Turning Away

The time had come for our number one son
For a milestone of many: Kindy, Day One.

As we walked through the gate he was holding my hand
With his new lunch box in his little kindy bag

Different kids, different teachers, all fresh and new
There was a cool new playground with so much to do

As we went through his routine, he seemed happy and bright
But when I began my departure he just hugged me real tight

As he gripped me he cried and begged me to stay
He didn’t want to be there alone for the day

I tried to explain that he’d be perfectly okay
And I’d be back to get him later that day

With some help I managed to make a retreat
But he was still upset; tears fell on his feet

As I cheerily waved and began turning away
In my mind all I could see was his face at the gate

I fought the urge to go back and to take him back home
To save him the trauma of leaving him alone

With a tear in my eye and a stab in the heart
I didn’t look back and walked on to the car

He was fine, of course, once I’d left him there
With so many distractions he was playing without care.

But after days and then weeks he’d still grab onto my sleeve
Always distraught and distressed as I began to leave

It was the hardest part of all, leaving my lad
But helping him grow was the job of a dad

“You’re a big boy, you’ll have fun” I’d repeatedly say
Before I gave him a hug and began turning away.

And then suddenly one day, twenty weeks on
As I began my departure he turned and was gone

Without warning he was fine with me going away
And I smiled and watched him run off and play

No more clinging or clutching, no more tears at the gate
I could walk away and leave him in a peaceful state

But turning away, as ever, I still felt forlorn:
That morning my boy didn’t need me anymore.

Copyright © Richard Mason

Writer's Block

I was sitting under the pecan trees
With a laptop perched upon my knees
Thinking of something clever to write
But nothing came that was terribly bright.
A little black bird landed nearby
And appeared to look me straight in the eye
It seemed like he wanted to take a look
And have a read of my half-finished book
After he read my book for a bit
He shuffled his feet and did a shit
His little turd fell through the air
And hit my keyboard, fair and square
I took that as a message from above
So I gave my laptop a hefty shove
I decided that writing wasn't for me
And I fetched an easel and painted a tree.

Copyright © Richard Mason

Hot stuff

Look at me!
On top of the world
I'm on the red carpet
Each arm has a girl.

What a great hair day
And check out my smile!
You haven't seen me
Look this good in a while!

My shoulders are square
My chest puffed out -
This is what spunk
Is all about!

It's about perfection
Hey honey - you dig this stance?
Holy shit.
I've forgotten my pants! 

Copyright © Richard Mason

Four Favourites

Of my four favourite words, the last is “perambulate”,
Its meaning: “to walk or stroll” is something to which I relate;
It is rhythmic and fluid, it literally ambles from your lips
And prompts you to go a-sauntering, and loosen up your hips.

“Lebensmittelgeshäft” is German, it comes in at third,
It has so many varied sounds stuffed into one word!
Alas, it designates something I have no time for:
For it translates into “supermarket”, or “grocery store”.

At second is a melon: the word is “cantaloupe”,
I’m a bit biased here as it’s one of my favourite fruit,
The word rolls sweetly about your tongue, like it’s juicy flesh
It’s soft and musical and leaves your mouth feeling fresh.

My favourite term is short, and it defines a sound,
And the word itself is the funniest one around,
It could find itself in comedy, when something’s about to drop,
You can’t say it without smiling; try it, it’s “plop”!

Copyright © Richard Mason

The Fart

Why does it linger
When you squeeze one out?
Like a ghostly finger
It just hangs about.

The fart is lightning quick
How it travels, no-one knows
From the back of a bus
In a blink: up the driver's nose.

Why does it always go
Where you don't want it to?
It should react to gravity
Just the same as poo.

You can drop a fart then move
But will it stay where it passed?
The bloody thing will follow -
Why does it cling to your arse?

It can be most embarrassing
Unbidden wind from your bum
It's inconvenient in a lift
Or when meeting your girlfriend's mum.

At gym class, legs stretched wide
The spinchter fully dilated
It very hard to contain
All the gases you've created.

It's always most handy
To have kids or dogs around
You can lay the fart-blame elsewhere
When a smelly one hits the ground.

Some folk are quite skilful
They can fart a tune you name
Or light the jet of gas
And make a foot-long flame.

Why are farts so funny?
A harmless "parp" in a quiet crowd
Can cause a rippled giggle
Or cause a laugh-out-loud.

There's much fun to be had
With the wind that's from your seat
You can fart on your brother's head
Or trap girlfriend beneath the sheets.

"Who farted?" is a question
You can ask in many ways
The query can be posed
With a colourful phrase:

"Who punched Humphrey?"
"Who dropped their guts?"
"Who kicked the dog?"
"Who opened their lunch box?"

There are four types of farts
As far as I can tell
Based on its sound
And importantly, the smell.

The "Trumpet Bum" variety
Makes your butt-cheeks reverbrate
And in extreme instances
Creates a small earthquake.

The "Stealth" is rather nasty:
It comes out without a peep
But can destroy nasal lining
And send small dogs to sleep.

"Thank God" is quite noiseless
But the smell you'll nervously await
And then sigh with relief
When no odour eventuates.

"Trumpet Bum" is entertaining
When shared with a mate
But the "Stealth" can be deadly
And cause a room to evacuate.

The third type is most appealing
But the fourth is called "The Poo"
It's definitely the worst:
It's when you follow through!

Copyright © Richard Mason