Zzzz. December 20, 2006
Posted by sporadicblogger in Uncategorized.11 comments
Self explanatory 
Be back in a while. Happy Christmas and New Year to everybody reading .
51, not out…In Your Face, ha ha :) December 16, 2006
Posted by sporadicblogger in People I honour.10 comments
Guess who’s back!! : )
In other matters, Pollock is losing hair! He is bald up there! Needs one wicket to touch 400. Yay Polly
December 9, 2006
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I felt I must borrow this. Read it on http://lostrealist.wordpress.com/ .
The Realist
Optimisits see the roses,
Pessimists see the thorns,
Nihilists deny they exist,
Rationalists ponder on.
Idealists vainly seek,
A rose without thorns,
I smell the roses,
Laugh, and move on.
December 9, 2006
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Haha, the world is so big, and the grass is green
Full stop December 9, 2006
Posted by sporadicblogger in Abstract Ramblings, Nonsense, Poem.2 comments
I do not punctuate
Since my words rebelled
But I like rules
Because rules are rules
So I punctuate.
December 9, 2006
Posted by sporadicblogger in Abstract Ramblings, Nonsense, Poem.4 comments
I’ a little tea pot
Sitting on my spot
All of yesterday I spent
Reading Paradise Lost
I have a piece of candy
Extracted from my brain
People come and look at it
And tell me that it rained
Its pink in colour,
With bittle bits of blue
Those who leave their raincoats home
Are far and between few.
Its candy,
Doubtless, dandy
Won’t you have a piece?
Its made from bits and pieces
That also belonged to you.
I have a mixer grinder
That’s very good at its job
So when I pull out the candy
And skate the dandy
I must wonder why
You turn your face away
I must wonder why
You put a spanner in my works
When you cemented the sky.
December 5, 2006
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Its exam time again. What fun! Snigger, snigger. When I switched on the computer, I thought I had a lot to say. Now, I discover, I don’t. Much as I’m tempted to finish before I start a ramble-actually, no, I’m not. I like rambling. It’s so freeing. The thoughts can go from wherever to wherever, and I can chase them, not caring whether I catch them or not. I got called cynical today. Because I don’t like mush. That’s simplifying it a bit, A, but isn’t that what you said . Hm. I’m not a cynic. I can be cynical (something I’ve grown into. Happens. With experience.), but I am not a cynic. I don’t doubt and disbelieve on principle, and I don’t derive any pleasure from cynicism. It doesn’t construct my identity in any way. I admit, freely and gladly, however, that I dislike mush, defining ‘mush’ to mean, well, mush. I don’t feel warm and melty when I hear sweet nothings uttered by one mushball to another. Ofcourse when the mushball is on tv, it’s a teeny bit easier to pretend its not fake, but for some reason, public display of mush(and mush is not to be restricted to only lovers) strikes me as hollow, probably because I can’t ever imagine myself doing it, nor do I understand it. That doesn’t mean I debunk the whole notion of mush; mush for me is different. A grass ring when one marries, rather than a gold/silver/whatever one is my idea of ultimate mush. Hm. Not too many people can understand why a grass ring is incredibly romantic .Dead grass mind- for that incredible colour, and lack of the horrible smell of fresh cut grass.
Sigh, ramble power is not on full on today.
Speed December 2, 2006
Posted by sporadicblogger in Life, Nonsense, Poem.2 comments
This is not so old. Class 12, I think.
Life is a journey
And you’re a car
Running at ninety miles
An hour
You see the need
To brake ahead
You see a roundabout
You need to negotiate
There’s always
Someone stopping you
There are breakdowns
All around you
You see them, cars,
Whizzing by
And wonder why you can’t have
Just one smooth ride
You ache, and yearn to
Rev it up, and let loose
Speed over bumps, and cracks and walls
And not stop for anything at all
There’s less to think
No time to feel
When you fly down the road
At that awesome speed.
