One year later

One year later
Not that I cry about you
But I can catch myself wondering
What am I without you?

One year later
Not that I'm keeping track
But I can catch myself wondering
Do I want you back?

Not that I think
We'd have a chance
I'm so tired of your tune
There's no way in hell I'd dance

One year later
Not that I really care
But I can catch myself wondering
Do I really want you there?

One year later
Not that I don't know we're through
But I can catch myself wondering
Am I still in love with you

Not that I think
You don't know
I think you should've had
The decency to go

How could you break my heart
And say you'd be my friend?
It's always what you want
But never again

Hands

For years they have copped abuse,
From all throughout the lands,
People have taken them for granted,
I'm talking about your hands.
We talk about getting the point,
Of being under the thumb,
We plant palms in our garden,
Our familiarity made us numb.
Until the hands went on strike,
The leapt up from our arms,
And skittered to somewhere quiet,
Immune from all our harms.
With stumps we tried to survive,
Cornflakes were no fun,
The door we could not open,
To frolic in the sun.
A visit to the toilet produced,
Frustrated howls of, "F*ck!",
Getting dressed took dexterity,
And more than a little luck.
Computer time was not allowed,
The keyboard proving hard,
Writing was similarly elusive,
And clapping also barred.
Beverages were not accessible,
People just ate sugar lumps,
For wrestling with the hot container,
Merely burnt your stumps.
You're getting the point of the exercise,
On you the image has grown,
So I don't need to describe,
What happened when you were alone ....
The hands saw the trouble caused,
And returned from their retreat,
We clapped our feet in celebration,
For now our hands just can't be beat.

A Friend

By Jamison Robert Huebsch

You call yourself my friend,
I call you my friend,
But your friendship is a weird thing,

You say being bitchy is your nature,
That only true friends are willing to put up with all that,
But why are you so mean sometimes,
To someone who tries so hard to be nice to you ?

Your so full of hate and rage,
Yet you complain about how everyone is so mean,

You drag me out,
Use all my money,
Make me wait for hours,
While you shop for your things,

You tease me,
Mercilessly,
Yet you know I used to like you like that,
Yet you always say the time,
That you liked me like that,
Could be measured on a stop watch,

But you didn't complain a few weeks later,
When you were lonely and looking for fun,

You scream and shout,
And complain to everyone who CAN'T hear you,
So they can't fight back,

You order me around,
Like my care for you is just a given,
That you can just take me for granted,

You don't bring me anything but down,
But why is it that down is better than when your not around,

You drive me crazy,
But I got over you,
And you said "GOOD" like it was some disease,

You tell me the truth,
But you take to much fun in making it harsh,
You always have to tear me down,
While you go out running around,
Always out on the town,

You sing man hating songs,
Of how no one is nice enough to you,
But you call those guys your brothers,
And give it out to anyone who can mistreat you right,
It's such a simple decision to you,
Has so little to do with your feelings,
And more about your lusts and pet peeve,

You always expect the world to conform to you,
Rather than you learn to live with reality,

Your so proud of the things,
You can 'do',
And so angry when I'm better at it than you,
Your so pissed off that I am silly and calm some times,
When you want me to be serious,
And a loser,
And so angry when I'm serious,
When you want me to be silly,
And a joke,

Am I just some damn toy to you ?

And all through that,
You’re my friend,
Till you decide you don't want to be

The consternation was tangible,
The drug squad on their feet,
The police infrastructure rumbling,
You could tast the heat.
To Brisbane mail centre they scrambled,
The Bomb Squad was there too,
A questionable package had arrived,
Its contents could nor be true.
The Customs Officials surrounded it,
Tension in their faces,
They were used to queer smelling packages,
From exotic places.
This one originated in the States,
They brought in their hounds,
But these fearless beagles became scared,
And loped away in bounds.
For the contents of this package,
Were odiferously obscene,
Anyone who smelt the package,
Turned a putrid shade of green.
So, they called in the package's recipient,
A fellow named Ymir,
He looked at them with derision,
Thinking them quite queer.
He opened the package with abandon,
Many egos duly squashed,
Inside were two artful Tshirts,
From the clan Unwashed.
So, around the home town of Ymir,
Causing much trouble and strife,
You'll see the Tshirted dynamic duo,
Ymir and his lovely wife.
So, I thank-you now Blue Cross,
I give a hearty cheer,
Come and join the Poetry Bastards,
For a frosty beer                                                    

Ymir

I stand alone
screaming in the rain,
its gentle caress washing
over me; the rain is
cold and fresh,
makes me realize
the bleakness of this
reality;
the rain is what
preserves my sanity,
keeps me conscious
of the fact that, by
nature, nothing is
constant, be it life,
death, or the in between,
as all things end
and all things begin
with mere thought...

Hands

Young hands,
Smooth-skinned, supple,
Fingers spread wide to catch the morning sun.

Strong hands,
Powerful and direct,
Gripping tightly the reins of life's Carousel.

Gentle hands,
Softly stroking, lightly touching,
Safe and considerate, hands to hold the beats of a heart.

Knotted hands,
Twisted, scarred,
Legacy of a life lived grappling at the edge.

Cold hands,
Limp and damp,
Their touch can drain laughter and freeze the soul.

Old hands,
Pale and thin of skin,
Time's lines worn like translucent lace.

Cruel hands,
Sharp of nail, taut of sinew,
Claws set to the world's face, tearing, rending...

Newborn hands,
Pink and delicate,
Tiny balled up fists like seeds, life's potential gripped within.

Many, many hands,
Each unique yet all alike,
Builders of dreams, weavers of thoughts,
their touch is mankind's signature in the sands of time.

Remembering

I drop on my knees,
And rip open my shirt,
Letting the light hit me...
What did I do,
That was so wrong,
Why did they set me free?
I had a future,
In front of me,
But now I think it died...
And the girl that I loved,
Had disappeared too,
So cried, cried, and cried...

I know your here...
Out living out there...
Still thinking about it all...

I know I'm here...
Wishing I was there...
Still wondering about it all...

You had so much to do,
In so little time,
But they took it all away...
If I had the chance,
To save your soul,
I'd make sure you'd stay...
But I know that you're dead,
And sleeping real well,
And drifting peacefully...
But I know one day,
I will see you again,
And it'll be just you and me...

I know your here...
Out living out there...
Still thinking about it all...

I know I'm here...
Wishing I was there...
Still wondering how you are...