You taught me how to smile again, when I forgot everything before you.
You taught me how to live again, when all I knew was you.

dear teacher,
it's true I could've been studying all night for this test. however, is it not the reason that we are taking this so that we can form a future for ourselves? well yesterday I decided I wasn't going to live in the future, I wasn't going to live in the past, I was going to live in the present. fighting dragons in the woods that turned out just to be low lying branches like when I was a kid, and accepting awards for amazing performances in the shower like I was an adult. from my research, I've concluded that there is no present because the present is made from the stitches of the past and the prospects of the future, yet at the same time none of that.
so, no, I didn't study all night for your test. fighting dragons and accepting awards seems like a better use of my time anyways.

the skilled craftsman
he labors pen on page in nights silence
the names and faces of his students
vividly painted to him in small ways on each page

the girl with her flourish of drawings
in the margins of her work
a bird delicately drawn to appear to be dropping
the words onto the page
in amongst her arguments that shakespeare was a charlatan...
the young man from the morning bell
who dose not write as much as he carves and hacks
his words into the dull instrument of the page
crafting it in his way to resemble the angry face he wears within

this quiet man
teacher
he learns too
from the patchwork quilt of humanity
that passes year by year through his world
some shine brightly
others faded away into obscurity's cage
see him sitting in nights silence
pen in hand
a master craftsman at his labor of love

When Alison left the bath to run
It ruined the parquet floor,
It spilled on out like a waterspout
And ran right under the door,
She’d gone back into the bedroom, so
The spill continued to run,
Across the landing and down the stair,
‘Now look what our daughter’s done!’

We couldn’t dry out the parquetry
It swelled, and loosened the glue,
Then bits would lift and would come adrift,
I didn’t know what to do.
Then Barbara said, ‘It’s coming up,
We shouldn’t have laid it down,
I’ll go and choose some ceramic tiles
At that tiling place in town.’

I said that I’d lay the tiles myself
But Barbara would insist,
‘We really need a professional
For a job as big as this.’
I shrugged, and let her get on with it
I never could win a trick,
So the tiler that she employed was one
Ahab Nathaniel Frick.

I’d seen this tiler about the town
All hunched, and wizened and old,
His wrinkled skin was like parchment in
Some leathery paperfold.
He wore a hat with a drooping brim
So the sun never touched his face,
A puff of wind would have blown him in
To leave not a hint, or trace.

‘Are you sure that he’s up to this,’ I said,
‘He isn’t the best of men,
He’ll probably get on his knees all right
But never get up again.’
But Barbara shushed me out of there
Was keeping me well at bay,
She wanted to prove what she could do
In laying the tiles her way.

I didn’t get in to see them then
‘Til the tiles were laid, with grout,
Nor see Nathaniel Frick again,
I supposed that he’d gone out.
I stood and stared at the new laid tiles,
Their pattern was in the floor,
And Barbara, waiting proudly said,
‘What are you staring for?’

‘There’s something a-swirl in those tiles,’ I said,
‘Some pattern you didn’t mean,
The way that he’s put them together, well
There’s a sense of something unclean!’
I said the tiles made an evil face
And showed her the curving jaw,
The squinting eyes that could hypnotise
And the cheeks, so sallow and raw.

She said that she couldn’t see it then,
That I must have twisted eyes,
I wasn’t wanting to hurt her so
I tried to sympathise,
But the monster’s face was set in space
And it wouldn’t go away,
I dreamt about that face by night
And I saw it, every day.

At night, the face seemed to snarl at me
When I passed it in the gloom,
And I worried that it was set right there
Outside our daughter’s room,
Then Barbara thought she heard a noise,
An intruder in the house,
And tipped me out of the bed to chase
The night intruder out.

The moans began in the early hours
And the groans came just at dawn,
Then Alison came into our room,
‘There’s a shadow on my wall!
A man with a broad-brimmed, floppy hat
And with squinting eyes that gleamed,’
I said, ‘That’s it,’ when she had a fit
And our darling daughter screamed!

I went on out to the lumber shed
And I brought a mattock in,
While Alison jumped in the double bed
As the tiles set up a din,
A wailing, groaning, squealing sound
That would raise the peaceful dead,
I raised the mattock and smashed the tiles
Just above the monster’s head.

The tiles rose up with a mighty roar
And shattered, scattered around,
As a shadow from underneath the floor
Rose up with a dreadful sound,
It hissed, and made for the stairway, leapt
And it almost made me sick,
For fleeing out of the open door
Was Ahab Nathaniel Frick!

