Willie McRae's Poems

Here are 52 poems. When I get to 500, I will produce a printed book.

Sounds On A Spring Tuesday

The smoker whirs into gear
Bleeps and bloops are near
Cars drive by
An incessant horn
They are not from around here
Agitated clicking of fingers on plastic
A couple of Ibis fly by
They sound like ducks
If you tilt your head to the side
A held breath is not silent
It's violence in potential form
Time to break out the yoga dice

Rake To The Face

Day One on the job
I place the rake carefully on the ground
Somewhere out in the open
So it can be easily found
By me
Or my boss
I am asked to retrieve a phillips-head screwdriver
Which I would be happy to do
If I knew what the hell it was
I ask the question and my boss mutters under his breath
Is he swearing at me?
Yes, but also at his boss
Who is my Dad's friend
That's why I'm here
Not because of my vast knowledge of screwdrivers
Back to the rake
My boss, call him Darren
Stands up from his crouch and spins quickly
His foot connects with the prongs of the rake
Which lies prongs up, of course
Why not?
The handle crashes into his face
I wonder
Will I get to see Day Two of this job?

Goodbye

Speed up time to a cosmic scale
Flickering lights
Our first breath, then last
Even the longest lives
Finish too fast
So cherish this pause
This simple embrace
Goodbye for now
Or forever

La Passagiata

Cobbled stones
Rustic doorways
Elegant graffiti
Caves in a cliff-face
Shadows on the wall
Golden sun yawns
Hands clasped
On our afternoon stroll

27 Days Of Scramble

New reflections on ancient topics
Butterflies locked in the tropics
Hammer strikes the piano
Blank rest gives space to the flow
Metal mice play to the beat inside a dark fort
Spirit goat fights to remember what he was taught
Lamentation

Drive to forget by taking up a quill
Stand on the mat everyday from sheer force of will
My prime just a concept now, a memory, a sense
In my home city receiving my comeuppance
Opportunity, challenge, risk, reward, defeat
Chilli pepper - cleanse my pain with heat!

The Loch Ness Monster

Once upon a time
I sipped from the loch
I was young and bold
But it made me feel sick

I thought you would laugh
At my interesting trick
But you thought it was dumb
And this I was told

At night as I slept
I dreamed of old Nessy
She’d entered my blood
From that fateful sip

A messy affair
No peace on the land
And now I have flippers
Where I used to have hands

Tropical Island World

A wondrous location
For a vacation
Slides and balloons
Wurst and tunes
Inside and out
The families shout
Hot water please
To defeat the cold breeze

The Butterfly Cage With Two Ears

My thoughts
Start out crawling around
Easily ignored
Stepped on
Misunderstood
Celebrated when they take flight
Showing off their colours
Flitting around in groups
Emergent dancing
Temporary flamboyance
Making hurricanes
Somewhere...someday

Why Must I Learn To Drive Again?

Because I had it easy
Walked everywhere
No need to care
For a car or even a bike
Catch a train for a hike
Spend the day in green fields
Then back home
For a meal

Letters in the mail
So boring
Printed and sent
For my ignoring

Until I realised
That I must return
To the wide streets of my youth
Whereupon driving I’d learned
Back in those days
When the steering wheel feel
Held the promise of freedom
And endless appeal

Time To Fight

We shall muster
At the appointed time
With sharpened steel
And polished helmets

What and how matters more
Than why
There is no good response
To that duplicitous word

That singular question
Is best left to seers and Gods
We are warriors
Let us fight in peace!

Where My Spirit Goes

Primal mists
The hiss and click of life
Heavy breath
The slick of sweat
Hidden depths
Ancient secrets
Curiosity
Motivation
Waterfall roar
Jungle law

Play With Me

I sit on the floor
In a teepee made with a map of the world
Which still has “Peking” on it

My companions are
Three cardboard boxes
A digger, and four trucks

I wear a red bicycle helmet
Listen to the sound of a saucepan
Being bashed with a wooden spoon

Soon there will be a hunt
A dramatic pantomime
In which I am lost and found

Feigned surprise an act
But the truest expression of love
I can find

Why Love?

