When Saddam met Satan
November 24, 2007 in Poetry
The book he clutched
(do you remember that photo of Saddam being led to the gallows, clutching the Koran?)
Of all the thuggery the world has known
from the subtle to full blown
few can match the art so well
as one guy I hope’s in Hell.
He was indeed a prototype
who never learned a bean
despite the bluster and the hype
he really was pure mean.
When he marched about the place
compassion never showed her face
Justice didn’t count a damn
But in the end she got Saddam.
When he saw the hangman’s knot
I wonder did he pray a lot.
Did the book he clutched so tight
really fit his grip that night?
Were the pages worn and read
did they echo in his head?
Grimly walking, sad but terse
did he grasp a single verse?
I wonder how his meeting went
in the place where he was sent
when he finally got stuck
with the dude who hates that book?
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on December 28, 2008, 12:08 pm
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Loading…When I look at the sky
November 23, 2007 in Auto-biographical (spiritual quest)
When I look at the sky
I realize why
I feel so small
grasshopper tall
when I contemplate
our feeble fate.
Who dares to say
that their way
is the ‘only’ road
that will carry the load
of the great(?) mind
of Humankind?
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on February 23, 2010, 9:21 pm
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Loading…Friendship
November 23, 2007 in Poetry
credit: Vangelis ” The Tao of Love “
(Bounced off: Butterfli’s ” I call you friend “)
Friendship
“It is my hope
that you find peace
It is my help
that you have when you need
It is my love
that shall never end
And it is all because
I call you friend “
And that is why
my weathered hand
scarred and stabbed a hundred times
still reaches softly to your side
and offers you, gaping wide
my heart, my whole, my happiness.
This hand has been a cruel fist
this hand has struck a thousand blows
but longs, deep down, to be held tight
in yours, my dear, my kindest friend,
for I am tired of the fight
tired of the lonely night
just hold my hand, and be my friend
and let our loving… never end.
F.M.
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 21, 2011, 10:13 pm
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Loading…The ugly little turtle
November 22, 2007 in Auto-biographical (spiritual quest), My Search for God and Meaning, Short Story (symbolism), The Great Cosmic Kindness
The ugly little turtle
For as long as he could remember, he had been there.
Huddled together with his brothers and sisters, in their cozy, warm bed.
But now, as he lay and listened to the sighing wind outside, the important chatterings of his siblings, and the restless storm inside his mind, he knew things were going to change. For ever. It was time… to move on. The wind was calling him. A new home was calling him. There was some terribly important task he had to accomplish.
If only he knew…what task.
In a way, he felt sad.
He knew he was going to miss… this place. There was a comfort here. A security of the familiar. Oh, he had suffered a bit. He was an ugly, slightly handicapped turtle, and the others picked on him. They called him names, and laughed at him behind his back. There were times it had hurt him terribly. But somehow, it didn’t matter much any more. Nothing mattered much any more, compared with this… urge, this obsession, to reach… his new home.
The days went by.
And with each passing day, he got a clearer and clearer picture in his mind.
Although he had never seen his new home with his eyes, he had seen it in his mind, many times. He would lie there, half asleep, dreaming, trying to ignore the unkind remarks.
His new home was… beyond beautiful. If he shut his eyes, he could sense himself being uplifted, rocked by a gentle swell, carried up and up. And if he opened his eyes, he saw not the dull outline of his dark surroundings, but instead he saw a glorious acquamarine flow of dancing shadows and sunlit splashes. He so much… wanted to be there.
If only… he could find his way.
More days went by.
He would listen to the others. It was astounding to him how self confident so many of them were. They seemed to know exactly where they were going. They were ambitious.
They didn’t listen much to him. It was obvious they thought he was weird. He didn’t think like the majority. So he had to be wrong. He knew that. He would sigh quietly to himself, wanting to talk to somebody. Somebody that thought like him.
He wanted that very much.
And more days went by.
The urge to depart was now overwhelming. And then one calm night, almost before he knew it, without any conscious decision, he was frantically scrabbling the last pebbles and sand particles out of his way. As if his life depended on it.
Just one…more… struggle….
He lay for a while, exhausted, on the warm, moist beach, savoring his freedom.
Aware of the moonlight, and the salt sea breeze, and strange distant sounds.
