.
.
Spike
March 8th, 2010 by Paul Andrew Russell
I danced a jerky juvenile tarantella
while you threw rocks
at my pre-pubescent body,
whipped me with sticks
torn from the
nearest tree.
“Dance, cry-baby, dance!”
you shouted;
I bawled like a baby.
.
I dance to a different tune now…
Priorities
March 8th, 2010 by Paul Andrew Russell
imprisoned by circumstance,
a child;
abuse, poverty, hunger
the walls,
the blindness of others
the door,
lack of compassion
the lock.
.
while a world away
another prison released
a child murderer,
built a world of perfect anonymity
around his diva demands,
the price, millions.
.
recidivism waited around the corner,
a lifelong companion,
there’s no blindness here
there’s five million pounds
worth of compassion.
.
he killed a child deliberately,
he was a child dispassionately
extinguishing a life;
evil incarnate.
.
the world killed a child today,
what’s our excuse?
.
.
I was reading the papers from back home in England, following the story of child murderer Jon Venables, who with his accomplice Robert Thompson abducted, tortured and killed two year old James Bulger in 1993. They were both given new identities, at a cost of millions of pounds, and spent less than ten yeas in prison for their crimes, committed when they were both ten years old.
Jon Venables has just been re-arrested, for what sources are saying is a ’serious sex crime’.
When I wrote this poem I was thinking about a world that pays millions of pounds to keep the murderers of a two year old child safe from the public at large, and yet ignores the poverty and suffering of millions of other children all over the world. What could that money have been used for?
.
.
Fade
March 5th, 2010 by Paul Andrew Russell
sometimes the light
burns bright
as the sun,
fierce and enduring.
.
sometimes as a shooting star
fast and far,
a split second of brilliance,
a flash at conception
extinguished in birth.
.
sometimes a candle’s
flame; flickering firelight
gently snuffed out
with the slightest of breaths
.
but oftentimes
like a lantern
casting its light
for a while,
a magnesium flare
fading to a sepia glow
with time,
dying…..
.
.
Eclipse
March 3rd, 2010 by Paul Andrew Russell
the earth eclipses the sunlight
passing between the star and her satellite,
the silver body darkens,
extinguishing the pale light
which illuminates
the poacher no longer,
allowing him to
catch the fish
previously alerted
by his form standing
on the bank, casting a wan
shadow across the sleepy river.
.
.
Sunshine
March 3rd, 2010 by Paul Andrew Russell
Crow
March 1st, 2010 by Paul Andrew Russell
today I saw a crippled crow
hopping awkwardly in the snow
scavenging in the cold
for scraps of food
outside the school
his leg sticking out
at an ugly angle
as I watched him trying to
wrangle a piece of bread
from an unforgiving snow bank
.
.
Rose
February 28th, 2010 by Paul Andrew Russell
Queen of blooms
in a myriad hues,
red, pink, yellow, gold;
no natural blue
or so I’m told.
Aromas abound
with this fickle plant,
it’s head in the sun
and feet in the ground.
In the shade of day
lurk the thorns,
leave a soul tattered and torn,
prick the skin
pull away;
drain the heart’s
lifeblood away.
.
.
Dream
February 26th, 2010 by Paul Andrew Russell
Last night,
I dreamed of a guy
with red eyes;
mean as Hell.
I watched a tornado
through a window.
He laughed
over my shoulder.
“You asked for it,”
He said.
“No I didn’t,”
I answered,
“You cheated me.”
He laughed again,
then disappeared.
.
.
Procrastination
February 26th, 2010 by Paul Andrew Russell
I was sitting here, watching TV, surfing the web, reading blogs and downloading stuff, all in the name of procrastination, to avoid doing what I’m supposed to be doing, working on my novel.
It’s not that I don’t like writing. Once I get into the right frame of mind the time just flies, but it’s the actual getting into the right frame of mind that’s the problem. We’re all writers. You know what I’m talking about; those moments when you just have to do the housework, the shopping, the ironing (arrgh), format your computer’s hard drive, shovel the snow off the driveway, anything but write.
This week I’ve submitted four poems to a couple of markets. I’ve also sent out a piece of flash fiction. So you know I just had to download a piece of software to keep track of my submissions, (Sonar) and then I had to spend time inputting my submission information.
I also edited and revised the piece of flash fiction, just to waste some more writing time. Then I had to look for markets; more time wasted.
I defragged my hard drives, wiped the free space with another program I downloaded, and cleared out some old programs I no longer use.
It’s nine thirty at night now, and after a hard day’s work and a lot of messing around, I don’t feel like writing anything. What an achievement!
I know it’s only a temporary thing, I’m actually enjoying the novel I’m writing. However, I am going to do some serious writing this weekend. I’ve wasted the last couple of weekends, and come Monday morning I’ll be as miserable as sin and feel like a complete waster if I’ve wasted more precious writing time.
How do you waste your writing time? Do you feel guilty about it?
