Friday, 14 December 2007

Who else in the world writes to Santa Clause other than all the good boys and girls?

The Black List:

The elf walked into the Head Office,
Immediately dwarfed by towers of toys and more.
Up at his desk Santa fiddled with a toy train.
The Elf was sure his frown was deeper than before.

“Sir we have a few problems.” The small voice spoke.
“Rudolph hasn’t escaped again has he?” was his immediate reply.
“No sir we have managed to keep him out of the coke.”

“What’s the matter then?” he asked putting a sheep in its pen.
“The Black letters have arrived sir.”
“Presents only for those who are good. I’ve told them time and time again.”

“A lycanthrope wishes for a collar so he isn’t seen as a stray.”
“If he were a good dog I might be kind to this one.”
On that matter it was all Santa had to say.

“Next is from Medusa, a thousand ribbons for her snake hair.”
The small elf looked at Santa anxiously.
“Too dangerous, to risk being turned to stone I do not dare.”

“Thirdly is a vampire asking for another rat.”
Santa sighed, now doodling snow flakes.
“Send him to blood detox and let him be happy with that.”

“A witch is hoping for a Thunderbolt broom.”
At that Santa let out a tiresome groan.
“Damned Potter, send her a flying vacuum.”

“Captain Hook wants a box to catch fairies.”
A small gulp came from the tiny elf.
“The gall of him! Send him a box of sweet cherries.”

“Finally a zombie wishes for new clothes.”
Santa nearly choked on his hot chocolate.
“What he died in let him keep those.”

“That is all so far sir.” The Elf concluded.
“To think winters only just started.” Santa muttered.
“These baddies really are deluded.

Sunday, 2 December 2007

Never judge a book by its cover - Fairy Tales aren't always as they seem:

The Wolf Case:

She sat there before them. Her little finger twiddling with her curly blonde hair. Her tongue restlessly sliding over her peach lips. The recognisable red cloak hung on the back of her chair.
“So,” she began, smoothly standing up and walking around them. “We have one dead wolf neighbour. One saliva covered Grandma and a man with an axe.” She stopped to sip her hot chocolate, which she carried in her left hand, the right still fiddling through her hair. Her eyes wandered over to the window and the storm that blew around outside.
The old lady began to sniffle again, her shaking hands wiping her red nose with a large, pink spotted hanky.
“You both say Mr Wolf tried to eat you?” she asked casually leaning on the wall behind them, her breath steaming up the window pane for the second time that night.
“He ate me first!” the granny sobbed, her red nose making those irritating sniffs again. The shock of being bound to a wheelchair was finally coming through.
“So tell me old woman, why would he eat you?”
“I don’t know! He just did!” she cried even louder.
“Surely there must have been a reason? Did you exchange harsh words? Was he upset when you came in? Angry? What kind of a mood was he in when you saw him this morning?”
The old lady took in a deep breath then sighed. Her wrinkled eyes closed in concentration.
“I’m not sure what mood he was in Detective Hood. When I brought round some of the cookies he always liked he seemed pretty normal. Like he usually is every morning.”
“How did he accept your arrival? Was he agitated? Annoyed perhaps?”
“I told you I’m not sure! He just acted like he always has. Happy and grateful for my visit. He was always a lonely fellow. He didn’t have many friends apart from me.”
“Who would be friends with a man-eating wolf!” the axe man protested loudly.
“We’ll get to you later Mr Woodcutter, until then would you mind holding your tongue.” Detective Hood growled silently, within that one line her total appearance vanished to be replaced with a mood of hostility and authority.
“Yes miss, sorry miss.” He stammered like a naughty school kid.
“Good. Now as I was saying, Grandma, what were the first signs Mr Wolf gave you that something wasn’t right?”
“Like I said, at first he seemed his usual self. It was only when I noticed a plate of sausages on the dinner table that I became aware he wasn’t himself. As I informed you before, Mr Wolf told us all he was a strict vegetarian.”
“A vegetarian wolf? I must say that is a rare thing.” She returned to her seat before, placing her empty mug on the table between the three of them. “Well, could it be possible you think that he could have broken out of his vegetarianism? Those sausages you mentioned could easily be full of proper pig meat?”
“Yes, I agree it could be possible Detective Hood, but I’ve known Mr Wolf for over thirty years now and I have not known him to eat any meat at all during that time.”
“Well my colleagues at this moment are testing those sausages for meat samples. We shall have to wait for the results to know if they are vegetarian sausages or not.” Crossing her legs delicately, she leaned closer to the two witnesses before her. Her light blue eyes seemed to turn into lasers as she peered into them. “Why did Mr Wolf lead you into the bedroom Grandma?”
“He told me he had something important to show me. So I trusted him and followed him in. It was when he locked the door behind me that I began to panic.”
“When did he start to attack you?”
“Once he had locked the door. He started chasing me round and over the bed. I threw anything I could at him to hopefully knock him out but it didn’t work. I started to scream and shout hoping someone would come to save me. It was then that Mr Woodcutter came in.”
“So I’ve heard. Well then Mr Woodcutter, what can you say to follow up this event?”
“Well I was cutting in the little wood near by and heard the screams and shouts. I ran over and knocked on the door. It swung wide open, it wasn’t even shut. So I charged in through the house knowing something was terribly wrong. I found them both locked in the bedroom, using my axe I cut my way in to find Mr Wolf half devouring Grandma’s legs! It was then that I threw my axe and hit him in the head. I was the one who killed him.”
Detective Hood sat back in her chair; closing her eyes to go over the information she had been given.
“What … what will happen to us Detective Hood?” Mr Woodcutter asked nervously.
She slowly opened them to reveal a glare of uncertainty over her eyes. “I’m not sure yet Mr Woodcutter. From what you have both stated, you killed Mr Wolf as an act of bravery and survival not just for yourself but for Grandma as well.” She paused. “However, if those results say those sausages are indeed vegetarian, this investigation will have to continue for another week at least.”
“He won’t go to jail will he?” Grandma asked her voice as shaky as her hands.
“I’m not sure of that either Grandma. We won’t know any more than you do until we discover the cause of why Mr Wolf attacked you so. But for the moment you are both safe.”
There was a knock on the interrogation room door.
“Come in!” Detective Hood called, sitting up straight in her chair.
“Detective Hood, there’s been another development on the Wolf Case.” Another young detective announced.
“Well what is it Detective Goldilocks?”
“The real Mr Wolf has been found tied up in the basement of his house. He claims his cousin impersonated him so he could eat the Grandma. Apparently all the wolves are running short on wild food to hunt so their turning on humans.”
“Goodness Gracious! Is Mr Wolf alright?” the woman in the wheelchair cried out in relief and astonishment.
“Yes Grandma he’s fine. Just a bit restless that’s all. He sends his deepest apologies for letting his cousin attempt to eat you.”
“Oh Detective Hood, can I please go see him?”
“Very well Grandma, I think we’ll finish questioning for today. You can both go home. We’ll probably call upon you in the morning for further questioning just to wrap things up.”
“Oh thank you! Thank you!” the other detective helped the old lady out of the room, her red nose sniffing with excitement.
“What about me? What will happen to me now Detective Hood?”
She turned to meet the worried eyes of the man once more. “For now Mr Woodcutter you go home to your family.” She stood up along side him and walked towards the exit of the police station. “And don’t worry; now we have the real Mr Wolf alive and well, you are most definitely not going to jail.” Her words created a relaxed and pleasant smile across his worn face.
“Thank you for being so understanding Miss Hood.” He stood at the door, his still damp cloak now wrapped tight around his firm body.
“No problem Mr Woodcutter. I shall call you again in the morning to let you know what’s next. Goodbye.” She waved him off at the door before too putting on her red cloak and walking slowly through the rain to her red mini to drive back home to bed.

