The Dreamer and the Siren The Dreamer was awoken, By words never spoken, Just the font of fate embellishing his screen. And his mind began to open, To the sense of new emotion, He relaxed and felt it touch him, pure and clean. A Siren in the corner, Aloof, but somehow warmer, Awoke this weary Dreamer with a song. A reposed and haunting place, Where she hides behind a face, It is now the place they feel that they belong. The Dreamer and the Siren, Fighting, loving, crying, Sharing hearts and minds together as if one. Retreat together warmly, After battles fought forlornly, ‘Cause they cannot ever part from being
An author, musician, writer, poet, very lazy soul, teacher, grandfather? Who knows? From his own description below, it seems he doesn’t really know who the Vandal is either.
Derek Haines is an author of quite a number of books but he spends most of his time blogging and making technology go horribly wrong.
Short Form Writing
Nineteen Roses Nineteen roses we planted with care, To bloom in front of our dream. We worked as a team, to plant red, yellow and cream, And nurtured them through their first year. Daily we checked on their health and their needs, And sprayed and pruned and fed. Watered and weeded, and cut blooms as we needed, To fill our home with colour and scent. To both of us then, such a short time ago, They were our pride and our labour of joy. We would look out each morning, at the river performing, Its sparkling dance, behind our roses in row. Do you remember that time? When we smiled.
Where Were You Where were you when Kennedy died? Can you remember when the shot got fired? I was a kid just six years old. But I remember, I remember Oswald. I remember the place, I remember the time, I remember something was lost. Where were you when Elvis left? The king is dead the radio said. I was twenty-one and newly wed. But I remember. The King is dead. I remember the place, I remember the time, I remember something was lost. Why do I remember, Death and tragedy? Why do I remember, These days so clearly? Where were you when John got shot? Shot by a fan, imagine
I have been asked numerous times why I don’t write in popular genres such as romance, paranormal, vampire, urban fantasy or stories that involve wizards and pixies. Well, the honest answer is that I am just plain hopeless at it. But in an attempt to pacify the calls, here’s a good example of why. The McDonald’s Vampire Reggie tried to stay cucumber cool, but with the prospect of his life changing moment arriving unexpectedly, he could only manage a sixteen year old, hot and eager to trot type of coolness. Agatha had taken him by surprise in accepting – over the last munches of cold MacDonald’s French fries – his
My memory of Barry Humphries Barry Humphries has always inspired me. Better known to many all around the world as Dame Edna Everidge, it is the other talents of Humphries that I have most admired. Writer, actor and teller of tales. I wrote the following piece based on the style and my memory of a monologue I once heard him deliver in a one-man show many, many moons ago. A Monologue – Of Memories As electric toasters go, it was a classic. All Australian mined metal and made by Aussies in blue overalls somewhere near Glebe probably. Weren’t they were the days? When Aussies made stuff for Aussies and played
A little bit of long forgotten poetry today. Dug out from the past. The Journey I have wandered through my life, Felt the pain of fear and strife, And had tragedies as everybody does. Some times of love and bliss, And at times with one to kiss, But the feeling, of an emptiness, never goes. At times, the bottle was a crutch, Did it help the pain? Not much, But, it numbed the parts of me that hurt. The loss of time together, with my children, Was an extra heavy burden, To numb that pain, nothing seemed to work. To run from any pain, Seemed the answer, but again, The
The Wonderful Certainty of Death Death is so easy, so finite and pure, It has its own wonder and simple allure. Would it take seconds to pass through the gate? To eternal peace, far from life’s hate. I would imagine that once I had travelled this course, From a life taught to cherish, there may be remorse. But what would I miss, the pain of each day? Or the constant reminder that I’m just here to pay. Give me your money! The living shout out, Is this all that life is; I say, ”just about.” Money and greed, and anger and spite, Wouldn’t I rather and unending night. The mailbox
The Beautiful Bird Many years ago, I set my eyes on the most Beautiful Bird I had ever seen. She was dazzling in her beauty and song. I was entranced, and from that moment on, I was to devote my life to the wonder of this creature. She was wild, but was caged so tightly, and it was almost impossible to go near her, but over patient months and years, the Beautiful Bird began to trust my devotion. It took so long, but time was of no importance, until the day she would trust my hand in her cage. Her fears, built over many years, were slowing ebbing into a
The Vandal In Numbers
In-depth numerical data about The Vandal