londonbard: walking tabby cat, (Tyger) (Default)
Merry Christmas, everyone!

SeaQuest

All the usual disclaimers apply. seaQuest is the property of Amblin
Entertainment. No copyright infringements are intended and no money is
being made from this. It's just a parody; enjoy!


Teaser;

We are in a deserted corridor; facing a door. We hear the voices of
men, approaching. That must be the real Refit crew. We open the
door and go quietly into a empty cabin. Pulling back the blanket
of the bottom bunk reveals a hard-cover book. The cover is badly scuffed and the label, "The Private Diary of Lucas Wolenczak", has an ugly brown stain.

"Pick it up - go on, the cabin's empty. Open it - look,
considering what our Section did to that kid so far, reading
a private diary is nothing - right? No, not from the beginning.
Go to December. We know what happened up until the 24th. According to the computer, they were in some kind of fire-fight. There's some evidence of Macronesian subs. They seem to have got clear - up to a point, anyway. They were trapped on the surface with the bioskin torn in several places, too near the enemy, unable to submerge, when
the memory banks failed. Now, if this is going to tell us what
happened next we need - here it is, 24th Dec.


The Night Before Christmas.


''Twas the night before Christmas
and all through the boat,
Just one scanner was sounding,
a sharp single note,
a sound like an Asdic,
a series of blips,
that seemed to make mock
of the sound of the drips.

The combat crew huddled alone in their beds,
with thoughts of the day to come stark in their heads.
Elsewhere Maintenance crews fought to heal-seal the leaks
In the hope that we still might escape to the deeps.
and I worked at the console and hoped I could save,
any programmes the blasts hadn't sent to the grave.
The corruption was spreading and just wouldn't stop.
That's when Dagwood came in with his bucket and mop.
I'd have left if I could, for some fool at the dock,
Had told Dags if he hung up a stocking or sock,
and he really was sure he'd been good all the year,
then some time in the night Santa Claus would appear.

Dags can be like a child, he's been asking all week,
If St Nick just delivers or might stop to speak?
It's not just the gifts, Dagwood wanted to know,
How a sleigh could get in? Where a chimney would go?
in an undersea dome, how the kids of today,
get the things he was told Santa brings on his sleigh?
How it only takes 12 hours to get the job done?
and why kangaroos pull the Australian run?

In the past, we'd have filled up that stocking all right,
but I hadn't the patience to listen, that night.
I was gesturing "Go" when I heard Darwin chitter,
and saw that Sea Deck seemed to glimmer and glitter,
As I went to the dolphin some tiny dark streaks,
Seemed to fall to the Moon Pool from one of the leaks.
and I saw in the pool, like a fantasy wish,
a bullet-shaped thing in a frothing of fish!
It grew as I watched and I thought it meant harm,
and I turned to the console to sound an alarm.
Then the top hatch went back, and although it sounds weird,
There's a tiny fat man with a white bushy beard!
The manikin looked just as Santa Claus ought
and I wondered in shock who had drugged life support!
The fish had seemed hooked to a jingling thong,
Then I saw they were dolphins, a finger-length long!
and I looked through the glimmer as though in a dream,
and I saw they were harnessed, and moved as a team!
Santa whistled and chittered to stay in their tow
(In the language of dolphins no human can know)
As they swung through the air something spilled from the pack,
Dagwood caught it, and reached out to give the stuff back,
but the team swung away as though playing a game,
Santa stood in the capsule and called them by name,

"Now, Leaper! Now Diver! On, Dancer and Deeping!
We must make the run while the sea-domes are sleeping!
Come Seafoam and Starjumper! Haul with your might!
For this boat is the gift for a lost child tonight!"
Santa went through the leak with his team and his car,
and the rent closed behind him with barely a scar!
The few sensors working then gave us a sight,
of some huge cables grappled to us and stretched tight,
and I flinched in surprise at the flick of a tail.
There was something out there that was big as a whale.
The sensors said there was a small boat too near,
and the thought of the enemy filled me with fear.
Then I felt the boat lurch and it started to sway,
and the glitter came down and the world went away.

We woke with the boat in the same battered state,
But in UEO waters a mile from the Cape!
We'd got 3 or 4 refugee children, to boot,
and it seems that we picked up boat-people en route!
There are drugs that will make people see things, I know.
If they're added to food, surely something will show?
There are psychics around who can easily project.
In a world where that happens, what can you expect?

Though I wrote the above memory's faded away,
Maybe I was in stasis again, for a day.
Perhaps it's the aliens we have to thank.
I've checked the computer, there's no memory bank.
Now that seaQuest's in dock for refit and repair,
I've got shore-leave for Christmas,
which seems more than fair.
Tim and Tony and Dagwood will all get a break,
(But I wish that I knew, for my sanity's sake,
Why the boat's bio-skin bears the marks of a rope,
and where Dags got the scarf and the kaleidoscope.)
There's a party on shore and it starts at twilight.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

..............................................................

