Boundaries of Time

Fingertips wildly grasping the boundary between
The white picket-fence of childhood
And the many years beyond.
Staring into the distance,
To the big, busy world,
And trying to grasp its meaning,
In a childhood context
Of black and white,
And mummy and daddy
Will always set things right.
Now the storm clouds are so pink and rosy,
And the parched grass is ever so green ... every where.
Gold-pot studded rain-bows grace the perimeter
Of this childhood suburban world —
(even amongst the juxtaposition of the decaying rubbish of those filled with greed,
and the desolate cries of those filled with startling need).
A world where dreams are bred like rabbits,
And are believed as truths.
A world spurring an endless curiosity,
For exploring beyond parental allowed;
Not content to just witness the world roll on by,
But wanting to hop, skip and jump, then run with it,
Wherever it may go, whatever dreams it may defy.

Boys and Their Toys

What is it about
Boys and their toys?
When did man
And car
Meld as one?
Lover and loved.
She was mighty fine:
They made perfect curves together,
Made love in 5 second quarter miles,
He spoilt her with accessories:
Mags, flirty skirtings, sporty little things.
Then he traded her in.
I was traded in years before her.
Game or obsession?
A winning possession,
Fuelled by desired-filled need,
Ego-jealous speed.
Boys play, modify, polish
Toys manipulate, stipulate, consume.
When did boys
Become the toys?

How the Other 1/100th Live

I can walk the perimeter in a small hour,
Or instead step inside and spend so much longer,
Eagerly devouring the glamour.
And alike a small child in Disneyland,
I swear I never ever want to leave this wonderful place,
With its majestic castles, bordered by garden lights,
Glowing with grace, for miles with out reprieve.
Twinkling driveways marking a well-guarded path to richness,
And showing that street-lights or any other simpleton mortal aids
Are not required here,
Where gates open automatically to those who pass the spoken test,
Simultaneously excluding the 99/100th horrid rest,
From participating in the distant scenes of recently gone tea-parties
(Still haunting otherwise overly tendered grounds,
Barely touched by rich women weighted down with too much jewellery,
And lavish gowns, worth more than my entire world).

I look down at my feet as I stroll so spellbound,
and they look down at me at me
with painfully contorted expressions.
Is it my shoes, my clothes? Do I just smell poor?
Is it the way that I marvel and stare with fascination
for far too long
When their own enthusiasm for their over-substantial lot
is too long ago gone?

Yet somewhere else, half the world away
in a country totally unlike ours
A small child may tear desperately
around the perimeter of my neighbourhood,
And mistake it for their Disney Land that I've never seen
 or understood;
Dreaming longingly about taking refuge in my 1/100th
safe and clean home,
To play out their true age and to sleep in peace
even for just one night,
But praying 'til grown.
Would I before have even noticed his need,
or even see him passing by?
When it's just a matter of blinding relative circumstance?
I woe my misplaced needs, my selfish deeds
My pitiful tears shed wastefully over the many years.
Tomorrow dawns anew…
I am 1/100th and 99/100th too.

Life Beyond the Bubble

Gold-fish bowel.
Boggle eyed faces
With distorted expressions.
Mouths bobbing soundless dribble,
Gesturing at possessions of distorted proportions.

The world beyond my bubble,
I see the same every day.
Yet it is so unfamiliar,
That my unchosen home
Seems more promising than theirs;
Is it easier to be a prisoner of monotony,
Than fail through flirting dangerously with risk?
They do seem to spend so much
Of their excess space on sorrow.

Misplaced conversation

That was not how it was meant to be
Yes! They agreed.
Oh but WHAT?
What was THAT?
Well actually that was basically that.
Oh! They laughed.
It didn't really matter
For it's mere chatter, and
It's all in the company.
I see, I see,
But I didn't.

