So Far Away
Posted by Andrew | Filed under Poems
Gennady
I hoped you could hold on
just a little longer
for your generous heart to
again pump stronger
but you passed away
in restless slumber
you know I loved you
but I’ll always wonder
If only to kiss once more
your colourful cheek
if I could have been there
at least to speak
and throw dirt down
where you lay
how to forgive myself
this saddest day
your curious grand children
ask me why
I bow over your photo
in numbing cry
together one day
we’ll come to you
and place fresh flowers
all over you.
Andrew Mansell, March 2012
In memory of Gennady 1937-2012
Enough Patience
Posted by Andrew | Filed under Poems
I’ve been ever so patient
waiting for voices unheard
ideas not shared
unsung songs
stories to write.
Patience though, will always be
unable to free a voice
an idea
a song
a story at hand.
Andrew Mansell, April 2012
Potholes
Posted by Andrew | Filed under Poems
Grey puddles left over from the rain
driven over til all splashed out
routinely like the economy machine
bigger, deeper, the holes sprout.
Forever drawn towards sunset
reflections of our mortal being
never capturing eternal light
washed occasions for the seeing.
Andrew Mansell, April 2012
Mostly Its
Posted by Andrew | Filed under Poems
Twits
Twitter is for twits,
Britain is for Brits,
Fighting is for fits,
Writing is for wits.
Google is for hits,
Flickr is for pics,
Youtube is for clips,
Texting is the pits.
Apples are for pips,
Pigs are for spits,
Frankfurts are for fritz,
Spam is so skitz.
Family is for tips,
Lover is for lips,
Blogging is for bits,
Forums are for hips.
Scratching is for nits,
Skype is for chits,
Surfing is for slits,
Web is not for quits.
Squeezing is for zits,
Wiki does the splits,
Facebook is for crits,
Ads give me the shits.
Andrew Mansell, March 2012.
Burnt
Posted by Andrew | Filed under Short Stories, Works in progress
My name is William Burns but most people either call me Will or Burnsy. As part of my so called healing process I have been asked to write about my experience with regards to, one could say, the hidden side effects of cigarette smoking. Once I have shown sincere remorse, I will be allowed back to school but with the strict conditions that I must donate one day a month of my own time to explain to other teenagers the perils of smoking and help build the new toilet block on Saturday mornings. Apparently the pictures of gangrenous teeth and tar laden lungs have minimal impact on my generation. Something in actual flesh seemed more realistic and I have agreed to exhibit the skin grafted side of my but cheeks. There’s no way I’m going to show my singed pubic hair. I had to draw the line somewhere. Anyway, a month after my so called incident, the skin grafts on my backside have heeled adequately for me to sit down and write without discomfort. Read the rest of this entry…
Moderation
Posted by Andrew | Filed under Quotes, Uncategorized
The only thing you can’t get too much of is moderation.
Andrew Mansell, January 2011.
My God
Posted by Andrew | Filed under Poems
Photo by Sophia
My faith in religion has been ignited
for, I have truly found god.
In his presence I’ve been knighted,
listened to his life’s ballad.
He plays music to me
through vibrating strings
in frequency that is free,
no judgement unto clings.
His stream will never ebb
in the mediums of time
from the World Wide Web
to melodious concert rhyme.
Even when I’m feeling down,
he flattens my sandy dunes,
brainwashes my blue frown
till I hum his soothing tunes.
No bloodshed has he incited,
he fights the war in my soul
till with peace I’m indited,
without him I’m not whole
He transports me on Emperors’ concerto,
seduces me under Moonlight sonata,
his spirit through ages is woven,
his name is Ludwig van Beethoven.
Andrew Mansell, December 2011.
Throughout the history of the human race, countless gods have been
created. Not Beethoven though; he is really here. I’m sure that he has been
declared a god before and will be again.
Perhaps your god is John Lennon, Ella Fitzgerald or Bon Scott. Maybe your
god is Oscar Wilde, John Tolkien or Jane Austin. Then again, your god
might be Groucho Marx, Fred Astaire or Bettie Davis or is your god Juan Fangio, Pele or Don Bradman.
I don’t think it matters. What matters is how your god inspires and uplifts you to a dimension not experienced before.
Bella and Her Red Back
Posted by Andrew | Filed under Short Stories
Photo by matildashelia
Unseasonal summer rain had allowed the grass to stay longer and greener than usual. Only a keen eye could spot the orange house brick near the back fence of 4 Safety Court, Mornington; an unimaginable home for most but not for Red Back spiders. Bella and her father could not contemplate living anywhere else, in what appeared on the surface, to be a safe and secure home. Inside though, Bella was lost without a bedtime story. Every night she hoped for her mother to return with the last chapter about the animals who ran their own farm and tonight was no different; she fell asleep aimlessly imagining her mother’s voice. Despite several Daddy-long leg eyewitnesses, Bella refused to believe that her mother had been deliberately squashed as she neared the last page of the fantasy story; a believable fantasy story as it seemed for Bella.
Awakening after a webless dream, Bella crawled to her father and woke him with a question,
‘Dad, are you sure Mum wasn’t squashed by accident?’
‘I’m sure Bella. For thousands of years humans have wanted us extinct and they especially enjoy squashing females, it’s not just squashing – poisons and suffocation in glass jars are also used. Therefore, you must be very careful every time your red back leaves our brick.’ Read the rest of this entry…
My Conscience
Posted by Andrew | Filed under Poems
My writing is my conscience,
constantly bombarding me
with judgement and responsibility,
from which I fight to be free.
Andrew Mansell, November 2011.
Where the Wind Stopped
Posted by Andrew | Filed under Short Stories
Photo by Pete Savin
Not that long ago, on an earth similar to ours, stood Windburne; a city where the wind never stopped. The city was founded near an ocean in which the waves permanently curved. Houses and buildings were built on slants with the house of bosses being the most crooked building of all. Trees naturally warped sideways and all the people of the town stood permanently bent; sometimes walking up a hill their naturally arched backs would allow a big nose to scrape along the ground. The only things that appeared flat in Windburne were the ground and what lay directly upon it. Windburnians knew of the illusion though, as their history told them – the earth had always been round. For Winburnians life was normal and they knew no other way but to sit in their curved chairs and sleep in their crescent beds.
Timothy Bent was in no way different to other Windburnians; that was until he reached the age of nine. At Timothy’s ninth birthday party, heavy rain drops shaped like mini flying saucers prevented any outdoor game or activity. Timothy was happy enough to read a borrowed copy of Bender while his elder brothers, Apollo and Eric, became restless. They started jumping on Timothy’s bed as if it were a trampoline.
‘Timy, Timy is a girly bee,
Doesn’t play football,
Can’t climb trees,
All he does is read fantasy,’ they teased.
‘Stop, stop, you pit-bulls,’ Timothy pleaded holding back tears but his brothers bounced higher and higher with their heads almost touching the ceiling until they suddenly came down with a thump. Timothy’s bed was broken. It was Timothy’s worst birthday ever. With no spare bed, Timothy was forced to sleep on the floor.
‘When can I get a new bed?’ Timothy asked his dad.
‘I’ll think about it if your behaviour improves,’ his dad barked back knowing next week’s wages were already earmarked for last month’s rent.
‘But what have I done? It wasn’t me.’
‘No buts!’