To love is to place
Emotional chips
On the poker table of life

A gamble
For brighter colours
Or deeper depths

The other choice
Is to sit
And ruminate

Goat

Grim and steadfast
Consumption
Unyielding grip and rip and crush
From teeth bared in greeting
Kicking and bleating
Never retreating
Bestial heart revealed
Angelic intent veiled
‘Neath Satanic countenance

Mörk Borg

A dark fort
Conjured into the mind
Etched lines and white space
Filled with maddening reds and black
On fields of toxic yellow
Numerous scripts
On paper thick and gaunt
Rough and silvered
Illuminated spine
Under a pale moon

Opportunity Cost

Hesitation brought more woe
Than any foolish move I made
Yet actions without thought
Delivered outcomes I would trade

The puzzle I must solve
When with decisions I am faced
Is not which way to go
But rather how long I should wait

Opinion On Cities

My favourite city
Bookshops open on Saturday night
Bikes for hire
Room enough to ride

My least favourite city
A temple to trade
Glass and metal
Built in hollow praise

The Beat Of The Story

Every story has a rhythm
The popular ones
Rise and fall
The experimental ones
Often miss their mark
Story is meaning ascribed to events
The original data analysis
Not a shortcut to understanding
For there is no other way

Anti-Fatigue Mat

A playground for my feet
With various textures and shapes
Built with industrial strength rubber
Indispensable for the modern hybrid worker
Or a giant flat chew-toy for a bear

Lucky Me

Lucky I went to a Catholic primary school for a time
They taught me about singing in harmony
And that make-believe was a valid coping strategy

Late Lamentation Inclusive Of Six Words

On day twelve
I lost my place in the race

A short season of rhyme
Broken now and worse -
Play, once a solace
Turned to hard, bitter work

My voice, by my choice
Stifled, drowned out

Now strict like a convict
Born again not too late
I return to the keys
To produce something great -
Or just late

Optimus Prime

Boss of Autobots
More than meets the eye
Produced as Orion Pax
He has thirteen different alternate modes
The one I remember best
Inspirational
Big tough rig
Roll out!

Get A Quill

I recommend
Obtaining a quill
For it will
Make you feel
Like a poet of skill
And help you to steel
Against lapses in will

Chilli Kettle Chip

Reach inside
And extract it
From the packet
The spice
The crunch
As a snack
Or for lunch

I know you want to

Strong potassium game
Is my thing
I bring the most
More than a banana can bring
Hear the cash registers ring
As you surrender to the urge
And we exit the service station

Mouse

I am an elite gaming peripheral device which pulses and glows
A fluorescent signal trapped beneath a chitinous plastic shell
Designed by an enthusiastic committee
With pictures of beetles and sports cars on their pinboards

The Comeuppance Of Clarence Boddicker

Upside down car
Shots from afar
Officer down
But not out

Over water he walks
The villain still talks
Then
SLAM

A large quantity of metal to the face

Then blows to the arm
Is this mortal harm
From a strike
In the chest?

Not yet it seems
No air for his screams
Just startled gurgles
As the villain breathes his last

Advice To Metal Musicians

When the riff stays the same
Don’t change the drum beat to half time
Please
Just don’t

The First Blank

The frustration equation is exponential
So the first will not be single for long
It will join with others of its kind
To obfuscate my purpose

Like most effective obstacles
This one is made by me, for me
As tough as any Dungeon Master could construe
If given access my red buttons and fears

The first email looms
It will pierce the Cloak Of Denial +1
I have worn these past few days

The first faint knock
A distraction of pretend fruit
Carefully arranged whiteboard markers

The first steps are recalled
Amazement on the faces of all
None more impressed than the ambulator himself

The first challenge is cleared
Treasure is a deep breath
A moment of respite

And then I go!

Playing The Piano With My Nose

Squashed rubber grinds solid bone
On hard keys stirring motes of dust
Fingers clutch for a firm hold
Failing to grip hairless head
In 4/4 time

An Ancient Mentor

When I am described as ‘mercurial’ I take it as a compliment
Ignoring the definition of the word
Interpreting it as meaning
‘Similar to the ancient god Mercury’

O’ to be recognised
As some great communicator
Though the falsehood would weigh heavy...
I reveal few truths
Hence this onslaught of poetry

I trade in concepts and debates
A merchant of information
That keeps industry turning
With scant insights or ministration
Until it is outsourced to AI

Now, who is this Mercury?
A god
Roman, Greek?
Does it matter?
His physical endowments are impressive

Famous for his fast running
And diligence in delivering messages
Embellished with flavourful quips
Quite a character
With some qualities to aspire to

Perhaps I will construct a shrine

Reflections On Reaching A Certain Age

It is a confronting event
When considering where our life went
Now the time we possess
Is unquestionably less
Than previously we have spent

