Category Archives: creative writing

Keys

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Through the window, sun is peeping
On the people gently sleeping.
Alarm clocks, phones and other means
Abruptly shatter crazy dreams.
Rising from their comfy beds,
They wipe their eyes and shake their heads.
Inserting keys into their backs,
They wind them up with clicks and clacks.

Doing this first thing every morning
Seems to help stop all their yawning.
Winding til they reach the stop
And off to school or work they hop.
Some fail to wind up all the way
And have to struggle through the day.
Others wind them way too tight:
Fly through the day and half the night.

Fewer still have broken keys:
That is what we call disease.
A sorry few, their keys have lost
As they will find out to their cost.
They scarcely make it out of bed,
Their hearts now filled with fear and dread.
Makers of these keys are few,
So please guard yours with the care that’s due!

Stephen Tomkins
10 February 2015

What’s For Tea?

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I simply asked what I should eat;
Advice rained from the sky like sleet:
Eat more of this and less of that.
Avoid all foods containing fat.
Eat less sugar. Eat less salt.
Cook your food by lightning bolt.

Leafy greens and oily fish
Must adorn most every dish.
Eat less red meat, leaner cuts.
Stay alive by eating nuts.
Omega 3 and red krill oil.
Remove the skin and cook in foil.

Right! I think I understand!
At last I have my diet planned.
Wait! The experts changed their mind!
And what did this new research find?
Eat less of this and more of that.
Eat more foods containing fat.

Try more red meat. Add some wine.
Eat what you like! You’re doing fine!
You need more sunlight. Exercise.
Add to your diet more meat pies.
Just wait a while and you’ll agree
It’s very hard to plan your tea!

At least you still can drink my shake
And eat my guilt-free Muffin Bake!
Infomercials? Good advice!
You should try my Wonder Rice!
I like to play upon your guilt,
And thanks to you, my mansion’s built!

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Stephen Tomkins
19 November 2014

A Love Story

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He yearns for his beloved through the day and then the night.
Though he does his best to care for her, he hopes she’ll be alright.
His soul cries out in pain each time she disappears from sight,
But the thought of seeing her again, keeps the flame alight.

At last, he has the chance to hold her gently in his arms.
Clearly, he’s affected by her plentiful charms –
Her golden skin, her shapely curves, her long and slender neck.
But when, wide-mouthed, she starts to sing, he nearly hits the deck!

An angel choir greets his ears!
His eyes begin to fill with tears!
To Heaven now he quickly nears,
Blotting out his hopes and fears!

Intuition tells him that, with time, she’ll just get better.
Despite his lack of finances, he knows he has to get her.
Whipping out his credit card, he just can seal the deal!
Homeward bound with new guitar, he knows she was a steal!

Stephen Tomkins
23 July 2014

NOTE: While it is true that the author both plays and owns several guitars,
any resemblance between the character in the poem and any person (living or dead) is purely coincidental.

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Magnificent Isolation

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manycaller

Temple of unearthly white,
Shining beacon in the night,
Moth-like, drawing towards the light,
Seeking icons, black or white.

High Priests robed in royal blue,
Welcome neophytes in too.
Throngs of faithful join the queue,
Latest offerings on debut.

A gentle chant can soon be heard,
Mouthed by fervent convert nerd.
Refrain then joined by zealous herd,
Unrelenting, undeterred:

“iPhone, iPhone, Glorious iPhone!
How I long to make you my phone!
Without you, I’ll be trapped on my own!
Deign, in me, to make your new home!”

The Trinity greets my awe-struck faze,
On entering this most Holy maze,
As iPhone, iPad, iMacs blaze.
A young Priest meets my earnest gaze:

Wearing glasses, oh so Hipster,
And designer jeans by Ripster,
(“Borrowed” from her older sister),
Words pour forth at speeds that blister!

