IDFLAMA

When the hunter-gatherer's

Job is done

Be it at dawn's first light

Or setting sun

IDFLAMA

Action, reaction

It's all the same

What once was fun

Is now some cruel game

IDFLAMA 

Because nothing works

Like it should

Descending in to

Endless no-good

IDFLAMA 

Can't work out

My strange acronym

All the better then

My smile is grim

IDFLAMA 

Goodnight, god bless

Sweet dreams and more

IDFLAM

Anymore

Scrapheap Challenge

A crumpled, tattered, mix of parts
Tossed out in the sun
Drying, wilting, no escape
Till all the life is done

A random collection lies in sight
Discarded here and there
What was wanted seems no longer so
And no one seems to care

And the task ahead, to no surprise
To remould, recast, or just devise
A function, form, purpose or use
Through gritted teeth, or mild abuse
The protagonist's part played with ease
I'll antagonise, sure to displease
But scrapheap challenge is here to stay
With varying shades of my dismay

Cajole, laugh, work as a team

With just one goal in sight

Fashion something in demand

To everyone's delight

Or battle through it, fight each step

We'll take them all the same

For one thing's sure in this old town

It's the only game

And the task remains, to no surprise
To remould, recast, or just devise
A function, form, purpose or use
Through gritted teeth, or loud abuse
The protagonist's part played with ease
I'll antagonise, sure to displease
But scrapheap challenge is here to stay
With varying shades of my dismay

But before you sit and judge my words

There's something you should know

I was a scrapheap challenge

Just thirteen months ago

And the task ahead, to no surprise
Is through thick and thin to just survive
The function, form, daily abuse
That springs from chronic overuse 
The protagonist's part played with ease
I'll antagonise, sure to displease
But scrapheap challenge is here to stay
With varying shades of my dismay

Scrapheap challenge is here to stay

I've no further words to convey

Changeling

Woke up with a purpose

Weather matched my mood

Perfect day for a poem

Was all I could conclude

It's title came so easily

'Serving Sunday' rang loud and true

A description on a platter

Hopefully devoured by you

The who, what, when and where

My Sunday hours in verse

Every line, thought, desire and whim

In which I did immerse

Initially written out in draft

'Serving Sunday' came alive

But just before the final save

My day then ceased to strive

Did I jinx it, hex it, spoil it

Celebrating before the win

Took it all for truly granted

Without traversing thick and thin

Seemed like 'Serving Sunday' 

Wasn't giving in without a fight

No slowly drifting quietly away

Till moon dragged in the night

Pity 'Serving Sunday'

Didn't turn out like she might

But twisted in to a changeling 

With teeth sharpening her bite 

So now I stand here looking back

How the day simply escaped

Morphed in to, I don't know

But not Sunday-serving-shaped