Something New For You

Here
Listen to this
It’s going to change your world
Blow
Your
Mind

It’s not like the other things
You have experienced
In your life
Of course, I don’t know this for sure...
But if I don’t use bold and confident assertions
You may mistake this as a recommendation
And misconstrue the level of choice I am offering you in this matter
Am I being pushy?
I would apologise
But it would be contrived
And I don’t have time to contrive today
At work this is called ‘a sense of urgency’
I get paid for it
But I am doing this for you, for free
This is an introduction
The beginning of something special
Have you listened to it yet?
Don’t make me get in my car and drive across town to see you
I will do it
If that is what it takes

The First Reading

Read me!
The first draft personified
Sulks at the edge of my desk
Squeezed between drawers and a row of books
Like an angry American
Experiencing the London Underground

It is a talisman of procrastination
I dare not approach, and yet I must
Or else my efforts to compile it
Will be in vain
Although, it was vanity that fuelled those sporadic urges
Which birthed this dubious text in the first place

Five Answers To The Same Question

What will I create for The Muses today?
Perhaps a hard rock riff
The secret is in playing the guitar like a funky bass

What will I create for The Muses today?
Maybe a piece of data analysis
It’s like mining for gemstones, requiring patience and durable tools

What will I create for The Muses today?
Yes! A poem of questionable quality
Writing is cathartic, let the critics be damned!

What will I create for The Muses today?
A piece of visual art
No more boxes or lists, just flowing curves that pacify

What will I create for The Muses today?
Raw emotion fashioned into some externally accessible form
Vulnerability, questioning, positivity, grieving, dreaming

Three Dogs I Have Known

Let me tell you about some of the dogs I have known
Refraining from obvious rhymes
Like “bone”
Sticking to the facts
At least as I remember them
Though details have been lost with the passing of time

Scruffy the dog with a name like a children’s toy
And the countenance of a violent racist
Raised with kicks and snapped commands
Then gifted to our family as protection

Benjy the meek, brown and sleek
Smart enough to flee from danger
And give Scruffy plenty of room
To bark at the men with guns passing by

Foster the golden lion
“He will be an outside dog”
Actually...he had other plans
And in time we felt like honoured guests in his house

Reflections Delivered Via A Curtal Sonnet

The tension that tires me, of my own design,
This alarm clock that wakes with a grinding thunk,
Is evidence enough that it has become time
To reconsider the drinks that previously I have drunk

And the work of the day is no easier now
Despite all of the motivational texts
I have read and obsessed on all methods how

Still one keystroke must follow the next
My ears are filled with an ambient boom
Which, due to my headphones, does not leave the room

Like a glacier, I persist

The Rooms I Have No Interest In

When I see a room in an establishment
Labelled as a ‘Gaming Room’
And then I come to understand
That in fact it is a room full of Pokies
I fly into an uncontrolled rage
Not in reality of course
My actions on the outside
Are as calm as a Japanese Zen Garden
Smooth gravel, and lapping waters
But on the inside
I shake the cage like Caesar in planet of the Apes
And in a similarly simian fashion
I scream NOOOOOO!

Everything Is Going To Be Amazing

The shadows make us
Reflections of star dust
Thrust into form
In this cosmic universe
Everything is going to be amazing
When we are sent blazing into the sun
Or freezing into a Ram Of Gravitrons

The GAF Index

Let me explain the index of GAF
It is the most precise measurement of care
Which I can describe
And in this particular instance
The amount of GAF I possess is spare

You see, the GAF index
Is useful for when I am stuck
To explain just how much
I do not
Give
A
Fuck

You see “0 G A F”
Such a wondrous trio of symbol
So much better than the expletive words themselves
This acronym efficiently tells
You how much I care - clear as a bell

Contemplation Of Meaning

Bigger than me
So much so
That I stop in place
As I stand at the keys
In the screen, the shadow of my face
Not enough space between my ears
To contextualise the fear
Of space

These years have been good to me
But I have reached a tipping point
The gravity of death pulls me forward
Along an inevitable incline
This time of mine
All effort to opine on topics sublime
The construction of rhyme to find meaning
Paradoxically important yet irrelevant dreaming

Ode To Reggae

Boom the bass and snap that snare
Reggae music decrease-a my care
The breath in the beat is neat
And the Bumpy selector make my evening complete
Blow that horn and send the shivers up my spine
Fill me with that feeling my words cannot define
This dreamy reggae healing I pray it will not stop
Fill me up with that bop bop bop