Fleeing from her siren call,
I promptly hit the glassy wall,
And barely manage not to fall,
Running, bleeding, through the mall.

Members of this brazen sect
Are very easy to detect.
“Friends”, by thousands, they confect
With lives that barely intersect.

Educated by Wikipedia,
YouTube and by social media,
Oblivious to the world exterior,
Desperate lest they feel inferior.

Pallid faces float by, serene,
Music fuelling the machine.
Eyes glued to the heavenly screen,
Every message must be seen.

The sun is shining bright today,
Flowers blooming, birds at play.
On their minds, it fails to weigh,
But that, to them, is quite okay!

Stephen Tomkins
27 May 2014

CONFESSION:
The author owns an iPhone, iPhone, Glorious iPhone……

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A Fun Night Out

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“I sense a presence in the room!
A presence coming from the tomb!
She’s saying something, it’s not clear.
She wants to contact someone here.”

Looking round the darkened room,
Their faces clear despite the gloom,
My séance partners looked at me,
Trembling, moaning, like they’d flee.

Incense rose in lazy plumes,
Candles burning, menace looms!
The table rises, shakes about.
A puff of wind and candles out!

One cold beer won’t be enough,
This séance is now getting rough!
Chains are clanking, falling down!
I’ll soon be getting out of town!

A former friend thought it would be
A good idea to see if we
Could contact someone who had died
And hear of life from spirit-side.

I haven’t slept a wink in weeks
And every time a floorboard creaks
I crack my skull upon the roof
Or maybe it’s a cloven hoof?

Stephen Tomkins
14 February 2015

Face It

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I look into the mirror and what is it that I see?
My own familiar face stares intently back at me.
He never has a word or two original to say;
He smiles at me, I smile back – perhaps the other way?

My only true companion from the cradle to the grave,
His subtle metamorphosis unnoticed day by day.
Precisely how I’m feeling, he always seems to know,
In wordless ways revealing what perhaps I wouldn’t show.

Though my voice is an assistance, it’s my face that people know.
Without my face, a faceless man, I’d freely come and go.
An image of my face is in my memory perceived
But as it’s ever-changing, could my memory be deceived?

Go beyond the superficial and it’s clear there’s something more:
Of my fifty years of history, my face is now the store.
I see recorded years of smiles, of laughter and of tears.
The bags beneath my drooping eyes speak volumes of my fears.

Unseen, a gentle artist of unparalleled skill
Etches in slowly life’s sorrow and thrill.
A constantly evolving, living masterpiece of grace
Taken for granted, right there on your face.

Stephen Tomkins
28 June 2014

The Hive

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Alarm clock beeps and we awake
Shower, dress and coffee take.
By bus or train or maybe drive,
The worker bees attend the Hive.

We swear allegiance at the gate
By swiping cards with face and date.
The Hive accepts and lets us in,
The working day can now begin.

We settle on our usual flower
Evenly spaced throughout the tower.
Collecting pollen is the task
The Queen of worker bees does ask.

But digital collection now does mean
The flower itself is rarely seen.
Cocooned inside our comfy Hive
The world outside can be denied.

A button press, the screen awakes
By which our Queen communicates.
With mousey clicks and chairy squeaks,
This is the way to us she speaks.

Beemail, buzzphones, meeting cells;
The honey from our Hive excels
But honey-making is so tough,
Those other hives keep playing rough.

The Queen bee tells us we must change
And, even though this seems quite strange,
She says to us she has a plan
To split the Hive throughout the land.

“A strategy is what we need,”
And to her buzzing all pay heed.
“A different one from what we had.
The worker bees have been so bad.”

The Queen herself is far too busy,
Buzzing around, she makes us dizzy.
Her generals gather us in groups
And pass her message to the troops.

“We need less workers”, they will say,
“Or get less honey if allowed to stay.”
The buzzing soon becomes intense
And troubled workers wander hence.