David Lewis Paget

I wanted to go to the end of the street
To buy a chocolate éclair,
But now I’m at the end of the street,
The end of the street’s not there.
I’ll swear it was there just yesterday,
Was there on the day before,
But now when I look for the end of the street
The end of the street’s no more.

All I can see is a land of waste,
A land of rubble and weeds,
Where bushes grow in untidy rows,
A scatter of burdock seeds,
I wander on where the shops have gone
Where you used to meet with us,
But the road just ended around the bend
Where we caught the 16 bus.

There’s nothing left but a wilderness
An empty paddock and space,
As if I meet at the end of the street
The end of the human race,
The houses, shops and the industry
And the people I saw before,
They seem to be lost in a history
That nobody felt or saw.

That nobody felt or saw, I thought,
That came and took you away,
Strapped in the back of an ambulance
Laid out on a cold tin tray,
And your laughter fades in the wilderness
And your sighs reach up to the Moon,
And my heart that burst at the back of the hearse
Will never be mended soon.

I wanted to go to the end of the street
To buy a chocolate éclair,
For chocolate’s really the only thing
That will feed my deep despair.
But my soul is lost in the wilderness
Of your empty passing by,
I’d spend my grief on the lonely heath
If I thought I could only cry!

David Lewis Paget

The beauty of chaos is that,
It doesn't always stand for destruction;
Sometimes it's merely a lack of structure.
It's Fate, undergone a twisted lobotomy...

--

You're caught in a whirlwind, with no sense of direction;
Once the storm has passed
And the feeling of sanity is restored,
You get up and walk on,
On whatever path you've been dropped on;
And after a few miles you'll ask yourself:
*Was it all meant to be?

She lay so pale, under a veil
On the hard mortician’s tray,
A tube ran down from her artery
And her blood was seeping away,
I’d never seen her so still and white,
So cold, and her eyes so glazed,
I shook my head when they said, ‘She’s dead!’
More than a little dazed.

It had only been just a week ago
That I’d gone to call on Jan,
And there, right under the portico
I’d met her sister, Anne.
I’d heard about her before, of course,
The mysterious older Sis,
Who’d travelled far, was in Zanzibar,
Hong Kong and the Middle East.

I’d wondered how she could pay her way
When I heard the awesome tales,
This woman trekking the Russian Steppes
And ending up in Wales.
Now here she was in a Sydney Street
Not a hair was out of place,
Her eyes were shining to greet and meet,
Deep set in her suntanned face.

I must admit that she stirred me then
So I had to drop my eyes,
I’d been with Jan since I don’t know when
So I thought it more than wise,
A jealous woman is worse than hell
And I’d rather stick with bliss,
So reached for Jan and I held her hand
As she introduced her Sis.

She’d come to stay for a month, she said,
Then had to be on her way,
She had to meet with a Turkish man
In a market in Cathay,
But Jan was not even curious,
Though the questions crossed my mind,
Most of them would be spurious
But I wondered what I’d find?

What was her line of work, I thought,
How did she make it pay?
Was she some rich man’s paid consort
In a Persian alleyway?
Was she smuggling drugs or guns
With secrets tucked in her bra,
Or was she a spy for love, or funds
From a man in Zanzibar?

She settled in to a set routine
In the house, it was absurd,
She always seemed to be normal, not
The hellfire that I’d heard,
We’d sit up late by a blazing grate
Play cards, and drink and rave,
Then Jan went off for her monthly trip,
And she said, ‘You two behave!’

She laughed at us as she left, and said
That she’d be back in a week,
It was always some promotional tour
But of what, she wouldn’t speak.
For both these sisters were secretive
Tight lipped on the things they’d do,
But when she’d gone, Anne came on strong,
And said, ‘I’m looking at you!’

Jan crept back in about midnight, and
She caught us both in bed,
She screamed and ranted about the room,
Went quite right off her head,
She pulled a knife and she went for her,
The startled sister, Anne,
‘You’ve always stolen the one I loved,
And you! You’re never my man.’

The body lay on the silver tray
As they walked me in, then out,
Identifying the corpse, they said
So there wasn’t any doubt.
They placed me cuffed in a Candy Car
On a charge of ****** One,
While Anne was headed for Zanzibar
As I said goodbye to Jan!

David Lewis Paget