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Tag Archives: dreams

The Angry Song

Posted on September 3, 2012 by Meg Bignell

Not so long ago, I posted a poem called “Eat Your Dinner”. I noted in my blog comments that sometimes I sing angry songs to the children at such times as they don’t eat their dinner. A few people commented that they’d like to hear an angry song. Well be careful what you wish for people because here it is (I’ll let the song speak for itself – there are more than enough words within it to make up a post – some of them potentially offensive so be careful who is in earshot)…

(For some reason this takes ages to load up on my computer. Sorry if this is happening at your end too, I have posted it to You Tube as well in case that loads up better. You can find it at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFZtyPgFT7I&feature=youtu.be)

Oh and a disclaimer: This project was my silly idea, schmicked up by the talented goodsport Dan Hack at Sticky Horse Studio and then dulled back down again by my dodgy video work.

And just so you know that I’m not all that bad (all the time) here are the slightly rude-ish words I say in front of or to my children: balls, bum, shut up, arse (accidentally and occasionally), bollocks, bull, cock (once), crap, knob, twat, biatch, WTF, butt hole, bugger and shite. I don’t say fuck, arsehole, bastard, shit or that C word that WordPress would probably kick my arse for if I said it whole. I promise.

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PRECIOUS

Posted on February 28, 2012 by Meg Bignell

Remember those late summer days, with the hum

Of insects and shimmering heat and that sun

That low golden, ‘I’m in love’ sun?

Remember the songs we could hear in the trees,

The scent of hot grass and the warm salted breeze,

That thistledown-wish laden breeze?

Remember the lemonade smile on your face,

The knowing that we all belong in this place,

This dearly-held, storybook place?

Remember the stepping of cattle grids and

The stick of warm mulberry juice on our hands,

Our high swinging, finger-linked hands?

Remember the swings made for you – and the slide?

With love and the hope you might linger outside

Until housework is done stay outside.

I know that I shouted and wished you would grow

So I could stop work and just breathe and be slow,

Lie low, plateau and go slow.

But now I will sit on the old rusted swing,

And wonder how I can turn back everything,

Every precious and slippery-gone thing.

I don’t want the slow, I’d like some more fast

Some more of the hurry in our busy past,

That precious, that happy-skip past.

The insects still hum and the late light is gold,

But the breeze is now heavy with wishes grown cold,

A wistful and childgone-sad cold.

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In My Dreams

Posted on November 17, 2011 by Meg Bignell

I am going to write a book,

Design a fashion line,

I am going to study French,

Create a sparkling wine.

I’d really like to buy a horse

And learn to figure skate,

And oh I’d like to make a frame

From bits of broken plate.

I am going to learn to surf,

And grow a veggie patch,

Then I might see how I would do

In a boxing match.

I think I’ll do my masters

In something very smart,

And then I’ll wow the populace

With my inspiring art.

I’ll write and star in my own film,

And sew a patchwork quilt.

My house will be forever clean,

I’ll not know mother-guilt.

I will seduce my husband,

Every other day,

Home school my children,

Wax my legs

Take home enormous pay.

And oh I will be humble,

Likeable and kind.

I’ll master a souffle,

Raise money for the blind.

I’ll try to save the children,

And then maybe the whales,

I’ll hike the Himalayas.

Manicure my lawns and nails.

But first I’ll make that birthday cake,

And wipe that pooey bum,

And shit, I need to get the mail,

And telephone my mum.

Perhaps I’ll never do it all,

Who knows what comes between,

But in the end at least I know

I’ll always have my dreams.

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