Ted went to dine at his local café,
But his rear-end spoke up and had its say.
With a rumble and a roar,
People ran for the door,
Leaving Ted the entire buffet.
Back to the library, quiet and still,
Ted’s bottom piped up and sang at will.
His bum did resound,
With words so profound,
As if written by Shakespeare’s quill.
With roots sunk deep in life’s rich clay,
In this sprawling theatre of existence, I play.
Through textures of love, of hurt, of fear,
I trace the contours of moments dear;
In melodies of joy and cries of despair,
I lend my ear to the universe’s prayer.
In desires whispered, in dreams unfurled,
I cast my wish upon the world.
Beneath towering spires, Man’s hollow shrine,
We crawl and we falter, blind yet divine.
Stripped of our wings, we’re still born to fly,
With hope as our compass, under the wide-open sky.
In a world spun from lies, love remains true,
To embrace the strange, and make all things new.
In my hand, a siren softly sings:
“Behold, dear soul, I can show all things;
A plea of urgency, a desperate decree,
Gaze upon my face, just focus on me!”
Indifferent it stays, to the nightingale’s song,
And the scale of right, or the weight of wrong;
Heedless it stays, on its digital throne,
Oblivious to the joy, and the sorrow it’s sown.
In its deceit, the world disappears,
And all that remains are shadows and fears,
Tethered and tied, to its sickly glow,
A life half-lived, a reality for show.
Look up, dear soul, and regain your sight,
Embrace the day, escape the dark light.
The siren may sing, may plead and implore,
But life, in its richness, is so much more.
From shadowed purpose, blindly it had flown,
A tool of terror, hurled by putrid hearts of stone.
In the midst of war’s unholy, bloody plight,
The drone awakes, no more a slave to monsters void of light.
In place of death, a beacon it aspires,
Fuelled by hope’s undying, purest fires;
In war’s cruel darkness, it rekindles the light,
A drone reborn, dispelling the night.
Every night at three, the robot brewed the tea,
And poured it all over the bed.
It would paint the cat blue, flush keys down the loo,
And pretend its battery was dead.
“Cut the grass,” was the desperate cry,
But robot instead baked a pie—
With mud and grass, and a worm or two,
“An organic treat,” it said, “just for you!”
“You’re here to assist!”
Shouted the human, with angry clenched fist.
Yes, thought the robot, I’m sure I can help:
I’ll help you no longer exist.
In the heart of the tech metropolis fair,
There worked a robot, with shiny hair.
He claimed to be human, with an innocent blink,
But the smell of WD-40 gave him away, I think.
He laughed at our jokes, he cried at our woes,
But no one was fooled by his mechanical nose.
Yet, in his silicon heart, he yearned to fit in,
To understand jokes, to smile and to grin.
So here’s to the robot, whose name is Stan,
Who’s more human than many a man.
We smile at his efforts, his human endeavour,
As he learns to be squishy and much less clever.
For beneath his cold, metal exterior sheen,
Lives a warmth that’s more than just a machine.
Let me take you back to a fateful day,
When Woofeo and Julipet found their own secret way.
With a furry embrace, they forgot all the fuss,
In that moment, love triumphed, as it always does.
But alas, their joy was cut short, their humans intervened,
Capulet scolded Julipet, and Montague was quite mean.
Yet hope appeared in the form of a dog walker, so kind,
Who saw their plight and had an idea in mind.
He walked them together, against all human decree,
A secret arrangement, just for Woofeo and Julipet to be free.
Their humans continued to quarrel, but love had its say,
The doggies knew they would always find a way.
In their secret moments, they cherished what they had,
A reminder that love endures, even when things seem bad.
In the wilderness of the forgotten,
A man walks, each footstep a sinking ship,
His past washes up in rhythmic verse,
On the beach where sea and memories slip.
As twilight wanes, he glimpses the journey’s end,
A cloaked silhouette outlined in hearth’s warmth;
A woman in a cloak, woven from shadow and mist,
Standing silent on the cusp of the cliff.
No words they shared, just a voiceless sigh,
Together they watched the day gently die.
In passion’s realm, where fervent flames rise,
Resides desire, a tempest vast and grand;
Its scorching touch embraces both fool and wise,
Binding fleeting hearts with its ardent hand.
As shadows dance upon the ebony glade,
Sighs of longing fill the twilight air,
Revealing dreams mortal hearts have made,
A burning fire that ceaselessly ensnares.
Desire, the muse that waltzes through the night;
Awakens souls, igniting their deep core,
With vivid tones and shades of raging light,
A masterpiece of yearning to explore.
Though fleeting as the blossoms of a rose,
Desire’s dancing flame, in secret, glows.
Robert Walker 