Many an axe came with the dawn,
Yet the oak tree, it stood on.
Many tried to hew its will,
Yet the oak tree, it stands still.
Its bark is scarred, each a tale,
Of axes that tried, only to fail;
The axe may come and the axe may go,
But the oak tree continues to grow.
Today I was dancing in the rain on a deserted beach with some seagulls.
It’s always a good idea to come alive before one dies.
When I was very small, my grandad assuredly told me that there is no such thing as God. Later that day, I couldn’t find the boot of one my action men anywhere. Frustrated, I said to God, “I promise I will believe in you if you show me the action man boot.” I found it immediately when I looked in the pile of toys again. I kind of feel obliged to keep my promise.
INT. QUIRKY ART STUDIO – DAY
Two painters, Liz and Ralph, are at their easels.
LIZ: I need to write something down, right?
RALPH: Er, okay, why you asking me? I’ve only got a paint brush.
LIZ: I’m making a statement, right?
He looks at her painting of an apple.
RALPH: Er, yes?
LIZ: Pardon?
RALPH: You asked me a question.
LIZ: It’s how I talk, right? Every statement is a question, right? Everybody does it on podcasts for some reason, right?
RALPH: (joking) Great question! Ah, that’s such a great question. Um, uh, er… like, you know, I just wanted to, right, well, um… say, so, okay, actually, basically, right? I mean, anyway, well, right, you see, ahem… um, yeah, so, hmm… in other words, to be honest, I guess, yeah, I suppose… I mean, um, ah, well, actually, you know, basically, I think… right? Er, um, ahem… right? So, like, I mean, well, you know, it’s, right? Right? So… so, in other words, so, er, like, erm, I guess you said something, right? Let me think, er, what did you say again? It was, right, such a great question. Right, left, right, left, such a great question etc. Can you at least say “left” for no reason to make it less repetitive? Maybe throw in an “up” or a “down”?
LIZ: That’s not right, right?
RALPH: This is going to get very confusing if I ask for directions.
LIZ: It’s easy, right? The pen is over there on the left, right?
RALPH: (marches towards the pencil) Right, left, right, (hops) right?
LIZ: No, left, right?
RALPH: (salutes with the wrong hand) Right. (he hands over the pen) So it’s right to write and ask questions, right? But it’s also right to make statements as questions, right? Left, right, right, left, doesn’t really matter as long as it’s right, right? Or left.
LIZ: Left. Left?
RALPH: Right, right?
LIZ: (starts scribbling notes) Okay, I’ll write it down.
RALPH: (hops to the door) Write? Right? (as he is walking out) I’ve left. Right!
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.
Rob Walker 