Tag Archives: maturity

Manga Girl

She walked off the train:

An oriental doll wearing a short skirt, with cropped jet-black hair, and a determined expression;

Girl, you’re like a Manga Assassin walking off the comic book page;

Immaculate to look upon;

A jaw-dropping dragon tattoo along the entire length of one perfectly proportioned set of pins-

A coiled up serpent, disappearing beneath the fold of her skirt;

Leaving any man salivating for a full showing!

You make me forget my age for a moment,

Forget even that i’ve got a girl,

Returning me to a lust-struck teenager of yesteryear;

Throwing caution to the wind in abandonment,

Chasing tail;

Celebrating every success with glee-filled shuffle,

Taking all the put downs on the chin,

Living for the moment,

A far cry from recent creeping maturity!

However, as she walks off into the distance,

Being feverishly tailed by the memory of the boy that I was;

Forgetting the 9,999 reasons why he has no chance,

Naively hoping to make the luscious red lips of this object of affection, break out into a pearly white smile;

The man that I am, turns to the girl alongside (undoubtedly following the antics befalling within my line of sight with amusement):

‘Sweety, if I thought you had a chance… I’d let you’, she said with a mock sympathetic smile;

‘Easily’, I lied, ‘but, one dragon at home is enough’, I said while netting  my fingers through hers,

‘You better believe it’, she replied, returning a squeeze of the hand;

And, my wife and I continued on our journey home.

Mr Whistler

Mr Whistler, you’re like the pied piper of Hamelin,

Except you’re a hard-hatted scaffolder whistling a jonty tune on a sunny day, in modern day Camden,

Your tune carries far and wide: like a pinball, bouncing from ear to ear of every person that passes by,

Some search you out, while others hear you long before they arrive;

A few recognising the tune, others hearing it for the very first time,

Oblivious to all of this, you concentrate on testing the bracket and brace,

While the tune may seem like magic to the gathering crowd below,

To you, it’s a subconscious hangover from a musically-obsessive youth,

Manifesting itself of late into a unconscious habit accompanying your work;

The audience can be an occupational hazard at times,

For, you get so caught up in your work, you forget they grow quite animated and carried-away,

Integrity of the structure is what truly matters to you now, Mr Whistler,

And the applause at work’s end, you treat as appreciation for a job well done,

Rather than a false catalyst for re-hashing a past chasing rockstar dreams, that is in truth are a false economy,

For beauty and fulfilment are in the eye of the beholder;

What you want and need has many layers in-between, and to appreciate the differences, takes time and the dawn of maturity;

And, Mr Whistler, has evidently learned that chasing some dreams (no matter the temptation) are not as fulfilling as he once believed them to be.

Fields of Your Youth


Standing in a field like any other;

Similar to the ones you ran through as a child,

Care-free giggles, laughter and screams of glee, permeating all around;

So delightfully excited to be among your peers, playing at war, tag or what-not;

Punctuated by a stern reproach to ‘get back inside’!

Triggering an involuntary squirm echoing out into the distance before fading away;

A distant whistle precipitates an explosion, like lightning shattering a moment of reverie;

The child is a child no longer but a soldier with bayonet-fixed-rifle in hand;

He stands on a field less green than muddy, a drenched swamp that’s more bog than anything alike;

His karkey greens caked in wet, cold, mud;

Reflecting on memories when he played war as a child,

The adult version of the game (he grimly observed, taking shape around him) is more stark, morbid and visceral than could ever be realised;

A charge will soon be called by bugle horn,

And, he will run through this muddy marsh with bayonet thrust out;

Artillery shells, explosions and gunfire will ring out;

Shrapnel will take turns to scar, maim and shred you and the lads around you into mangled messes;

All of this you must confront head-on;

And stop only to cut through obstructing barbed-wire before continuing the onward charge,

Y’see: your own side will shoot you dead on sight for desertion,

Ahead of you lies the only bloody salvation available;

You have no choice but to move on;

Not all your friends will make it whole or at all,

Including you, if not for the grace of God;

So, make your peace with your maker for you will not get another chance,

The games you play are games no longer;

And memories of happier times-

Made so long ago, you can be forgiven for feeling you almost imagined them-

Are all you have.

Ol’ Nan to Little Pet (Part 2 of 2)


Forget me not, for I have not forgotten you,

Show me love and compassion, as I had once shown you,

If I could, y’know I would still be useful to you,

As it is, I am trapped in a palace of my own memories,

With a variety of heaven, foreboding and hell – snapshots from a lifetime of diverse experiences -, behind every door;

The barriers of my mind (that could once be trusted to keep my thoughts distinct and separate from each other) have somehow given way,

Forgive me if I can’t place you quickly or at all, for you – like all of my memories – are a jumbled maze,

This glaucoma-like blur clears less and less frequently, if at all;

Be patient with me – a simple human kindness, for any compassion you bear me;

Be kind to me, though I know (in your frantically stress-filled life) it is not easy;

The end is rarely pleasant, Little Pet;

But you must be strong throughout;

I am glad you are doing what you can for me, and that must be enough;

For only the rarest few achieve that sense of finality in life;

And, you and I (I’m afraid, my sweet Little Pet) will not.