Reflections from the Bus:
I. Cute Boys

On the way into town,
Decorated in the chequers of
Our shorter
School dresses —
You'd never get a game of chess —
We strut the cat-walk,
We choose the driver's seat,
We drive the bus on forwards:
Commanding the company,
Feeding fantasies and
Orchestrating an adrenalin rush,
Through the barely burdened blood vessels
Of a young boy's mind.
For a split second,
Long enough to be daring,
We'd aim a quick,
Perfectly timed,
Accurate shot of a
Flirty smile,
Straight at the cute boy's heart.
He'd stare dumbly,
Wounded,
Easy prey.
We'd sit, lying in wait,
Posing at the expose of his desires,
Until appealing enough
For him to turn his head and
Risk exposing his feelings.
Virtually all of them took the bait;
The one boy who never did
Got away.
Provided he were indeed real,
He could have been such a good catch.
He swam so fast.

Reflections from the Bus:
II. Half-way Smile

I stare straight ahead,
Silent, while the bus's insides growl,
Lurching forwards to capture
Some more limp bodies.
Their smart clothes are crumpled
With the sweat of another longer day's
Stress and toil,
No smile to their claim,
As they sigh their way
To an empty seat.
No smile to my name,
Other than the deceit
Of my memories,
In which I indulge too greedily —
(I'm even getting fat).
Unlike years before —
(When we, as participants in this school-borne ride,
Were all bound by just enough
Of the same chequered cloth) —
I must confide,
I don't have any comrades on this bus.
Nor does any one else my age,
By the look of things,
By the sound of things.
We're all silently mesmerised by our destination,
Numbed by our collective empty days,
All adding up;
Taking us away,
So far from the playgrounds of our youth.
But when I really look to see,
I detect the sentimental moments
On which we  delicately survive our adulthood —
Sacred enough to not be destroyed
By the lack of privacy
On this common vehicle of life:
The half-way smile,
Hints of distant times of wistful fun,
Spent on school buses,
Similar to this one,
Which now breeds
Not excited verbal commotion
But confused silent pondering
Of how then became now too easily.
Sometimes,
I rediscover that I might not be
So alone,
That my travels,
Might not just be mine
After all.
And despite, or perhaps even because of
The noisy boys and girls
Clambering on at Stop 10
Sometimes even then
The bus driver's wrinkled face,
Carries that odd, half-way smile.

Sixty

The kids cannot begin see
Just how the time slips
Away from you ever so slowly,
When you sleep with your eyes forever open.

The adults like to watch, marvel,
When time is feed to breathing greed.
Hasten milestone moments,
Quicken-time proponents;
They like to monitor, record
How efficiently the time is being used:
Money making, drug taking, sex and booze.
And later they'll painfully reflect,
To afford shame, misery or regret.

The elderly like to fill days with the lament
Of where the time inappropriately went,
And what it took in precious course;
Remorse as the clock docks
For night,
As death rockets flight.
And what should have been said
Many years implored before,
Except for the haunted dead,
Has expendable time no more.

Surrealistic Acquaintance

Who's that elderly woman sitting there?
She's smoking too much too fast;
She's mashing the cream in her cappuccino with too much
vengeance and haste.
She sighs at the chaos and mess —
it's erupted and overflowed as a toxic waste.
And she diverts her glance,
too briefly to barely meet my cornered eye,
And then she's again blowing and gulping too much too fast,
Just fixated timelessly on her pain.
I want to ask her what the turmoil is but
I'm watching the street-light too anxiously, too wearily;
It's obviously not fixed by that temporary sugary and sweet caffeine mix.
Who's the person beneath the nicotine tainted,
Lifeless crow's feet stare,
as a prefix,
to possible worse things to come:
more lonely hard time to be done.
Then the lights turn to grass and I'm thinking too much of home,
and she's an eyelid flicker gone.
I'll never know her perplexing wrong,
because modern life is too hectic for cherish and care;
Not enough clock reminder time to share
happiness and joy,
let alone the hardship that we bear —
sadness that we might endure for too long, too alone.
Mechanical haste that we half met at the wrong time:
The momentary blending of the estranged yet strangely familiar occupants of a dulled red light & rotted bus stop bench,
To then disperse discompany again too soon,
as a parted surrealistic cacophony of two;
leaving a misdirected me,
embedded helplessly in our mind's shared womb.