We feel we’ve heard all this before,
Throwing workers out the door.
We can’t recall that this then worked
But duties still cannot be shirked.

The Queen herself is sometimes seen
To speak to workers on the scene,
And while this is anticipated,
Little is communicated.

And so the workers clean their wings,
And into boxes, pack their things.
We say goodbye to friends we loved,
Some wish to leave and some get shoved.

They buzz away to another hive
And make more honey, 9 to 5.
The Queen, of course, will get to stay,
It seems she has an MBA.

Stephen Tomkins
27 March 2014

Tick Tock

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Time is such a greedy guy,
Giving little, flying by.
When having fun, he rushes through
And hangs around when feeling blue.

Time is like a distant relative –
The kind who’s mostly uncooperative.
He hates to feel he’s been controlled
And pays us back as we grow old.

Time’s made of rubber, don’t you see?
When young, he’s stretched as he can be,
And slowly shrinks back into place.
The passing years soon gather pace.

The camera, Time of all things hates
Because a piece of him it takes:
Forever captured, free of time –
A timely refugee sublime.

Stephen Tomkins
12 September 2014

Time’s A-Wasting!

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tired-man

It’s been so long since I have slept,
It’s clear at sleeping, I’m inept.
I’ve laid in bed at night and wept
And round the darkened house I’ve crept.

If you’ll permit me to explain
And forgive my seeming to complain,
Please don’t regard me with disdain,
And be assured I’m not insane.

It all began some years ago,
When I was dealt a heavy blow.
Sleep was then an easy task
but now it’s an enormous ask.

I woke one morning quite refreshed
And took for granted nightly rest.
It seems my lack of gratitude
Erased my restful aptitude.

From that day forward to today,
I’ve, every night, been made to pay.
I refused to take it lying down,
But, over time, have been worn down.

Every treatment in the book
Is little more than gobbledygook.
I’ve tried them all and I can tell you
There are even some that would repel you.

I’ve jazzercised, been tranquillised,
And sleeping I have visualised,
Eaten lots and had some shots
And even been tied up in knots!

Meditation, incantation,
Frontal-lobely amputation,
Failed to yield a shortish nap!
I even found a sleeping app!

I gave up all forms of caffeine,
Retreated from the social scene,
Tried dancing and some French Champagne,
And even snorted cheap cocaine!

Sought a creepy Voodoo guy,
Who looked at me with watery eye,
“Relief you soon will come to know,
On me, your worldly goods bestow!”

I ran around and round the room,
Heard peaceful music in the gloom.
I starved myself and got so bored,
While all around me people snored!

I tried my doctor, said I’m ill,
But he just thought that I’m a dill,
Prescribed me several largish pills
And sent me frequent largish bills.

My sense of humour’s wearing thin,
I’ve tried to take it on the chin.
With enormous, bloodshot, saucer eyes,
I’ve slowly come to realise

That this whole sleep-thing’s overrated.
Its benefits can be debated.
I’m living proof that we don’t need
To yield to sleep’s voracious greed!

And though it still remains seductive,
At work, I’m now the most productive.
And while I may not have the looks,
I’ve loads of time for reading books!

tired-worried-man

Stephen Tomkins
1 June 2014

Midnight Departure

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Pinpricks of white in an indigo sky,
Stars twinkling at us, they’re not at all shy.
A platinum moon shines ethereal light
On towering battlements, black, edged in white.
Cathedrals of Cumulus, silent, imposing,
At eight miles a minute, we’re rapidly closing.
From deep inside, there’s a bright flash of light,
Perhaps it’s the incense that chose to ignite?
Threading the needle between them we go
While back in the cabin, you hardly would know.
A few hours later, the sky pales ahead
And rapidly morphs into deepest blood red.
Below us the ground turns a purplish hue,
And gradually features start coming to view.
Orange, then pink and finally gold,
The sun then ascends, it’s a sight to behold.

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Stephen Tomkins
9 February 2015