimed the young man.

‘Yes, your father.’

‘Ah!’ The young man yelped and fear seized the sword from his hand.

‘He’s your father,’ repeated Uncle Asafa in a quivered voice.

The young man stood still like a tree stump, dumb and livid with fear. Sweaty beads began to form on his brow.

‘You don’t have to be afraid,’ said the elderly one. ‘It’s like that, my son.  The dead visit the living but only when it is imperative.  At vital moments, they come to warn or advise their loved ones.  At times, if the dead were a victim of gruesome murder, he would come to reveal his killer or avenge his death.’

‘Aha! But they say if one sees the dead, one takes ill at once and dies shortly after, let alone when one talks with the dead.’

‘That is not true, my son, it all depends…’

‘Eeepa! Mo ti ku o, I am dead!’ he exclaimed, shivering.

‘No, you are not dead.  Yes, the dead, in apparition guise visit the living.  Yes, sometimes they do.  It seldom happens though, but when it happens, it’s for real,’ he said again and chuckled. 

Yet the young man still could not get out of his baffled consternation.  He stood, gazing at the face of Uncle Asafa while his head was crammed with weird thoughts.

‘Did he tell you anything outside your journey?’ his uncle wanted to know.

The young man did not utter a word but merely shook his head in response.

‘And the sword that fell from your hand, did he give it to you?’

He shook his head again. ‘Old mama Daodu gave it to me before her death.’

‘You must leave now!  Leave now!  Do not look back!  You must leave now!  From here, I leave for the regent’s place.  Five days from today, he will become the Baale.  But there is only one big log of wood on his path.  Today, this morning, the log shall be removed.  The log would have been removed in the night but for the rain.  To remove the log in the rain was a bad omen.  You are the log of wood...’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you.  For him to reign, as Baale, you must not live.  So, for you to live, you must leave now.    As long as you are alive, and in this village, he remains the regent.  He knows that, and that is why he wants you dead.  So, you must leave now!  But I know that one day, you shall return.’

‘No!  I will never return here!’ he bellowed as though in the shouting was the reinforcement of his will never to return.

Uncle Asafa chuckled, patted him on the back and left.

The warning was too strong for him to ignore and still stay around.  He understood its import:  his life was in danger!   Panic was setting in.  He dashed into the house and carried his box.   

Outside, he saw the sword on the ground.  At first, he was reluctant to pick it.  Then he had a change of mind.  He bent low and picked it, drawing it out from the sheath.  It was rusty and blunt on both edges.  He was curious.  Dread overwhelmed him.  Of what use was it?  At what point in time would it be useful and for what purpose?  He heaved and shrugged.  The sword had become a burden, a lifetime burden.  ‘There is no time to waste!’ a voice sounded in his head.  He sheathed back the sword and slung it across his right shoulder.  He meandered through the banana clusters to link up with the ancient footpath.

As he took the last step out of the village, he cast a backward glance at the old rustic village and his heart seethed with pity.  Why should I run away from my village, a village of my birth, where I first drank the water of life, where I have been raised?  My village!  My home!  Why run away from home?  Am I not a coward for fleeing my homestead because of threats to my life?’ he thought briefly.   In another moment, he shrugged and mumbled, ‘but for the elders’ unfairness and greed, and besides, he who fights and runs away lives to fight another day.  I must flee.’ 

Even then, he realised that his problem with the elders of Abule Wasimi apart, the village had its endemic challenges, which had retarded its improvements among several other villages around.  Abule Wasimi was a village that delighted in eating up its own illustrious sons and daughters.  Its children were adventurous, zealous and hardworking, but no one made it in life while still in the village.  But no sooner had one stepped out of its confines than one became a prince or a princess, a noble and notable.  And there were so many children of the village scattered over the hills, over the plains and over the mountains, in the cities and the villages, even in the hamlets under the sunbeams and the caressing moonlight, doing well in their various endeavours.