Song of the Valkyrie - in Asgrad women were just as powerful as the men

Song of the Valkyrie

I am one of Odin’s Shield Maidens
I carry his mark of the Golden Spear.
I am what drives men in battle and
Makes them quake with fear.

I am the one who knocks and taps
But each time you see no-one there.
I am merely testing your bravery
Seeing if true fear is too much for your to bare.

The end of October is when my fun truly begins.
I accompany my lord on his Wild Hunt,
We ride on horses with silent wings.
Our hound’s teeth are anything but blunt.

I am the glorious and beautiful Death Bringer.
I select the bravest and most deserving of you all.
I am a Valkyrie. And if you see me now,
It may be your turn to enter Odin’s golden hall.

Saturday, 1 December 2007

A memory of summer for this cold, harsh winter:

Secret Garden

The sun was warm on my back
The day we met.
I can still remember the cool rush
As I stroked your running waters.
Your perfume was unique, a delicate
Fragrance man could never imitate.
Your skin of bark was firm yet soft
To hold, I often tried to wrap my
Arms around you.
And your velvet green grass
Woven about you, it is one of
Nature’s finest fabrics.

I see you no more, as old adulthood
Intervenes, putting barbed wire between us.
But they will never steal you from my
Mind. Each time I close my eyes I’m there.

Sitting in the arms of sister willow.
Listening as brother river plays
A tune for us both between the banks.
And admiring the dainty vine
Flowers as they charm a
Hundred bees.

Summer reigns forever with you.
You’re my secret garden of dreams.

Here's a thought for the christmas season:

The forgotten Pine Tree:

“Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree!” they sing.
That’s when a pine tree’s troubles begin.
Whether growing in the wild or reared on a farm,
Each year humans do them great harm.
In groups or neat rows they stand,
Shuddering at the touch of each human hand.
To be chopped down or dug up,
The other trees in pity can only look.
As one by one their taken away,
Never see another sunny day.
No longer to have singing birds
Nest in their branches,
Nor feel the wind blow through
As it dances.
Prevented from feeling the rain
Drip down its bark.
Or to house a hooting owl
When it’s dark.

Forced to stand in a bucket of soil.
Overcome by tinsel, baubles and lights.
To stare in silence as they watch mothers toil.
It’s pine needles fall showing it frights.

