Miss Judgington

To side as friend or foe,

Miss Judgington doesn’t know

Such is glib tongue’s idle chime!

Eyes, nose and ears work for chatter,

Pay mind to detect

Judging above all these curiosities’ cries.

Oh wait, did miss just choked on the fire she spat?

Oh no, the ice froze without the cold in a foreign act?

Miss Judgington often thought she could escape rotten bands of mice.

Some days, Miss Judgington regretted evil pantomimes

Therefore needing to heed her neighbours’ sound advice.

But what would Miss Judgington do, oh hey!

Boredom tickling her pettiness,

Quick darting lips she relies

Toasting her a limelight,

Capricious society enjoying

The missy’s every pry and nuzzle

In unpacking telling privacies and lies

Joining her dance to meddler-medleys.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander (my writing name). Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).

Sad People Can't Dream

When darkness overheard happiness next door

Following each noisy delight and squeal

It told a curse on a person

For years to pull longer years

That when a gummy smile slivers into a sadness

A long sorrow they dream on days of void

Even as they beg and kneel for it to leave

Their minds go silent humming.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).

Beautiful Stranger

Beautiful Stranger,

Whoever you are.

Stealing away my soul,

Steps you build in your stride.

Is this the lover I never had?

Clothed in luxury brands while cigarette on hand,

Chain-smoking like a chimney,

Face in the fog of that nicotine pack.

Portly and tall in silhouette,

The voice of a high price, high road player.

You are wild and uncouth a ruffian,

Big and rough like a bear,

But quietly in fur tenderness,

I wish I could draw in closer.

You strut like a storm,

A tornado wind in the mindful heads,

Like the earth have no hold and won’t soil you.

You say grand words stopping short ever so clumpsily,

As though it should be understood vague,

While the rest of what it means is just action to take.

That Man should not say much but prove change,

To be more than the young ways of youth.

You are not for me,

As I am not for you.

But you seem to last and stir the blood in me,

Leaving behind the longing of you.

So here you are,

I have only seen you so brief,

Again trying to sniff your wafted breath,

Just moments you spoke, walked and left by.

-Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).

This Deadend Job

(This is a work of make-believe only, like all other poems. It is not real or related to myself.)

This deadend job of mine

Is toiling ahead in the pursuit of despair

Self casting into storm holes of guilt and shame

No shades of questions to contemplate

Or room to argue for an “okay”

Or truth to obey by papered black and whites

Sent snapshots probably for the display, oh hey!

The high nose pride chauvinistic boss

The colleagues selfish to consider a foot

The welfare system is a show of face

Procedures a mess of organized games

Employees hammered on carded disgrace

Deadend, deadend

Dead to the end and chained to the desk

Can’t attain potential figure growing sales

Lose the mark of your future so quickly down ladder

Soul-blind and salary baited one continues

When all happiness does and cries Gawd, I’m so confused!

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).

Perfect In The Broken

Hello Broken, how have you been today?

Are you still finding the perfect in the broken you?

You should know that you are not so neat, prim-groomed and tidy,

Not so ladylike day and night when a lady,

Not so best in everything you are supposed to be at home, work and else,

At best still quite broke as a broken.

You could still be who you want to,

Find the perfect in your broken,

Strike a pose of confidence,

As you tell them “I am Who!”

In the clothes you love to wear,

That natural without powdering up when people meet you.

For if they find you smiling all day,

Close to the falling edge,

All will know you ran away the chaos and endured the roast,

And so it is this piece of distress you cannot blame.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities.

Nobody's Child

Harry sat on the wire of a fence,

Looking at his life melt away,

When Fog came today,

Into the dusk of the demesne.

Blur shadows overcast manors,

Dancing different forms with the light.

Same forlorn figure at the bus stop,

Travelling his own reflection years ago.

Ashamed, remembering why all this while,

This empty and heartless world,

Never gave more chances to exile,

Hard truths, bitter moments,

Back to ready budding, consoling warmer homes.

Am I loser? Am I not wanted?

A nobody’s child without protectors or guardians,

Roots cripple to its shorter brother,

In the dead search of safer earth after earth.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities.

The Expressionist

The expressionist is like an ancient woman,

A goddess of language.

She shapes the fabric of modernity unperturbed by retrospect.

Undefined by superficialities and plastics,

She infuses meaning into words Herculean.

So the expressionist doeth and sayeth,

The common and taken for granted by humanity,

Into new light and the necessary.

It is said the expressionist is hypersensitive selfish,

Master to a set of rules and expectations.

Denouncing the impudence of the brazen, shallow gauche. 

Her perception only permits for her to perceive,

And the naming of that perception is for her to claim.

The expressionist waits for no one to decide for her,

All the imaginations of the universe to uncover.

In any age, people wait and chase the expressionist.

Only the expressionist remembers for them, 

What they have lost and long for.

The expressionist concentrates on the finest moment of the second. 

It will pass her, but she has received the emblazoned fact.

Her gentle strength follows an order,

Her unspoken speech implores the conscious.

-Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities.