Dash: a Haibun
Chuffed, I converted my grandson to black sapphires over pharmaceuticals to relieve blockage — I have it down to a fine art, I assure him —- I take an extra handful after breakfast that morning. And then:
O that sudden urge
dash ! a plenitude of pee —
don’t tell the grandson.
This is my country.
My home.
The place where I live.
I found it on the sidewalk after a storm.
What chance artistry put it there?
I wanted to go deeper into the incidental artistry.
This is the beautiful tangle that lies beneath.
The invisible weaver.
Book of Dots
I’m going to see sis today.
She’s in a nursing home.
I.m taking these coloured pencils to her.
The ones I took her last week weretoo light.
She likes intensecolours.
I notice I’m not separating words like Imusedto.
Do you notice it too?
Anyhow they’ve given her this book of dots.
All she has todo is join them to form obkects
like coffee cups, figtrees, stars, things like that.
Likeme — there are only two of us [ my twin died at childbirth]
she can’t draw, not even stick people.
She likes colouring in though. She likes intense colours.
While there, passing down the corridor, I’ll probably see my old mate Tony —- if
he has his head out of his quilt —- and I’ll bend down and let him ruffle my hair.
He likes that. I like it a bit too.
I never got into joining dots or colouring in things.
I had words.
They’ve stood by me.
Full House
We had a full house yesterday.
All seven of us.
First time in a month.
Numbers depleted through accidents and illness.
A full house at the pub for first drinks
then at Bocelli’s for big Italian dishes and ports.
We were all working once so Friday afternoons were special,
Now we’re all retired, they still are.
A full house is as pleasing as a full set of teeth.
O Winter
The sun is on sabbatical.
The honey eaters have all decamped to Bali
and taken the gardener with them.
The temperature keep plummeting like prospects of peace,
And the leaves have fits of shivering.
O winter..
Length
I used to be obsessed by length:, the longest bridge, the longest movie, the longest novel — to me, longueurs did not equate with length but could be found in the sleekest novel — but mostly the longest song.
Do you know what it is, the longest song, say, to top no 1 ?
If you are not an Aussie you may not know. The longest single to top the charts is Evie, Parts 1,2 & 3 though only the best radio stations played the three parts clocking in at 11.11 minutes. The English import Stevie Wright sang it [of Little Stevie and the Easy Beats]. A close second is Taylor Swift’s ‘All Too Well’ [10.13]. Don McLean’s ‘American Pie’ [8.42] and The Beatles’ ‘Hey Jude’ [7.21] are next.
I love these long songs,but I abhor radio edits. Respect !
What’s your favorite long song?
*pic by pinterest
Anne Pratchett’s father did not want her to be a writer. Even when she began getting stories published, he pooh poohed the idea. He wanted her to be a dental hygienist, someone who made real money. And, anyway, what she wrote wasn’t that good anyway, he decided.
That’s when she wrote this:
‘…. having someone who believed in my failure more than my success kept me alert. It made me fierce. Without ever meaning to, my father taught me at an early age to give up on the idea of approval. I wish I could bottle that freedom now, and give it to every young writer I meet, with an extra bottle for the women.’
[ ‘The New Yorker.’ October 5, 2020 ]
Take us, take us, ,they call from the racks .
How could you not love socks like these ?
They are colourful and quirky,
playful and peppy.
Make you jittery with joy.
Make you feel like dancing.
Out of the Blue.
A kid’s just given me a high five.
That gave me the lift I needed.
Lifted me from the grand funk I was in.
A high five.
Unasked for, Unexpected.
Go out into the world today.
Give someone a high five.
It’s less intrusive than a hug.
Make their day.
*pic by pinterest
Fast and Furious
I don’t know where I was when I wrote this or where it came from. I only know this is the way I want to write. Fast and Furious.
No Kangaroos.
No cops.
Just wind sideswiping
the car.
Someone’s high beam lasering yr eyes.
Booze in yr blood.
fire in yr heart.
the ghost of Paul Walker egging u on
fleeing like a fugitive
fleeing from yrself
John Malone 
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