Aware of lurking… danger. Threats. In the darkness.
Too tired even to be surprised at the mass of small turtles around him, milling about, forming into groups, disbanding, and then reforming into new collectives.
It was a strange luxury to be able to think clearly for once.
As if… a stage had been completed. One important stage was… history.
It was easier now to look ahead. To the next stage.
It was reassuring to hear the distant friendly noises. Not just the loud, harsh, discordant sounds that came from… over there.
No, the good noises. From over those dunes. The melodic, rhythmic, lapping noise of…. …home!
With a shock, he was wide awake. Home! He had to get moving. It was… dangerous here. There was no time to waste. Home! He had to tell the others. Home…!
He found himself staring in surprise as a vast movement of turtles, an organised collective, headed purposefully out. But they were going…
….the wrong way!
“Hey!” He shouted, surprising himself at his new found audacity.
“Hey! You’re going the wrong way!”
The voice that replied from out of the darkness wasn’t very nice.
“Shut up, runt!”
Shocked into quiet, he shook himself. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe those lights…
the bright ones, that flashed brightly in different colours, maybe those…belonged to home? But an inner voice, startling him with its new found conviction, spoke firmly in his mind:
“No! Those are the wrong lights! There is danger there! The lights I want are not like that! All gawdy and flashy… The lights I want are quieter, much less bright, and…
….much more beautiful…!”
“Hey! You’re going the wrong way!”
His head spun around as he heard somebody else shout the same warning.
“Hey! You’re going the wrong way!” Another voice was heard.
“Hey! You’re going the wrong way!” Yet another voice pitched in.
But the collective, the overwhelming majority, well organised by their leaders, turned their shells to the protesters, and trooped solidly off. Here and there sarcastic sneers could be heard, and withering remarks. Laughter, and jeers.
He watched them go, sadly.
Then he sighed, wearily. There were decisions to be made…
Turning to the others, in a brisk tone, which they had not heard before, he asked:
“Are you with me?”
There was a pause, and then several voices spoke up simultaneously from out of the darkness.
“Aye, we’re with you!”
He turned, and without a backward glance, he moved off in the direction he sensed.
Towards their home, the acquamarine, deep, ever light, waiting sea.
Just, only just, over that distant moon draped dune…
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on December 28, 2008, 12:07 pm
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Loading…Bounce (1)
November 22, 2007 in article about writing
BOUNCE (1)
“This story was inspired by… “
Why does this phrase annoy me? Why should I allow five little words to make me contemplate a headlong rush to the nearest barf bag? It doesn’t seem right to have such a strong reaction. I should be more philosophical, and lead a more contemplative life.
I, as one who strives towards the monastic disposition, a chaste, quiet life, interrupted only by the occasional hymn, why should I feel my blood pressure elevated by a simple phrase such as the one above?
I think it’s because it sounds so poetic. So…(sniff!)…ephemeral. So dreamy.
I have this mental picture of a giant tableau, a painting covering the entire wall. And not just any wall. In my mind’s eye, I see a wall in the Versailles palace, home of Louis the Fourteenth, the famed Roi-Soleil, the Sun-King, who was famed for strutting the immaculately manicured lawns and gardens, with their fountains, and their ponds.
With a servant toddling faithfully along behind, in case his Royalship had need.
The servant, head bowed, humble, busying himself with his sacred duty.
Carrying the royal piss-pot.
It is in this palace, glittering with splendor, whilst the masses starve in Paris, and hungrily roam the streets, spreading vile mutterings of revolution, that I shall place this enthralling tableau. Painted, nay, crafted I say, so carefully by a master and his students, working as a single team, as one, to illuminate to the world….
…to bring forth, the glorious spectacle of inspiration….
Yes, can you see… the Muse of Poetry, looking down from the heights of Mount Olympus, under the watchful, approving glance of the great Zeus himself? Can you see the shaft of inspiration, sharp as a lance, yet fly from his finger tips, its swift, sure flight heading unstoppable for the poor, naked wretch, cowering pathetically on the dimly lit stage of human strife? And can you see that… undeserving poet, that lonely bard, trying to escape the lance? Can you see him, his upflung arms, protesting vainly to the heavens…
“I am not worthy… “
Ahhhhh…..Yuk! Where’s that bag?
