Alien, Poor Alien
Introduction:
For centuries now Aliens have visited Earth we assume to study our culture. Then way back in 1958, Sheb Wooley in America told us about a strange little Alien who came to earth to join our culture and play Rock and Roll. His name was the Purple People Eater. His story was continued by J P Richardson (The Big Bopper) in Purple People Eater Meets The Witch Doctor. It seemed now that the Aliens were getting into the swing of things. Of course, that didn’t last long and they went back to observing us. Trawling through some of my lost files the other day I found that the purple guy wasn’t the only one who wanted to play Rock and Roll. There was another one who will remain nameless for contract reasons and latent sex appeal, and this is his story I am about to recount. He visited us in the late 1970’s.
David Harris - 13 September 2009
There stands the ragged troubadour
dusty guitar in his hands
serenading the crowd
gathering around the hot dog van.
He persists between the jeers, yells
and insults thrown at him.
Then he tried to pass the plate
only to have it tossed back again.
Next he tried the cinema queue
the taxman had hit them hard;
serenading wasn’t easy
to a group from the Palace guard.
Their bayonets were at the ready
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Uneventful Life
We all say at times we live uneventful lives
and I am no exception to that rule.
However, looking back
at the uneventful events in my life
I see my life might not be as uneventful as I thought.
At thirteen
I won an inter-school competition
for a painting that I did
and had, it exhibited
at the Royal Canadian National Exhibition.
Up until I was seventeen,
I never wanted to drive a car.
The thought of doing so
terrified me completely,
then one night while out with some friends
we were involved in a head-on car crash.
In the weeks that followed, I learned to drive.
At eighteen
I took up writing after saying to a friend,
“If they can do it why can’t we? ”
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A Self-Estimate
My life has been built around
self-doubt of who I am
with insecurity and vulnerability.
To many that might seem strange
and to others it might seem I have it all.
A lasting marriage,
fulfilling my dreams one at a time,
friends around the world.
You ask what else
could anyone really want.
When I was young
whatever I did
my sister or someone else
could always do it better
even when I succeeded,
at least that is what I was always told.
Those words brought forth
all sorts of insecurities
that plagued my life from those days to this.
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Visit With The Vampire
You mention a vampire
and your thoughts turn to Dracula
that bloodsucking fiend
or a creature like that.
Protruding fangs and bite in the neck,
but they are not the only bloodsuckers around.
You sit there in a line waiting to be called.
The room is sterile and not what you would expect
from the home of a twenty first century vampire.
You feel a bit queasy
and wonder if it will hurt.
You see them go in the door,
but so far, none has come out.
No sounds come from within
and the willing victims beside me
are all filled with smiles and not a care.
Then a number pops up
and the next victim goes in.
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And Where Is She Now
How often do you wonder
what happened to your first love.
Sometimes I do it all the time.
I wonder what she is doing,
what kind of life she’s lead,
has she had any children and how many.
Did she ever marry the man of her dream,
or is she still waiting
for him to come along?
The questions are without answers,
as I really don’t know.
My first love was Gillian Reid.
I met her at a dance hall
where she worked.
I caught a glimpse of her
the first night I went there
from the corner of my eye.
It was enough for me
to fall madly in love with her.
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Early Works - Maurice
The devil’s lady flames have lit
the IRA have bombed the manuscript
never mind there is no relaxation
this time it might get to Glenda Jackson.
A week gone by far away
here comes the Cadbury kid with his Milk Tray.
He is ready for dangers to face,
some more literary grace.
Comedy in an inert expression
there is no regression
Maurice sits in solemn pose
pondering in degrees I suppose
conscious of all repetition
inherited in the pieces at their presentation,
criticism is slight,
but a meaningful insight.
So here, I sit in deep dispose
trying to write poetry and no prose.
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Sleepless In Portsmouth
Two o’clock in the morning,
four hours before I go to work
and I cannot sleep.
My mind is filled with images
that should not really be there.
We are standing in an airport my wife and I
in a different country
looking for faces I hope I might recognise.
There are people all around us,
but those we are looking for
they are not there.
My wife is getting panicky.
We are strangers in a strange land.
For a month, I have had no contact
with those whom we are to meet.
I keep thinking of my friends
and wondering
have they forgotten me?
It is just a dream
I hope that will not turn into reality.
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Through The Years
Through the years, we have wandered.
Down these, narrow lanes.
First as children to the schoolhouse,
remember the fun and games,
hopscotch and blindman's bluff.
Remember too the lessons,
English and mathematics,
we used to hate them both.
Then there were the teachers,
we had nicknames for them all.
But as the years slipped quietly by,
quite unnoticed by us all.
We had to go to work,
spring, summer, winter, fall.
The peel of bells,
and the sound of laughter,
greeted our Wedding day.
As down the lane to the church,
we all made our way.
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Trixi The Pixie
Trixi the pixie worked for Father Time,
which was just Jim-dandy fine.
One day Father Time fell asleep
and suddenly time stopped
and nothing moved anywhere.
Trixi decided what she had to do
to get things going again
and wound up the universal clock,
but when she wound it,
something went badly wrong.
Time instead of going forward
suddenly started going in reverse.
Birds started flying backwards,
things went back into holes
where they had just come from.
Cars whizzed by at an alarming rate
with drivers looking forward
and the car speeding in reverse.
Everything was retracing itself in a backward mode.
The world was in chaos
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poem by David Harris
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The Old House
The candle flame flickers from a draft
on a dark and stormy night,
the floorboards creak with every step
as I move about the old house.
There is a chill in the air,
that seems to be everywhere,
and the clock’s tick sounds louder
as time passes hour to hour.
I hear the thunder rumble in the night
and see lightning illuminate the sky
and I stop and listen intently
to the yawns and groans that echo in my ears.
The old house’s settling graces
that are always heard in the quiet of the night.
My heart beats against my chest
as my imagination begins to fly.
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poem by David Harris
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