Contemplation height, p.1

  Contemplation Height, p.1

Contemplation Height

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Contemplation Height
Contemplation Height 


  Adam Elias Zain

  Copyright 2014 Adam Elias Zain

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any form or manner

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author

  To Mother and Father




  A Handful of Poems

  Sole Survivor


  My New Best Friend

  The Artist

  Anger Management

  Somerset Levels


  Another Day at the Office

  A Stroke of Luck

  She’s the Boss



  Sharing is caring


  There’s always room for a little poetry in anyone’s life. Many feel that poetry is not for them, but these people are wrong. I would argue that perhaps they’ve just not found the right kind of poetry to suit them. It’s all about taste, I guess. Some people like tea, others prefer coffee, others would choose orange juice.

  Poems are a bit like clothes; you don’t have to like everything sold in the shopping malls, but you will probably find something that floats your boat. And you’re (generally) not going to walk around naked. And there, just like clothes, everyone needs poetry.

  Except the nudists.


  A Handful of Poems

  Sole Survivor

  Amidst a destructive storm’s chaotic rush

  Hanging valiantly in a tranquil hush

  Dry and warm, in its skintight jacket

  If anyone can, the banana can hack it


  The lights are not working

  The staff are ill

  The electrics are off

  And trading is still

  The power is out

  The computers are broke

  The Internet is unavailable

  And tills have choked

  The phone lines are down

  There’s no customer rush

  The shopping mall is quiet

  An unfamiliar hush

  Everything is off

  Business has come to a stop

  So the boss took the time

  To give the floor a good mop

  There were no buyers today

  So he thought he’d make the most of it

  Maintaining a spring in his step

  Smiling, despite no profit

  But only moments later

  A discovery ticked him right off

  When he went to the fridge and found

  His lunch too had gone off

  My New Best Friend

  It started as an innocuous meeting

  Paula introduced us over cups of coffee

  I wasn’t interested but my friend insisted

  And what she showed me, admittedly, impressed me

  I attempted not to look moved or amazed

  I really didn’t want Paula to know

  When Paula asked what my opinion was

  I just replied that it was so-so

  Paula looked at me knowingly

  I was impressed with whom Paula had brought along

  But we moved on to talk about something else

  As I accidentally burnt my tongue

  That night, I lay awake in bed

  My mind was occupied elsewhere

  As my husband slept beside me

  The poor soul was completely unaware

  I secretly revisited Paula’s friend the next day

  Careful not to get caught as I knew this was wrong

  We sat hidden in a quiet corner of the restaurant

  Listening to the romantic background song

  Our coffee meetings became more and more frequent

  And soon enough, we started working together

  Then we could meet each and every single day

  And we spent many nights too, in the company of each other

  We even started going on holidays together

  Somehow still managing to keep things quiet

  My husband occasionally noticed my odd behaviour

  But I kept blaming menopause or my new diet

  Eventually I opened up to Paula

  She vowed such things happen in life

  I never once thought this would happen to me

  But apparently, such things are rife

  This was wrong, just plain wrong

  My secretive behaviour, satisfying my desires by stealth

  I know that over time, the youthful romance dies

  But I was not only cheating my husband, but also myself

  I was ashamed to admit it to my loving husband

  I had no idea what his reaction would be

  Twenty-two years of marriage, and three children

  What if he doesn’t want me? What if he abandons me?

  Shamefully, heart pounding, I told him about my new best friend

  The conversation was surreal and strange

  Thankfully, he confessed he too needed reading glasses

  All because age had made our reading vision change

  The Artist

  A wonderful painting

  An incredible sculpture

  Something artificial

  Something from nature

  Art has many forms

  But who is the artist?

  Is it the hand that produces?

  Or the mind that sees it?

  Anger Management

  He doesn’t look happy today

  Woke up on the wrong side of the bed

  He’s fuming, he’s angry

  That’s why he looks so red

  If you go anywhere near him

  You will feel a hell of a pain

  So it’s best to let him just be

  Until he’s calmed down again

  No need for anger management

  Just let time do its thing

  Soon enough he will come around

  And all will fall into normal swing

  What you have to understand

  And this is the crucially important lesson

  Is that an angry spot should never be popped

  It should just be left to lessen

  Somerset Levels

  Pouring down, chucking it down

  Flood levels rising on the ground

  Blistering winds, freezing cold

  Houses wrecked, just can’t hold

  People in wellies, protecting their goods

  Frantic panic, protecting livelihoods

  Helicopter view, will it be of any use?

  Is it worth fighting, or best to let loose?


  The rough look, unkempt.

  It works for some.

  The tidy well-groomed beard

  Works better for others.

  It’s something to rub or scratch

  When deep in thought,

  Or something to play with

  When sat in boredom.