However, love for the village sometimes compelled many to return home, but arrived into the cold hands of death and were buried without a memoriam.  And so, many had exiled themselves eternally and taken the identity of accommodating villages and cities.  The young man knew that he, too, would become perhaps, one of them.  He hated this notion.  Why?  Why? Abule Wasimi, why? Why devour your own offspring? Other villages shield their own but you trifled life out of your own.  Why? Give your children the chance to return and build you up and give you a name among other villages.   Little drops of tears fell from his eyes. From then on, he took up a new identity and became a nomadic wanderer and a child of the universe but with a burning desire for greatness. He was obsessed with the dream of his ideal village where he hoped to settle.

Nevertheless, he had hardly left the house when they came for him.  They came with spears, arrows, guns and a set of strong ropes to bind him, but they came too late.  They met an empty house.  They were enraged and set the house aflame.  The elders were angry as well.  He was to be killed.  Being the only surviving son of Akinrogun royal lineage, his death would have meant the extinction of the famous lineage.  The elders of Abule Wasimi saw him a rebellious young man, who had dared them to demand for an explanation on the death of his father and why his inheritance should be shared among them.

‘You let him escape?’ howled the regent, shaking with rage.

‘Aha, you have allowed a deadly snake to escape just with a wound. Sooner or later, it will return when its wound is healed, with deadlier and vengeful venom,’ an elder warned.

NO OTHERS

No others shall walk among us,
And none shall know our name,
No others shall ever harm us,
And we'll love all just the same.

No others shall ever see us,
Yet we be always there,
You all can only feel us,
When we gently blow your hair.

No others shall know our pressence,
Yet we'll watch you day by day,
Although you'll never know it'
We shall guide you on your way.

No others shall ever know us,
Until we call thier name,
And on the day we call them,
They'll walk our path the same.

No bias to any persons,
No one shall we love most,
And when at last we call you,
You too,will be,a GHOST.

Murfy

As it's my first time showing my poems to a wide audience i would just like to say THANKYOU for the coments & thankyou for the welcome note Mockingbird.

'SHOULD'VE LEFT THE BUGGERS UP THE TREES'.

  
 It really was a stupid plan,
 For evolution to create man,
 What was this supposed to achieve?
 Should've left the buggers up the trees.

 But no! you let them down to walk,
 Then later on they start to talk,
 But before that they use thier mind,
 To make daft things of every kind.

 Firstly basics from wood & bone,
 Then knives & spears from wood & stone,
 Then iron came into thier hand,
 And mayhem spread across the land.

 'Coz by then the wheel came out,
In massive armies they roamed about,
Waring & killing they roamed quite free,
Should've left the buggers up the tree.

Then one said,"Let's name one king,
And let him do most anything",
But others said,"That's not right",
So once again they began to fight.

So battles raged on & soon 'wise' ones,
Had made new weapons & called them guns,
Now killing's quicker,spreads like disease,
Should've left the buggers up the trees.

Centuries passed & wars went on,
Then came the 'ape' who made a bomb,
"Now we'll kill hundreds as we please,
Or even thousands if we include disease".

Finally 'apes' made the super bomb,
It destroys the world & everyone,
Evolution said,"Come down ape please,
'Coz soon enough you'll have no trees".

So evolution you're to blame,
For killing,disease,fire & flame,
The world would see none of these,
If you'd left the buggers up the trees.

Murfy.

Everyone,

RFF | Request for Feedback

I've taken the plunge and put my own website together. I've started however, with my art. You may be aware that my background is illustration and design, but I'm now a computer consultant. How sad. Well when I make more money at art than I do at consultancy - I'll let you know. Who knows - I may make even more money at writing. Ha! We do it for the love of the craft. I digress.

So I've got a website a markervisuals.wordpress.com and I've set up a twitter account. I've run Twitter for a few days and I've building up my followers. Cool. There is a whole load of metrics I'm building up by using it. I've got some very interesting followers. I'm using Twitter as a way to attract people to my website. This seems to be working well. I also have a niche in my art. I do Star Wars.

Ok so you may switch off now. Those two people still reading this may say, cool, let's go see. Well that's great. But wait. I want to explain: I think that there is a highly useful tool in using social websites such as Facebook, Bebo, Twitter and so on, but you need a content hub to tie it in. You also need to see where people are coming from and looking at your content. And of course, you need the content in the first place.

