I don’t want an ending. But she,
starry-eyed sprang from her cradle,
and dove straight into her middle.
I wonder what will happen now.
Will it be everything she dreamed?
With every moment measured, she
feels the small line after cradle.
When she takes the eventual bow,
will it show everything she dreamed?
Even the impossible dreams?
It’s all hope and faith, but she
loves her days since the cradle
enchanted by the mystical middle.
Adams mind was an erudite puzzle,
his best advice: to think like a puddle.
His ultimate truth was our eventual demise,
that’s why he let dolphin’s float to the skies.
“What a Charlie!” The jungle roars.
She hides from their inglorious roars.
But she also hunts for her Ohana,
she can hear the ancestral roars.
She fights the whispering Earth,
the embers grow into fiery roars.
She dances with bells and whistles,
stepping into the light, she roars.
The others will always call her barmy.
But she smiles her name is Charlie, and roars.
Note: Charlie, other than being my name, is also the British slang word for ‘fool’.
I can always rely on Mr. Moon
he is my constant, my complete focus.
Instrumental in my freeway thinking,
he brightens the deepest navy canvas.
The enigma of our reality:
Moronic questions wield moronic answers.
Making way for tiresome humanity,
especially those every day chancers.
Tonight I am in need of mental floss,
after the stupidest mystery was solved.
The world doesn’t need special characters
when five minutes ago is “oh so old”.
Bring me urban beats of hallelujah,
when they realise high heels really hurt, and
that Mario wears a Space Invader?
I think I’ll join a Mariachi band.
Always relying on my Mr. Moon
to help me navigate my state of play.
His patience paints a realm of reflection,
a quarantine from the longest day.
It’s a tumour in our wiring,
eating away at our consciousness,
corrupting the ones and zeros,
and deleting the Q & A.
The power will tremor,
and we’ll default to analogue.
I don’t like this game.
Automatic panic
induces a here and now, headache
for tomorrows war.
Social paralysis
stings ailing humanoids
there’s a sickness in the state
when the man can’t man-well
no one has a clue.
I don’t like this game.
Lost and alone,
the darkness is daring
twitching the screen.
Please don’t blink!
One day we will be defeated,
one day we will be deleted.
I don’t like this game.
A ‘Bop’ poem inspired by the computers turning themselves off in the office earlier today.
“Curious”
I think sometimes possibly,
that you could be my blue sky.
My heart and brain swing their rackets
like it’s the final of the Open.
Searching for answers
for something that cannot be answered,
until it happens.
The breathe of happiness
remains uncertain.
I sometimes wonder,
when will you stop
hiding beneath the cloak of comedy?
I wish I knew where this was going.
I’m pretty sure the Cheshire does.
He is a frustratingly friendly feline,
that smells like pancakes and ice cream
and who is as elusive as his grin.
I think sometimes, maybe.
I think sometimes, curiously.
The world linked me to my friend,
another soul heaven sent.
My friend is my universe.
My friend is my art.
My friend is my happy place.
My friend is my heart.
My friend is my tree.
My friend is my seer.
My friend is my peace.
My friend is my ear.
I walk this road with my friend,
bound together till the end.
There’s a teacup under my bed.
I bought it on a damp high street,
when the days smiled
and our light repelled
oncoming clouds.
You said I was weird.
So when summer ribbons
were moth-eaten
and flowers faded away,
that little teacup stayed.
It watched from the basket,
when lovely red sandles
were discarded,
onto your thick head.
And the purple pen you gave me,
the ink had run
dead.
I love that little teacup,
that sleeps under my bed.
Thirteen Reasons why Today didn’t suck.
One
Autumn night, well played
A fresh to start the day.
Two
Waking up to the big blue,
is an Aussie’s Paradise.
Three
Ding Ding, the café bell
Madam Rosa knows me well.
Four
Coffee beans and toasted bacon,
Taste buds have awoken.
Five
City heels find their strut
music on, iPhone plugged.
Six
Happy chaos on the street,
nods to those we meet.
Seven
Chocolate Orange Mocha
meant good vibrations at the lockers.
Eight
Smiles and conversations,
we found our destination.
Nine
“Here’s your boost juice, babe”
My favourite mint and kale.
Ten
A Southern Cross hottie,
smiles and winks at me.
Eleven
My phone constantly glows,
with plans for April tomorrows.
Twelve
Office sing a long,
we know our working song.
Thirteen
Home to a branded Charlie
inspiring another story.
Charlie Ann Alford 
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