Did happenstance just make me wait
By Cupid’s partly open gate?
Wherein I spied a comely maid,
As upon loves harp she sweetly played
A touching tune with words divine
That at once I vowed she would be mine.
She glanced at me with eyes demure
And a smile that said ‘be mine monsieur’.
With joyful step I strolled away,
Planning on another game to play.
Then crafty time came swirling by
And she looked at me with saddened eye.
In my garret cold I now pine away
That happenstance destroyed my day
And left me a sad but wiser swain,
To not trust that fickle word again.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Happenstance Humour
Does happenstance come by each day,
when someone says, ‘oh by the way’?
Is happenstance a state of mind,
That happens to put you in a bind?
Does happenstance crop up too much
When someone says, ‘oh such and such’?
Then happenstance will have a slap
At some other unsuspecting chap.
Does happenstance control the flow,
So no poor sod can have a go?
But happenstance will loose control
When some smart alec is on a roll.
Does happenstance make your day go bad,
So everyone will say, ‘oh dear me, how sad’?
Then happenstance will have had its way
To collar us on this happenstance day.
So now you see what I‘ve been at,
Putting happenstance in to bat,
So we can all bowl true and straight
And smash happenstance right out the gate.
What fun to watch its slow demise,
So that we can now with ease surmise,
What the world it would be like
When happenstance must take a hike
And disappears o’er yonder hill,
Because it had to take a pill
And leave us here the better off
So that we don’t have to snout the trough
And find a way to cast a line
On words of rhyming now to dine,
Why make such a hullaballo
About happenstance’s bally hoo.
This verseing thing gives me such a pain
Trying to rhyme these silly lines again
So I’m off to try out something new
And leave happenstance to each of you.
I surrender to the trial of it
And bury happenstance in the pit,
Of rubbish verse or doggerel stuff
And I will disappear like a magic puff
Of clearing wind from out the blue
That’s scattered happenstance for all of you.
So good bye from it and me. I say
It’s been a happenstance sort of day.
No more we’ll hear this nasty word
I hope you have all been truly cured
From using it to make a verse
Cause trying it is such a curse
To finally put the thing away
And let the others have their say
On what it’s really all about,
Giving happenstance some real clout
This stanza is the last from me,
I done my best you can surely see
I’ve laid to rest the beast that true,
So now the afternoon is up to you.
when someone says, ‘oh by the way’?
Is happenstance a state of mind,
That happens to put you in a bind?
Does happenstance crop up too much
When someone says, ‘oh such and such’?
Then happenstance will have a slap
At some other unsuspecting chap.
Does happenstance control the flow,
So no poor sod can have a go?
But happenstance will loose control
When some smart alec is on a roll.
Does happenstance make your day go bad,
So everyone will say, ‘oh dear me, how sad’?
Then happenstance will have had its way
To collar us on this happenstance day.
So now you see what I‘ve been at,
Putting happenstance in to bat,
So we can all bowl true and straight
And smash happenstance right out the gate.
What fun to watch its slow demise,
So that we can now with ease surmise,
What the world it would be like
When happenstance must take a hike
And disappears o’er yonder hill,
Because it had to take a pill
And leave us here the better off
So that we don’t have to snout the trough
And find a way to cast a line
On words of rhyming now to dine,
Why make such a hullaballo
About happenstance’s bally hoo.
This verseing thing gives me such a pain
Trying to rhyme these silly lines again
So I’m off to try out something new
And leave happenstance to each of you.
I surrender to the trial of it
And bury happenstance in the pit,
Of rubbish verse or doggerel stuff
And I will disappear like a magic puff
Of clearing wind from out the blue
That’s scattered happenstance for all of you.
So good bye from it and me. I say
It’s been a happenstance sort of day.
No more we’ll hear this nasty word
I hope you have all been truly cured
From using it to make a verse
Cause trying it is such a curse
To finally put the thing away
And let the others have their say
On what it’s really all about,
Giving happenstance some real clout
This stanza is the last from me,
I done my best you can surely see
I’ve laid to rest the beast that true,
So now the afternoon is up to you.
In Shakespeare's keep
Happenstance is but a silly, random word that
To William Shakespeare might have occurred
For inclusion within his comedies designed.
Though folk today are less inclined
To let it easily roll off the tongue
In any conversation just recently begun.
Now methinks that Wordsworth nare abused
And Coleridge would have been less than amused
To use it plainly, so to speak, in what e’r they wrote
Or said in speech to others of their kind,
Over mussels or juicy steak and claret when they dined.
But hear me out I beg you do, this word will have me
Harras you, until we gently lay it down to sleep,
So it may stay forever in William Shakespeare’s keep.
To William Shakespeare might have occurred
For inclusion within his comedies designed.
Though folk today are less inclined
To let it easily roll off the tongue
In any conversation just recently begun.
Now methinks that Wordsworth nare abused
And Coleridge would have been less than amused
To use it plainly, so to speak, in what e’r they wrote
Or said in speech to others of their kind,
Over mussels or juicy steak and claret when they dined.
But hear me out I beg you do, this word will have me
Harras you, until we gently lay it down to sleep,
So it may stay forever in William Shakespeare’s keep.
Glorious Happenstance
The atonal vortex of a long darkness
is breathing the pulse of a beginning
that will make making a pleasure of
force and a light to be reckoned upon.
Teeming against itself that pulse
Rubs all its energy towards a
construction of richness, which will
blast small pieces into a new self.
Deeper dark than the dark of the grave
is the darkness before that pinprick of
light begins the unstoppable growth
foredoomed to become darkness again.