So check out my website. I would love to hear from you all. Are you using Wordpress? What it like for you? Who's using Twitter and is there anyone using SecondLife?

Tell me your stories of using the internet for self promotion.

We've mentioned LuLu before and I will write an article about my experiences on this all but for the moment. Let's everyone share how we are self promoting.

Oh and if this sound all new to you, let me know and I will post a 101 on social media if people want it.

Thanks,
Mr Flibble

A complaint, a wish
What don't I like about my life?
Well now, let me see...
I don't like all the monkeys
Clinging from the tree.
 
I don't like Spanish porters
Phlegm deep in their throats,
I don't like Maltese piglets,
On whom all dote.
 
My girlfriend's gone and left me,
For an older man;
I used to live inside her house,
Now in a rubbish can.
 
I'm fat and over-sensitive,
I'm overweight and stressed,
I'm hardly very handsome,
Passable at best.
 
Genetically inferior,
Socially unwell,
Anxious and bipolar,
Little I can sell.
 
I can't keep in employment,
There ain't a job for me,
My girlfriend's kicked me out the house
And taken back the key.
 
My friends desert me right and left,
But round my rubbish bin,
My enemies do what they please,
And don't think it a sin.
 
They overcharge me when they want,
And won't pick up the phone;
A fly is buzzing round my head,
And won't leave me alone.
 
The porters spit, the waiters glare,
Many are the bars
And beer-houses on the street,
And all the noisy cars!
 
I want to write this poem but
A noisy little fly
Is buzzing frantic round me now,
While buses thunder by.
 
I get too cold in winter,
I frizzle in the heat,
My sweat drips down my rosy nose,
And ice blocks are my feet.
 
I feel angry all the time,
I ain't no monk or saint,
This bin that I am sitting in,
Could use a lick of paint.
 
I hold a cross before me now,
As I walk down the street,
To shelter me from sinners, and
Restrain my wilful feet.
 
I often feel like kicking now,
At biddies on the way!
But do I do it? Do I hell!
I wait, I fume, I pray.
 
Hatred is my motto,
Vengeance is my plea,
I have a grudge against the world,
And pains inside my knee.
 
If only it were Judgment Day,
If stars fell from the sky,
I think that I'd be happy if
Everyone would die.
 
If only things were different,
If only I were thin,
If only my cream pies would fall
Into the rubbish bin!
 
If only I had muscle,
If only I spoke Greek,
If only I'd been born a god
And not a useless geek!
 
If only the whole universe,
Revolved around my brain!
If only I had fitted in,
If only I were sane!
 
I think that if this city were
To melt away like ice,
And take with it the Maltese dogs,
The porters, in a trice;
 
And gone would be the waiters,
The buses and the road,
The scooter boys with all their noise,
The objects of my ode.
 
Gone would be the buildings,
In would come the sea,
I'd live upon the tallest cliff,
Girlfriend, bear and me.
 
I'd fashion us a wooden hut,
I'd find us out a cave,
And there to live with quietness,
The silence that I crave.
 
For noise has been around me still,
Around my rubbish can,
And noise will go wherever,
Wherever there is man.
 
I seek the distant cry of gulls,
I seek the lapping wave,
I must live with my loved ones now,
Inside my open cave.
 
And there behold infinity,
The neverending sea,
The silent air through which I stare,
Just girlfriend, bear and me.

when your child falls over and you want to protect them
from the bumps in life, the draining of life blood, the awful hurt
that sometimes even magic cream and a kiss from the fairy wont take away...

when they struggle for independence and need to hold on with a finger
on the narrow wall, on a wobbly bike, when they wave goodbye
and leave you with an awful lump in your throat

when the new love of their life brings nothing but sadness and all the promises turn out to be false words in the wind and the opportunity of a lifetime becomes a saga of disappointments and anger - even a nightmare from hell

when they try so hard for a chosen goal, and it doesnt quite work out
and you wished they'd listened to the advice you had to give
but was unwanted

when you look in their eyes at the tears that dont fall, the cry that doesnt come out and you want to take away that awful pain
and you cant

sometimes, just sometimes, it hurts too much and my tears just fall,
It is still  my problem. I hurt too. I share your pain.