On The Path To Writing One Thousand Words

In my quest to write one thousand words
Each day, I dabble with poems
Different styles, like this one
Descending syllables
Making me work hard
It is fun, but
The word count
Is quite
Low

Cassowary Priest: Revelation

From the jungles up north The latest in line
I present an inhabitant
Of this brain of mine

Hard of head
Kind of heart
He preaches in a freestyle style
From texts yet unwritten
He lurks in the spaces
Squeezed air between secondhand A4 paper
Fit for first drafts
Too powerful to commit without proper mental preparation
What is flight but distraction
From the business of the jungle
See him step among the leaves and fruit in the shadows
Hear his deep ululation...
And believe

The Watched Pot

At first the surface of the water remained still
And as expected
It was not until I turned away
Then returned my gaze to the pot
That I perceived the liquid inside
Was becoming hot

So I fixed my eyes unblinking
On that shiny metal container
Resolute to witness the manifestation
In its entirety
Proverb be damned
For this pot is now watched
I will not be moved on
Instead I will stay strong and
See this water boil

All Engines Go

All aboard!
Let me introduce you to myself...
Legitimate modern transport
Envisaged in the past
Normalised to go fast
Glimpse at me as I go by
In the blink of an eye
Now perceive the ding ding lights
End their blinking dance
Savour the delight
Get me to the trains
Oh please!

The Phantom Mixes A Drink

Old Jungle Saying:
“The Ghost Who Walks gets his strength from his drinks”
And thus we see our man
Clad in skintight purple
Nod towards his white horse Hero
And grey dog Devil
While pouring warm yellow juice from a spiky husk
Into a cup fashioned from the skull of an ancient forebear
Now rimmed with fresh chilli flakes

Day Zero

The fire-ants didn’t save you
Despite steady consumption
Your number came up
And so you got knocked down

Isolation has some benefits
Make a milo like a 41 year old man can
One part powder to two parts milk
Stir the spoon, hear the clink, and then drink

The Robot From Snowy River

The smell of horse and metal wafted through the vents that day
And all who gathered round did confide
In envy at the robot in the HOLO-GRAF display
“It hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side”

Fluctuate the reciprocating override emission
Wild horses there are dangerous and tough
Then mask the dynamic protocol permission
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough

Please reshape the periodic biotic anomaly
Then constrain the nested source override
This rugged land demands that it move strongly
Where a horses hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride

Now irradiate the deviated nodular protein
Prepare to repair the chips and cracks and scuffs
Reset the phased gravimetric domain
The robot that holds his own is good enough

The Moat

At the edge of a plutogogic moat
Surrounding the few bloated towers
Which glisten and glint
Built in blindness
Each stone laid for unseen masters
Who need specialised apparatus
To breath the thin air
So high do they sit

We gather, though our backs are turned
Away from this central and awful spectacle
Enthralled by a projected reality
We work and consume
Our imaginations irrigated with hope, lust, desperation and envy
Or worse
Turned inwards in fear and distrust
Against those who stand with us

There are no monsters in the moat
No teeth or claw,
Nor fin or spike
No poison

The liquid tastes good
It tastes like hope
One sip is a blessing of energy
It carries you forward if you choose to swim
But it fills your lungs and will weigh you down

You will drown

Let us build boats and thus traverse this moat!

The Black Telephone

An ancient cord
Stretched by coiled muscle
Slick with sweat from the game
A salty rain
Upon the blades of grass

“Now hear this”
The voice carries through
This ancient device
The tone is not nice
But businesslike
Delivered from the Coach

“Find the fight
And give it your all
It’s the bloody showdown
We cannot fall
Think about the fans”

Wearily the recipient
Nods and gapes his mouth
He will yet cast forth again
Onto that rugged ground
Where glory is to be found
Before the last siren sounds

The black telephone
Falls from his grip
A dull thunk of plastic on wood

He knows what he should do Must do. Will do
To kick another bloody goal

Slap

I’m all for playful contact
But please make another choice
My head is not a fly
Nor your hand ‘The Village Voice’

First Footsteps On Ash After The Eruption

The skies went dark
Stabs of lightning
And the glow of molten rock Illuminated my path
The ash like dirty, hot snow
A canvas for stories approaching

I hesitated, fearful
Then broke the surface with my tread