When Christmas day has been and passed.
The days of this tree near it’s last.
When branches start to become bare
It is left outside, reunited with the open air.
So it slowly dies, left to whither and rot.
To become nothing but a skeleton standing in a pot.

It’s ironic in a world
Where humans strive to be green.
That pine trees aren’t left alone
To sustain their natural scene.

Thursday, 15 November 2007

For those who know or are Alcoholics - this is for you

The stranger who lives in my house

The stab of the screw causing the cork to jettison with a pop.
The crystal ring and slosh as the poison is poured into the glass.
A colour deeper than blood, a fitting substitute to flow through his decaying veins.
He licks his pale lips eager for the taste on his tongue, to feel it in his mouth and body.
The tense raging hunger, need, desire and longing is finally quenched, for an hour or more.

He returns to his chair before the TV, turning it on
With a determined press of a button on the controller that never leaves his table.
The wide screen jumps into life with such colour and energy.
That force has long left his body, no one can remember a time when he wasn’t this way.
The news and weather again and again and again and again.
The global disasters, famines, bombings and corrupt politics flicker
Over his glazed grey eyes, watching the world spin and change.
A world he no longer feels part of, a world he thinks no longer needs him.
All are excuses, reasons, motives, as feeble as the hand that lifts the poison to his mouth once more.
To take one more sip, one more mouthful,
One more glass, one more bottle
Empty as his heart despite the pleading looks of his children,
The tears in his wife’s eyes, all hoping, praying, wishing, waiting,
For him to change.
To be the father that used to laugh, his eyes once filled with happiness.
To be the husband that used to smile, a smile once filled with love.
That man has long since left their home and their hearts.

This is what it has come to; his days spent decaying before the TV,
His body crumbling and withering like the autumn leaves outside.
The poison that is so delightful claiming more of his soul, his spirit,
His mind, his body and his life.
A life he will not fight for.
The man that now sits in my father’s chair is not my father.
Just a reflection, a look alike but empty of his heart.
A ghost that haunts us with misery, sadness, shame and regret.
A perfect stranger that we simply call Dad but acts nothing like him.

Sunday, 11 November 2007

A poem written by a Green Enthusiast - me

The view of Storthes Hall wood:

Crumbling autumn leaves,
Crushed beer cans,
Broken twigs,
Shattered glass,
Creeping hawthorn,
Crisp packets empty,
Shimmering sunlight,
Smouldering fag ends,
And battered Blue Bells.

Student’s litter,
Rubbish and trash.
Is putting it in a bin
So much to ask?

In a world where
Being Green is ‘in’.
The least we could do
Is fill up the bin.

An ambiguouse poem: can you guess what I am writing about?

The life and death of Mrs Red:

I return through the meadow fields and cattle herds.
My pace relaxes
Once I feel the shade of trees against my back.
Dead autumn leaves crunch and shatter
Beneath my small delicate feet.
I ignore the odd feather
That floats to the ground behind me
From the chicken
I am bringing home for tea.
Fresh from the chicken shed
At a local farm.
A breeze stirs my coat.
Thick and coloured red. Real fur.

I reach home and I call my children out.
In a rush and tumble they greet me.
Five eager and hungry sets of eyes
Stare at me.
I pluck the chicken quickly.
My mouth salivating over the tender meat.
When it is clean we feast.
The chicken is devoured hastily.
I laugh inside as my two boys play tug
With a chicken leg bone.
One of my three girls rolls
Amongst the white feathers
Spotted with blood and dirt.

They stop. Dead still.
I hear the noises outside too.
I tell them to wait inside.
I approach the door cautiously
To see what visitors approach our home.
An unnatural light hovers over the ground outside.
I hide in the entrance within the darkness.
I don’t like the smell of who is out there.

You see her eyes reflected in the torch light.
You remember finding your chicken shed
In chaos and ruins,
A mess of feathers and blood.
You finger the trigger,
You take the shot.

Thursday, 1 November 2007

Something to remember at Halloween:

A recipe from a Witches Cook Book: Human Haggis

Take one human stomach, empty or full and drown it,
several times, vigorously.
Whilst it drowns take the heart and remove it
srom the blood vessels with a pair of jagged scissors.
Then remove the stomach and lay it on some hot coals,
as the stomach hisses and sizzles cut and slice the gristly bits
of the lungs and finally free the liver from the rest of the corpse.

Add the organs into a large cauldron,
(Preferably the old slow-cooking kind)
to boil and simmer.
Add any spices or herbs if you can find any.
Whilst the other parts are cooking turn the stomach inside out
and line the innards with nettles and slug slime.
(To help the furry side is the outside of the stomach, you want
to make that the inside by turning it inside out.)
Once other organs are boiled to death need them to a pulp
using some dragon teeth.
(Just ignore the fat and blood it all adds flavour.)

Stuff the stomach with the pulp and then use spider leg needles
to stitch the stomach into a full bag with no holes.
Place again into a bubbling cauldron and leave to stew until
the next full moon.

When ready serve upon a lambs jawbone with seaweed
and maybe some children’s toe nails as seasoning.
Give to the Devil and hope he likes it.

The perfect Hallows Eve dish.

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