In one split second of rich confusion the
whole new conflagration took place
before time could alter or contain the
outcome of its own glorious happenstance.
is breathing the pulse of a beginning
that will make making a pleasure of
force and a light to be reckoned upon.
Teeming against itself that pulse
Rubs all its energy towards a
construction of richness, which will
blast small pieces into a new self.
Deeper dark than the dark of the grave
is the darkness before that pinprick of
light begins the unstoppable growth
foredoomed to become darkness again.
In one split second of rich confusion the
whole new conflagration took place
before time could alter or contain the
outcome of its own glorious happenstance.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
The Swimmer
In turgid water with arms outstretched,
each determined stroke a bold act to
move within the grip of its cold embrace,
trying to temper the body in its motion.
His naked buttocks quiver in the dark
chilled sea; an endless soaking purgatory.
From squeak of dawn he has waited with
keen determination for this ritual hour.
Can you see him dive deeply into the
darkness, eyelids closed tight like a clam
as he travels the path of least resistance,
a silent fear of lost direction his only thought.
Tendrils of kelp torment his pale flesh,
their elongated swirls make his efforts
a sad imitation of the sea’s inhabitants
as they tease this inept, late-come mariner.
He has baptised himself in the ancient mother
with scant regard for her fluid validation
while he travels through her pulsating womb,
awaiting the chance to crawl into to a new life.
Blurred vision allowes shards of virid sunlight
guide him towards the sanctuary of ancient
granite, warmed and awaiting his shivering,
lumbering form; he slither slowly ashore.
Droplets of living moisture evaporate upon his
invigorated self, allowing those other travellers
begin their own cycle of life on this strange orb, as
did the ancestors of all through the mercy of time.
Adrian Kavanagh
each determined stroke a bold act to
move within the grip of its cold embrace,
trying to temper the body in its motion.
His naked buttocks quiver in the dark
chilled sea; an endless soaking purgatory.
From squeak of dawn he has waited with
keen determination for this ritual hour.
Can you see him dive deeply into the
darkness, eyelids closed tight like a clam
as he travels the path of least resistance,
a silent fear of lost direction his only thought.
Tendrils of kelp torment his pale flesh,
their elongated swirls make his efforts
a sad imitation of the sea’s inhabitants
as they tease this inept, late-come mariner.
He has baptised himself in the ancient mother
with scant regard for her fluid validation
while he travels through her pulsating womb,
awaiting the chance to crawl into to a new life.
Blurred vision allowes shards of virid sunlight
guide him towards the sanctuary of ancient
granite, warmed and awaiting his shivering,
lumbering form; he slither slowly ashore.
Droplets of living moisture evaporate upon his
invigorated self, allowing those other travellers
begin their own cycle of life on this strange orb, as
did the ancestors of all through the mercy of time.
Adrian Kavanagh
Travel So Unwisely Undertaken
When all is trouble and time
is taken from within our grasp,
it is only then we can fly to
the farthest reaches of ourselves
And find that place within,
which opens to our own world
of truth and quiet understanding.
A travelling clock ticking forever is
The untimed, jumbled, countless thoughts
painting mindless pictures we are
least likely to see or comprehend
until we stop moving and observe,
Quite clearly that those images
too have moved on and left us
bewildered by the constant travel
we have so unwisely undertaken.
is taken from within our grasp,
it is only then we can fly to
the farthest reaches of ourselves
And find that place within,
which opens to our own world
of truth and quiet understanding.
A travelling clock ticking forever is
The untimed, jumbled, countless thoughts
painting mindless pictures we are
least likely to see or comprehend
until we stop moving and observe,
Quite clearly that those images
too have moved on and left us
bewildered by the constant travel
we have so unwisely undertaken.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Viewfinder
At 18 I was gauche, looking for a destination
Not a tram ride to St Kilda.
My father and I, both innocents abroad,
Woke after our first night overseas
To a different light, an out-of-sync perspective
And hopefully, heartbreakingly,
The beginnings of wisdom.
Years on I remember most the air–
Aromas from the city at dawn. Thin elusive wisps
Stay with me, lingering exotically
Until in some suburban street
Passing, say, a local takeaway they rekindle
And fill my mind with heat and markets,
The sweaty crush of foreign bodies
And sweet desire for saffron-scented skin.
I rarely travel these days. Back home and cloistered,
My father long dead,
I look at faces in Polaroids and hope those few
Who planned their own escape
Survived the journey. Too late for me.
Tonight I eat my fragrant Vindaloo
And mourn my lost love, a young boy
I glimpsed once in a crowd in Karachi,
And never forgot.
Cathy McCallum
Not a tram ride to St Kilda.
My father and I, both innocents abroad,
Woke after our first night overseas
To a different light, an out-of-sync perspective
And hopefully, heartbreakingly,
The beginnings of wisdom.
Years on I remember most the air–
Aromas from the city at dawn. Thin elusive wisps
Stay with me, lingering exotically
Until in some suburban street
Passing, say, a local takeaway they rekindle
And fill my mind with heat and markets,
The sweaty crush of foreign bodies
And sweet desire for saffron-scented skin.
I rarely travel these days. Back home and cloistered,
My father long dead,
I look at faces in Polaroids and hope those few
Who planned their own escape
Survived the journey. Too late for me.
Tonight I eat my fragrant Vindaloo
And mourn my lost love, a young boy
I glimpsed once in a crowd in Karachi,
And never forgot.
Cathy McCallum
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