That’s why I hate “This story was inspired by… ” With a passion.
So I, humbly, propose the death of this phrase. I propose we hear it no more.
I propose it goeth the way of all things excessively poetic…
The trash can.
What, you may ask, shall we replace it with?
This is an excellent question, and there are several choices.
I, for my part, as part of my struggle against conformity, intend to bounce.
You’re going to do…what!?
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce-bounce-bounce.
Off other writers. Off ideas. Off reviewers.
And occasionally, just to amuse myself, if the monastic life and the hymns start getting on my nerves, I guess…
I can always go clear my head on an inspirational brick wall or two. Right…?
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on December 28, 2008, 10:48 am
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Loading…Decline and Fall (1)
November 22, 2007 in Short Stories
Decline and Fall of the…. Roman Empire?
The ancient Roman gladiatorial sports…
We’ve seen the movie. Maybe… even read the book. We all know… it was pretty brutal.
I would suggest that these “sports ” were, in their own way, a damning verdict on their society. And not a good one. It spoke of the Romans’ unspeakable, sadistic cruelty towards their fellow men. It spoke of how smug, self-satisfied citizens could hugely enjoy the side-splitting spectacle of their weaker fellow brothers or sisters being humiliated.
The gladiators themselves… fought in different ways. Some merely tried to defend themselves. By sword, spear, or whatever weapon was thrust upon them. Others attempted to “enter into the spirit of it all ” to please the crowd…. they put on a good “show “, hoping it would improve their chances of being allowed to live a few more miserable days under the sun. They wanted to be approved of. Maybe, somehow, they hoped to ingratiate themselves. Hoped for just a little…. sympathy? But their fellow men, sitting in judgement above them, superior and aloof, merely laughed and scorned them. Man…. has no compulsions about deriving ribald enjoyment, even… from the spectacle of his fellow man trying to please his tormentors… by making a fool of himself…
Can you picture those Roman citizens, supremely confident in their arrogant superiority, sitting haughtily on the benches, cheering wildly at the spilling of innocent blood? Can you hear them laughing and mocking the players down below, in the dust and dirt of the arena? The jeers, when a man begged for mercy? The catcalls, the boohs, when a man pleaded for understanding? Compassion, even?
Can you picture the Emperor, when considering a man’s life, enjoying his moment of supreme God-like power? Can you see him slowly and ponderously rise to his feet, and stretch out his arm? His hand out flat before him, his thumb undecided, up or down?
Up, he lives. Down, he dies. Can you see the Emperor listening to the cheering of the crowd? And where his thumb went up, a man’s life spared, until the next time… can you see the grateful wretch cringing in gratitude? Can you see his upturned, flushed, grimy face? Can you see the Emperor, with a proud, cursory nod of his solemn, wise head, acknowledge -perhaps- the gratitude poured out in the bloodsoaked sand by a whimpering survivor?
Can you hear the roll of the drums, or the blast of trumpets? Can you see the poor wretch below, performing his pathetic little role, going through the antics expected from him?
Is it not… a relief to live in the great land of Americay. Home of the Free, the Noble, the Brave. Where people are kinder, more sensitive, and simply much more civilized than in those bitter, forlorn, cursed Roman days. Such spectacles would never be tolerated in our day. It is…. a relief to know how far our American society has progressed.
That’s why, many years ago, a certain live television show fell… flat on its face within the first three weeks. The advertisers were so shocked, that they pulled their patronage. So many infuriated viewers and human rights groups called in, that the studio switchboard was jammed with angry calls. They claimed that this kind of cruel manipulation, this mocking parody of justice, had no place in America, the Land of the Free. A civilized society, a long way advanced beyond the primitive jeering and baying of the maddened crowds of the Roman arena, accompanied by drums and trumpets, and all the razzamatazz of staged popular frenzy…
The protesters claimed it was flat wrong to make a public amusement spectacle out of the vulnerable and the weak. They said this was a cruel exploitation. Oh, yes, there was an outcry…
The name of the show? Oh, you won’t remember it. I’m glad to say, it died an early death, many years ago. It was called… let me think. Oh, yes…
The Jerry Springer show…
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Loading…Last Night
November 22, 2007 in Poetry
(This is a poem to a former lover, who died alone in a single vehicle car crash.