The book closes, sharply enough to make a clap. The intruder walks quickly out of the cabin and along the companionway, flashing a Section 7 pass at the Security man at the head of the gangplank - and muttering to himself,

"The kid's crazy! Santa Claus!! Projective telepaths!!! I can't put in a report like that..."

The Security man watches as the stranger with the pass walks quickly along the pier towards the lighted buildings, talking incomprehensibly to an invisible companion. The pass was in order, best not to get involved. He watches the stranger drop the book, trip and kick it into the turgid water under the pier. There had been fireworks earlier, and something that could have been a last rocket, so distant that it could barely be seen in the dusk, moved across the sky....

windsong

Sep. 10th, 2011 01:01 pm
londonbard: walking tabby cat, (Tyger) (Default)
I will not trust the wind -
unless it tells,
of tiles blown from the roof
and ripping sails,
and driving rain
that may cause some distress -
and, OH! It's telling me
my hair's a mess!
londonbard: walking tabby cat, (Tyger) (cave)
Bye baby bunting, daddy's gone a hunting,
gone to fetch a rabbit skin,
to wrap his baby bunting in,

________________________________________________________________________


Foremother;


Let Nana drowse by the fire and dream,
Three hands of children she bore in her day,
watch the firelight flicker and gleam,
watch the wrinkled fingers play.

Nana it was who found the bone
the marmot's rib with the useful hole.
Nana it is who threads the gut,
to join the skins in the blanket roll.

Nana it was who caught the child
Nana it was who wrapped it warm,
Mother of mothers who keeps the cave
where now we hide from the summer storm.

Nana it was who found the earth
Ocre coloured in yellow and red,
Nana it was who mixed it - how?
So it colours the walls 'round the baby's bed.

Nana and daughters who worked the spells
That put the pictures upon the wall.
The bison stands and the horses run,
The fallen cow and the mammoth tall.

Mother of mothers and fathers too,
look at the hands outlined in smoke!
Look at the place where Granfer Urg,
Scrawled a snake as a childhood joke!

Look at the bison pierced with spears,
look at the place where the Leader falls,
That was the death of Granfer Reff
Whose bones lie under the painted walls.

Where do the newborn reindeer hide?
Where do the floods run after the snows?
What do we do when a child is sick?
Nana remembers and Nana knows.
londonbard: walking tabby cat, (Tyger) (Default)
Warning - Because Purple Doesn't Suit Me.


When I am an Old Woman I will haunt midnight

flitting though the internet and into strange places

and you may hear dry wings rustle though the empty chatrooms

Flicking against the windows of shadowed Myspace

and scraping claws across Facebook's closed cover.

I shall RPG in several fandoms,

bouncing my worn character between the dimensions,

and wearing vivid socks.


When I am an old woman I shall start blogging

and adopt fifty cyber dragons in lieu of felines,

and let them breed unchecked and take them walking,

flaunting multi-colour eggs as though they were prizes.

I will write doggerel and have friends in far countries

And a tank of fish that glow like jewels in sunlight.


But, now, I should attend meetings by day,

And mend my clothes and clean my shoes by night,

And budget for the power bills daily.

I must find somebody to put up curtains,

And only Google for a bargain freezer.


(And if you hear the flick of wings at midnight

I push back silvering hair - and laugh in secret.)

1980s

Sep. 21st, 2008 08:55 am
londonbard: walking tabby cat, (Tyger) (a getting there)
I am old now,

I remember the years of Mrs Thatcher.
Not just the 1980s, shoulder-pads and unemployment,
The bright hopes from the EEC of an end to sexism and racism.
I remember what they gave us instead.
I remember the people who died
when law failed in the inner cities.

I remember the ambulances that didn't come.
We called for help and they asked how old the person was.
Over 70, we said, hoping they would feel the urgency
of the grandmother laid helpless and the bleeding that would not stop.
(They had been told not to bother about people over 50,
and we did not know. Truly, we did not know.)

I remember "Community Care",
And the crazy neighbour who attacked me with a brick.
(She got out of the area, after the youths almost killed her.)
I remember the first rats,
creeping through the gardens at night
still thinking that the city gave no welcome.

I remember the riots then,
Brixton exploding into chrysanthemums of flame,
Tottenham a bouquet of horror, fireworks at a funeral.
Those who do not remember their past
are condemned to repeat it, condemning us with them.
I remember the Tories ...

http://www.presswatch.com/health/?d=2008-09-19#6

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