Monthly Archives: April 2015

To be a poet is dangerous

Wuji Seshat

Messages without Knowing

Poets acquire humanity
In their undoing, this
Dangerous self-destructive art
Who dares be ridiculed a poet these days?

This secret subversive pleasure
Isn’t it so, that we are the houses
Of art that try to be haunted
To feel what others dare not!?

Painting they say is silent poetry
Poetry is painting that speaks
But for whom does it speak?
These echoes asking shadows

To dance, that communicates
Without or before understanding
To sit in the dark and sing
To cheer its own solitude

With sweet sounds, where O where
Are the sweet sounds of old?
Poets die trying to be poets
I’ve seen it with my own eyes

Poetry is an escape from emotion
An instinct to tell stories
Like a seer or a prophet in hard times.

View original post


Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation

Rtuc's Blog

Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation is a Scottish folk song whose lyrics are taken from an eponymous Robert Burns poem of 1791. It derides those members of the Parliament of Scotland who signed the Act of Union with England in 1707, comparing their treachery to the country with the tradition of martial valor and resistance commonly associated with such historic figures as Robert the Bruce and William Wallace. It has continued to be associated with Scottish nationalism and also been referenced in other situations where politicians’ actions have gone against popular opinion.
The melody and lyrics were published in James Hogg’s Jacobite Reliques of 1817

(The song’s lyrics are in Lowlands Scots which is similar in origin but separate from English. Burns was a very literate and well-educated man and wrote both in English and Scots.)

Fareweel to a’ our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;

View original post 137 more words

Tit for tat

There was bustle in the control room as the shifts changed. Jealous eyes looked at the smug gits allocated to the “fun” shift.

“How do we get onto the fun shift?” asked a young dark-haired recruit, donning his leather jacket as a slightly older man slid smoothly into his chair.

“Think you’re man enough to take it?”

The youth looked at the older guy’s smirking face. “Watch original free play sex every night? I think I could manage”.

“Don’t you enjoy the day shift?”

“Watching old Mother Hubbard feed her over-stuffed cat three times in a row because she’s forgotten she’s fed it?”

There were snorts from the exiting staff. A gorgeous blonde with a perfect manicure took her station. “It’s not for fun” she said with a saucy smile. “It’s education as well as monitoring”. She sneaked a side-ways glance at smoothie who suppressed a smile.

“Well, have fun, children” said leather jacket as he exited the door. “And I hope Jasmine is having her period tonight”.


The prayerwarrior was getting very cheesed off with the tax and time wasters subjecting her to constant surveillance. She wasn’t psychic but she knew they were there and espionage was the first choice of profession for voyeurs, Peeping Tom’s and every kind of sex pervert. She had never consented to star in a reality show. Not that her celibate life-style gave anything interesting to watch. She blessed the fact she was asexual. Her soldier mind followed its natural path in considering ways she could counter this annoyance, forgetting her power was not intended for personal or trivial use.


At shift change the following night the atmosphere was different. Blondie plumped down at her station with a look of rage. Smoothie rested his hand lightly on leather jacket’s back. “I think I can get you onto the night shift. Could you meet me for coffee to discuss it?” Leather jacket looked at him with surprise but nodded. Just then the Controller burst into the room. “Monitor’s off Mother Hubbard now!” Everyone in the room froze in surprise.

“But she’s harmless” muttered leather jacket.

“You have a girlfriend?” the Controller commented. Leather jacket nodded. “How would you like a boyfriend?”

His eyes flicked towards smoothie.

“Well this is an equal opportunity employer”.

The Controller glared at him. “I think you have just given the reason you will never be on the night shift”. The Controller turned to the room. “A general announcement will be made but as I’m here I might as well tell you. Counselling has been made available across the organisation for anyone suffering gender-orientation confusion”.

“What?” Leather jacket shook his head, “I don’t get it”.

The Controller addressed the room again. “For the simple-minded among you, Old Mother Hubbard has turned all the surveillance staff, gay”.


Copyright 2015 Prayerwarriorpsychicnot

I met a man….

The Long Habit of Living

Funny how something sticks with you for years, but you don’t really know its origin or meaning.  My mama used to recite little ditties and rhymes to me all the time, and I always presumed that this one was a Mother Goose nursery rhyme.  It’s not.

As I was walking up the stair,

I met a man who wasn’t there.

He wasn’t there again today.

I wish, I wish he’d go away.

steps in sepia

It’s actually called “Antigonish” and was a poem written by Hughes Mearns in 1899.  Story goes that it was inspired by reports of a ghost of a man roaming the stairs of a haunted house in Antigonish, Nova Scotia, and over the years variations of the poem have been made into songs, and used in literature, movies, plus become a reference to make points in all manner of subjects.  

The full poem/song goes like this:

Yesterday, upon…

View original post 148 more words

I’d Rather Be Alone

DoubleU = W

And what of loneliness,” you ask.

And I say, “what about it?”

What does it even mean?

Does being in a room alone,

avoiding contact,

no conversation,

few, if any, friends,

do these equal loneliness?

And what is the cure?

Taking in the company,

of a boring mind,

to while away the hours,

in a numbing drone,

with some small, weak,

lacking brain,

incapable of,

a unique thought?

Thank you but,

I’d rather be alone.



View original post