We rode a motorbike for thousands of miles.)
Last Night
Last night, from far away, I thought I heard
a distant sound,
beckoning me,
waking me,
urgently calling me.
It seemed to me it stirred
an old memory
haunting me
teasing me
leaving me
again.
It was as if you were there,
whispering secretly
Remember me,
remember me
my darling
I care.
When I think of the miles
we passed crazily
you in black leathers
and I far too fast
I’d give up just anything
willingly, gratefully
for just five minutes
with you on the back.
We’d burn up the road
blisteringly, recklessly
And I’d feel your arms
take up the load.
With your hair in the wind
and your laughter contagious
we’d move like a banshee
demented, outrageous.
So I whisper right back
at the hovering memory
I remember you
I remember you
my darling
I care.
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 7, 2012, 10:29 pm
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Loading…Piano Lessons
November 22, 2007 in article about writing
(I originally wrote this tongue-in-cheek story for “Writer’s Cafe “, deliberately full of all sorts of technical goblins, as a protest against the beatings I saw regularly being dished out by some remarkably haughty and unfeeling “popular ” writers, who sat in contemptuous judgment of struggling artists; it fell on deaf ears, and I eventually left, to set up our own tiny little corner of Cyberspace… We may be small, but we’re at peace…)
When I was a young teenager, we had a piano in the house.
I used to plink out little tunes I taught myself. Two fingers. I liked that piano.
I liked the sound it made. Guess what. It made better sounds if you played it better…
If you are a serious literary critic, by now, I hope you’re getting a bit annoyed.
I can just hear your mind:
Tsk! Tsk!… “I liked the sound it made. ” “It made better sounds if you played it better… ” What kind of prose is this? A young teenager? Have you ever heard of an OLD teenager???
What kind of prose is this?? Full of mistakes!!! Of course it makes sound! It’s a piano! Get on with the story! “
My parents, meaning well, hired a piano teacher.
He wasn’t cheap. He would actually come to the house. And teach me. This went on for a couple of years. I got to be pretty good. Not a Tchaikovsky player, or Rachmaninoff. But still a pretty good piano player.
Now ask me a question: when did I last play the piano?
Answer: when I was a teenager.
Huh?
The teacher was very skilled. But I don’t ever remember him smile. Not once. He never laughed. He was a joyless soul. What I do remember is that we would practice and practice and practice. And when at last, at last, I would play the whole tune without a single mistake…. he’d turn the page. And we’d move on to the next piece, which was always a little bit harder.
Some pieces were fun to play. Because they were fun, I’d practice a lot. Then I got good. But then, next lesson, he’d just turn the page to a horrible one.
So what was the point….?
Well, time went by, and I grew to slowly hate the sound of his car coming.
I grew to hate the sound of the door bell ringing. And, surprise, surprise, I grew to hate that damn awful stupid f…ing piano!
Tsk! Tsk! “I liked the sound it made. ” “It made better sounds if you played it better… ” What kind of nonsense prose is this?
Of course it makes sound! It’s a piano! Get on with the story! “
And so, my dear literary reviewer, when I read you blasting other people’s work, having failed to find one single good and noteworthy merit, then I want to say to you:
“There’s sound, and then, there’s sound. “
They are not the same.
Happy sound. Sad sound.
Sound you love. Sound you hate.
Don’t… kill.. the… sound!
Photo by Moriza
Don’t kill people’s love to write. Don’t hurt their need for self expression. Just because somebody’s poetry or fiction is simple, and doesn’t appeal to your erudite taste, doesn’t mean that their creative efforts are to be ridiculed. BEHIND those “simple ” words may rest very complex personalities, amazing life experiences, and truly intense emotional and spiritual sensitivity.
The “Harbor ” is not the place to be if you want rave reviews, be recognized amongst your peers for “most viewed “, “Most friends “, “Most STARS “….
The “Harbor ” is not the place for you if you want public acclaim, as a step on the road towards becoming a widely famous, published author…
The “Harbor ” IS the place for you if you enjoy the music.
Even the simple tunes.
The ones people write and play with two fingers…
F.M.
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on March 6, 2011, 10:57 am
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