A question of heads or tails

*PLEASE NOTE* - I got rid of the last stanza, I didn't like it and felt it was innapropriate to what I wanted to deliver in this poem.
Hannah - 27/3/2012

This is my first poem that is deliberately meant to be funny. I mean it's ok if it's not funny >.< but I wanted to give it a shot. If I decide I'm not too sure with this as a poem, I've decided I'm going to develop it into song lyrics :'P haha.

Oh, and this poem may not be my favourite, but I've decided to
dedicate it to 5 lovely people:
1). Alex Hart: because he inspired me to write this, and talked to me about charity the other day. However, I don't think the poem is really about charity. Anyway this is mainly dedicated to Alex because he inspires me I guess x') haha. Also, he likes my poetry ;D which is always good!

2). Sophie Walker: because without her this poem wouldn't be complete. She suddenly sprang to mind when we both needed to pee at London Marleybone X'D (you'll understand when you read). I miss the days when we used to do silly things like that together. :) We have a lot of great memories together although we barely talk/see each other anymore which is such a shame. We were such a quirky pair. In fact, just to prove my adoration for this person to you all, I drew/painted/sketched/took weird artistics pictures of her for my GCSE Art. She's only seen a few of my drawings and paintings of her (the good ones) - thank goodness :'P

3). Benjamin Baruch: because firstly he also writes a blog(http://www.procrastinationoverproductivity.blogspot.com/) and secondly he has recently been talking to me about developing some lyrics with him. If he's interested in this, I will help him possibly develop it into a song version. Haha perhaps skipping out the bit about mine and Sophie's bladder. That might be an idea. But yes Ben is pretty awesome, if you see this and you don't know of Ben or do but haven't seen his blog yet - DO IT NOW I DEMAND THAT YOU DO. Only because he's hilarious and just brilliant.

4). Connor McDougal (I hope I've spelt your last name right, I always get it wrong): Chin up Connor :) this'll probably make you smile. Also Connor writes poetry too, and song-y stuff! But I don't think he posts it online D': which is a shame. He also doesn't think he's amazing at it, when he is - which annoys me :P. Connor has been friends with me since good old year 7. So he knew me when I was some weird little kid obsessed with (my god my brain has gone dead - I'm getting old if it means I can't rememeber what I was obsessed with in year 7 - I bet it was some form of book series)

Theres also one other person, I'm not going to mention who they are, let's just call them Number 5 - I think Number 5 should know who they are if they see this.

Thank you, Number 5 for (somehow) making me want to write properly again as well as more often. I admire you. You've helped a lot.

I should really stop blabbering.


Without any further a-huey here is A question of heads or tails


A question of heads or tails


Four two pennies and a pence
What am I to do with this short change?
Its not like its strange to find
Four two pennies and a pence,
In your left coat pocket;
With tissues from two weeks ago,
Or tickets from the Chiltern Line,
To London Marleybone; on your own,
from when you went to see any old show.

Four two pennies and a pence
9p can't get you far these days
Copper coins on the dreary tramp's trays
'99p! Just 99p! A badge for your charity!' Said he.
Just four two pennies and a pence

Four two pennies and a pence,
I guess I could go down to the arcade,
Pushing pennies and win a lollipop,
Watching the down-pour of chinking coins drop.
A bronze array dated 1917 to 2008
Decapitated Lizzie's shimmer under the date.
But what am I to do?
With a tub of too many pennies and pence.

(Thats when I lost all my copper
I should've known those machines are a damn con.
Now all my brown beauties have gone
So now I'm back to-)

Four two pennies and a pence,
I can't even get the bus home with this!
Maybe I could buy a peice of paper,
A blank cavast and list -
Attempt to think of all the things I could buy
With four two pennies and a pence

Four two pennies and a pence?
Hmm,
I can only think of charity shops
And even now they're selling items
Worth glistening silver
I could pay the street musician
Listen until the melody stops.
Give thanks for his contribution
To the drizzle
He sings as the tears well up
Is he going home tonight?
Maybe I might...
Home tonight.
But he has a home,
So who is he to wail and moan?
Does he really want my
Four two pennies and a pence?

Four two pennies and a pence,
Maybe I'll contribute to the tramps' tray
Perhaps I'll help him buy lunch today
But what will he say?
'Thank you mam
I tip my hat to you
But what am I to do?
Is this bunch of coins of any value?'

~misshapenskies

The Honeycreeper

OH HELLO THERE PEOPLE OF THE WORLD. >.<'
 I've decided it's time that I posted a bit more fiction on here, not just poetry. I think poetry and I need to take a break for a while and I need to let my creative juices flow ... into terms of short stories and little nippets of writing. It'll be fun :D. But I have this great little book called the Writers Block which I'm going to use to help me. However, something I just wrote recently called The Honeycreeper I wrote after looking at a picture and my brain had a <lightbulb!> moment which was just wonderful. Thus resulting in this.. Unfortunately I can't find the picture. But, it was of a women holding a bouquet of roses whilst peeking through a curtain on a train. It triggered this piece of writing, and I don't really know where it came from. I'd like to know what people think of the main character at the moment, who will currently remain nameless.. Perhaps I could do some character develop.. But anyway, I would like to hear some opinions on what kind of person you think he is. That'd be great :) just to get some feedback (SOMEDAY!?!). Also, if people like it I may develop it into a short story if I think it could potentially go somewhere.. (*starts humming somewhere over the rainbow, then realises that there are people in the room.. Oh crumbs.)