And more… December 2, 2006
Posted by sporadicblogger in Extreme Nostalgia, From The Attic, Life, Poem.7 comments
My Ring
This was my second poem of sorts..written in class 6, so that would make me…10/11. I remember a little maroon diary that I had appropriated and put in scary drawings to keep people off my property . I used that diary for the first time when I needed rough paper for a rough draft of a project in history, but ended up making it my own, in all senses of the word. The first poem in that diary, and in my life (in a matter of speaking) was called My Shadow (and no, it was not a misnomer ), and I remember being so surprised that it rhymed regularly enough, and had some sort of a rhythm. I was so kicked that I proceeded to write this second poem the very same day . When this ended, I was on a high. I liked what I wrote, I surprised myself, and that unleashed my ‘poetry wave’,lol. I think I must have got in 20-30 poems in 2 years. I remember i particularly favoured long, ‘epical’ poems, 
:D, and I still have pages and pages of eulogising a bud(flower bud), a spirit, among other things
I’m not going to apologise for unleashing this one.. ; I’m still very fond of it
On every market day,
When men and women so gay
Sell their wares
And attend fairs
I hold up a little ring
And start to sing
“Come and get it!
Come and get it!
This ring
Is fit for a king,”
I continue to sing.
“Look at this pearl,
Fit for an Earl
Do not miss this chance
And have a glance
At this pearl
Fit for an Earl”.
The day whizzes by,
And darkness lights the sky.
I give a sigh,
My hopes are still high
Someday,someone will by my ring
Till then, I will continue to sing,
On every market day,
When men and women so gay,
Sell their wares
And attend fairs…
Regurgitations December 2, 2006
Posted by sporadicblogger in From The Attic, God, Life, Poem.1 comment so far
Some Old stuff I now proceed to put up owing to an acute case of I-don’t-want-to-write-but-want-to-update-blog
Home
This is a simultaneous example of terrible poetry and lying through my pants. I was 14 or 15 when I wrote it and even at that time I knew what trash it was. Why it still lies undeleted is because I take strange pleasure in occasionally(hopefully) spewing utter trash (not to be confused with nonsense, which I delight and pride in 
)
The strange land freezes my soul,
I cannot make any friends.
For deep inside, my heart’s calling
Out loud to my homeland.
My home is by the green blue sea
Where cries of the gulls sound through the day
The smell of the sea, the sound of the sea
How I survive without them is a mystery.
The sand at home is golden and warm
I yearn for the feel of its shells.
Oh, the sun’s lazy rays,
I long to bask in there.
My home is a little cottage,
On an island in the sea.
Its rich brown wood
Encloses all my needs.
I had a sandy garden
Oh the marvels I grew in there!
Lettuce plants and bushes of rose
They all grew in my care.
Behind my cottage there grew a tree
So big, so old, oh so green!
On a hot summer’s day I yearn and yearn
To lie in the willing arms of its shade.
No more is that little path
Walked upon by feet
For the door of my cottage is locked and barred
And dusty has grown the friendly porch.
Years ago the letter had come,
And seduced me to a land far away
Money sufficed not the needs
The needs of my hungry soul.
I’ll go back, unlock and unbar that door,
Will sweep all the dust
From my porch floor.
Un-weeded, my garden will spring to life,
My tree will share its shade.
The sand, the sea
Will once again beckon to me.
The gulls, their cries I shall hear once more.
My island will yet be in sight
When I board the homeward bound ship-
And return home once again.
God’s Hand
Same age, written in a moment of I’m-amused, not to be taken too seriously, a funny-funny poem. :eyes: Yup, I realise thats a terrible description, but I’m felling funny-funny, a different funny-funny, at the moment.
A whip, my whip, so handy a tool
It’s shaken and worked up many a fool
It can stir up a storm, or calm a squall
Under its power lie one and all
One crack, a smack, and trees will deliver,
One wave, a swish, and time goes on forever.
One twirl, a flick, will fill a pea pod.
For I am Nature, I am God.
Behold, you humans, you think you are so great
In my whip I hold your fate
One gesture, a mere twitch
Can undo you world, your every stitch.
What stays my hand?
What saves your land?
It is my favourite creation,
It is Man.