  It’s something to accessorise

  If one is so inclined.

  It’s something practical and warm

  When weather is about.

  It changes colour with time

  Often making one look wiser.

  But if the colour appears ageing

  You can always change it back.

  It has multiple benefits and uses

  And it’s open to improvisation.

  But one thing it certainly is not

p; Is wickedly evil or concealing.

  So please, don’t be pogonophobic,

  Become a pogonophile.

  Accept it. Embrace it even!

  Love the gracious beard!

  Another Day at the Office

  The Wellbeing Officer asked

  What is the matter?

  Across the office

  Ceaseless chitter chatter

  All phones utilised

  Constant clitter clatter

  Flailing hand gestures

  Incessant nitter natter

  Reeling off the tongues

  Feverish jibber jabber

  Reporting to the bosses

  Grovelling blubber blabber

  Raining outside

  Persistent pitter patter

  The horrible workplace

  That is the bitter matter

  A Stroke of Luck

  Her speech is slurred

  Memory and recollection blurred

  Her pen fails to write

  Despite her mind’s continuing fight

  And just for a moment, she remembers

  And she gets a tingle in her fingers

  The memory remains for only the shortest while

  But brings with it a content, satisfied smile

  She’s the Boss

  The minute I think, ‘I like that’

  She says I can’t have it

  She does that each and every time

  Irrespective of how much I want it

  I thought of going to a restaurant

  A candle-lit romantic meal

  But she declines every time

  She no longer cares, I feel

  Ice cream in the summer

  I am never allowed any

  She denies me even that

  Despite everyone else having many

  An all-inclusive holiday I thought

  Just the break we need

  Knowing the answer will be ‘no’

  I didn’t care to plant the seed

  And when I looked at the new car

  She was already shaking her head

  It was quite simply just the price

  Not that it was the colour red

  And although the house was a perfect size

  And had a generous games area

  She wouldn’t entertain it at all

  And wasn’t open to the idea

  That classic suit, brilliantly made

  Perfectly fitted with a waistcoat

  I didn’t even bother convincing her

  Knowing the idea wouldn’t float

  The Swiss watch oozed with style

  And it instantly caught my eye

  But when I looked around to ask her

  I just decided not to try

  The minute I think, ‘I like that’

  She says I can’t have it

  As you know, I’m not talking about my wife

  I’m talking about my wallet


  Everyone forgot, and no one fed the rabbit

  Many didn’t even care to remember

  Colin would normally feed the rabbit

  But Colin’s time came sooner than expected

  The family are upset, and understandably in shock

  Struggling to come to terms with the sudden loss

  What does one say to the weeping bereaved?

  What precisely does one say?

  Some have a gift; they say the right things

  They pitch it perfectly, with a warm message

  They have a certain style, almost charismatic

  And it instantly soothes a grieving soul

  Others struggle to utter the words of their sorrow

  They struggle to enunciate their condolences

  The lump in their throat paralyses their tongue

  But their genuine affection is visible through their eyes

  Some people prefer to write of their feelings

  The pen allows them to say what the tongue cannot

  Their mere presence signifies their heartfelt sorrow

  And the pen helps deliver their sincere message

  Then there are those who struggle to express emotions

  They struggle to open up, irrespective of circumstances

  Neither tongue nor pen will convey their message

  And only they know of their true distress

  Others are unable to visit the bereaved

  Circumstances prevent them from being able to attend

  They almost have an unfortunate double adversity

  In the sad loss to the family and also their own absence

  Death; the only guarantee in life is indeed the end of it

  And the loss that results has to be lived with

  Support for the bereaved comes in many forms

  And prayers for the deceased can be delivered at any time

  For those familiar with Colin and the family, the loss is the same

  Expressed by speech or silence, in presence or absence

  There is no doubt a good man is always sorely missed

  By family, friends, neighbours, and the pet rabbit


  What a wondrous creation

  The mighty marshmallow

  The squidgy squishy

  Enjoyable edible pillow

  Pretty in pink

  Or the white delight

  Like a floating cloud

  So airy and light

  The satisfying sponge

  Gentle and smooth

  Just the thought

  Makes one groove

  Lightly dusted

  Powdered outside

  The contentment it brings

  Cannot be denied

  Stuff the mouth

  Gratifyingly chewy

  Enter the sticky centre

  Divinely gooey

  From the outside in

  An amazing transition

  Astonishing and profound

  An incredible sensation

  Message from Michael Jackson

  You’re a marvellous delight

  It doesn’t matter

  If you’re pink or white

  You’re so lovely to chew

  Adorable to swallow

  So, please, never change

  Oh sweet marshmallow


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  Thank you for reading Contemplation Height

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