ANYWAY. Enough of my chitter chatter, here is The Honeycreeper. Just to let you know, I am thinking of editing it - so this isn't final yet :) WATCH THIS SPACE o.O <3

The Honeycreeper
My hardback lay open with a strip of red tissue on the petite yellow bird. It was the Hawaiian honeycreeper with a plump frame illustrated in my book of remarkable birds. Its distinct bent beak and sunny glow gave it an independent air, although it is known for being a lonesome creature. I felt the honey bird’s solitude, especially today when I was due to set off. Its beady black eyes had a certain glow though, showing a definite character. The air was hushed and tranquil, and I had no personal bother. Autumn leaves tumbled to and fro, frolicking by my feet and I brushed some debris off my jacket, fastening the loose buttons. The train was definitely late now, by eight minutes I could see as I pulled out my pocket watch. Now this, I had stolen from my father aged nine, the daft man never noticed. As I was contemplating memories of my father, I saw in the distance the russet glimmer of the train transcending towards me. It wasn’t exactly a popular station after the accident and rumours of haunting but I know that’s all a load of nonsense. But being the only man here I did feel an uncertainty of the place, furthermore I kept my luggage close. I smoothed the page of the honey creeper, closing it on its bookmark, assuring myself that I would continue my discoveries on the train. I had been delving into my interest of orthinology for the past eighteen months though and it has proved to have been of great relief to me. I couldn’t believe my daughter Arianna’s suggestion of a simple break to the beach to cure depression, that’s laughable. Sand gets in your socks, sand gets in your sandwiches! I can’t stand the beaches here; it’s wet, windy and wretched. Either that or there will be little brats running rancid all over the place, dribbling ice cream down you, or losing their trunks in the sea. Now, I want to be somewhere silent and I don’t think I’ve found anywhere truly quiet for many years. Everywhere is so built up nowadays, I remember sweet Daisy and I used to frolic in our gardens, and what brought us most satisfaction is the fact that we felt alone and that we could play our games in secret. Only the flowers or foliage knew our tricks and we held comfort in knowing we had our own private world, down at the end of the garden. Just as I was contemplating the memory of Daisy and I, the train arrived at the platform. I gathered up my possessions and fumbling, felt for my ticket in my pocket. When I looked up again I saw a young lady alone, peeking out of a red velvet curtain in her carriage.  She truly startled me; her eyes were of an enquiring dark black and her raised eyebrow suggested she was inspecting me. Her cropped blonde bob accentuated the frame of her face and her cheekbones and from her darker roots I could tell that it had been dyed. She appeared to be wearing a bulbous jacket, with a feathery hood. And in her arms she held an array of cherry roses that were tinted yellow. They were dainty roses, the type that only lasted a few days. Who had given them to her? They weren’t your regular flowers, not the striking red roses you’d expect from an admirer. The lady had her nose stuck in them, and she closed her eyes as if she was enjoying the aroma. Something about her captured me, and when I began to examine her more I could see that in fact she was not alone at all.  A young girl perhaps the age of eight tapped her shoulder and begged the lady for a rose bud. She didn’t seem bothered by the pestering child at all, and handed one over to her, fastening it in her breast pocket. The girl smiled with glee, running out of the train with what appeared to be her father, speaking in a rushed French voice. I got on board the train and decided that it may be worthwhile to sit with the lady with the roses. I tapped on the carriage door, and the lady opened it up for me, gesturing that I should sit down opposite to her. I peered at her for a while, smiling, watching her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ears. Then she plucked at the petals, watching the loose ones collapse to the carpet.

 ~misshapenskies

Comitatu

A friend of mine bought me a book a while ago called The Writers Block which is literally a little block book with ideas and one word prompts for writers suffering from writers block. This poem that I wrote was a product of my "sudden decline of work D:" and although it's not perfect, and needs a lot of work - I thought I would upload it anyway - IT'S SOMETHING.

Here is Comitatu:



Comitatu

My imagination is currently at the station. 
I’m sat down on benches,
Hands stuck to gum
I gaze at the tracks
Smile, breath and sit back
Examining the grooves
and the patterns of my thumb

Individualistic tendencies
I’m constantly thinking of conspiracies
Knitting up ideas in a cardboard box
Then I look down and see the stitches
Drop, and it’s hard
to keep out of my mind
But when I open the lock
I can’t seem to find, the reason
As to why
I can’t seem to write

I’m losing inspiration
Still here at the station
Then suddenly I see a train fly by
Its shot like a catapult
Running, racing, catch it
STOP!
is it my fault if I can’t see it?

All the ideas are at the next junction
My mind is jammed
It simply won’t function

This picture belongs to Google Images