Rosco’s Autobiography

Rosco is writing his biography.

“Isn’t it a little premature?” I say. “After all, you’re only five years old.”

“Thirty five!” he shoots back.

“Oh, you’re using that old argument about one year in a cat’s life is equal to seven in a human’s.”

“Precisely.”

“But you’ve done nothing. You just sit around and eat and sleep.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

“That’s a bit harsh: biting the hand that feeds you.”

“If the shoe fits …”

“Have you written anything yet?”

“Not quite.”

“Not quite? Either you have or you haven’t.”

“I’m not sure how to begin. I’ve got a few openings.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.”

“Hang on,” I say. “That’s been done before.”

“Someone’s copied off me?”

“The other way around more like it.”

“How about: ‘Call Me Rosco.’”

“I think we need to have a talk,” I say, “about plagiarism.”

 

* have you begun writing your autobiography yet? what do you think you might call it?

* what’s one of the best autobiographies you’ve read?

 

Red

the prompt was to choose a color and make a three-line poem out of it:

 

There’s a traffic jam inside my head

thoughts blaring to be said

but the traffic light’s stuck on red

 

* can you choose a color and write a three-line poem, perhaps a haiku, on that color? have a go; post your poem in the comments section

Hydrotherapy haiku

Look at that jetty’s

knobbly knees wading out

into the sea

 

Please Don’t Call This Love

I’m not yr punching bag

Not yr piñata

So give me a break

what is it you are after

 

I’m not yr pincushion

Not yr whipping boy

so why are you so intent

on stifling my joy

 

Yr not my parole officer

you are not my judge

so don’t cross examine me

& please don’t call this love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rosco’s New Scratching Post

 

I’m not the only one putting on weight since self isolation.

Rosco’s been piling on the pounds.

He’s a real tubby tabby.

He’s worn out the old scratching post so we bought him a new one but it won’t do.

Are you kidding? he snaps. It’s too small.

You’re too big, I say.

That’s like the pot calling the kettle black, he returns.

That Rosco !

Just then he looks outside.

Just the thing, he announces.

We open the door.

Rosco barges out.

His new scratching post ! It’s big, it’s natural, the bark rips off.

He’s taken to it with a vengeance.

Rosco’s New Scratching Post

 

 

I’ve Had It Up To Here

I’ve had it up to here with Covid-19

I wash my hands and clean, clean, clean.

I’m scared of closeness.. Keep your distance, I say

and if someone gets too close, I run away.

Whatever you do, don’t cough, sputter or sneeze

anywhere near me, and, NO! do not wheeze.

I’m a bundle of nerves, all jangled and taut

and am scared of seeing anyone when I go for a walk.

If I self isolate anymore than I do

I’ll become lonely as an animal caged in a zoo.

So open up the stadiums, liberate the pubs.

I’m going a little crazy, rub-a-dub dub.

 

Studies after Dali

can you add a caption to this photograph or even the first sentence of a story? how about the next? get weird as you can 🙂

Chlorine

Did you hear the possums last night? Up in the roof? she says.

Sorry, I say, I didn’t.

It sounded like a stampede. Like a wild party.

Why weren’t we invited? I chuckle. Nah, I was asleep.

I forgot, she says. You sleep deep.

I had a dream, I say.

Now you’re sounding like Martin Luther King. What was yours?

I was swimming laps in the pool a week before lock-down. I was the only one there. I came out feeling exhausted but exhilarated. That’s when I came in to see you.

You better have a shower then, she says.

Why’s that?

You smell of chlorine.

 

* pic Chrissie-Kremer from Unsplash

 

 

Lucky

Penny has a new pet.

A Labrador called Lucky.

It’s what she always wanted.

Well, almost.

He sits, jumps and spins around

and chases after frisbees.

Penny takes him for long walks

on the screen.

When he’s tired Penny puts him to bed.

His kennel is a black microchip.

When Penny slips it in the game console

each morning

Lucky comes out to play.

He woofs with delight and rubs

his snowy head against the screen.

Penny would love to cuddle him.

 

• pic courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

 

Denim

He’d never noticed before

but since he was locked in

he looked up from his crimped

back yard

 

and saw it, the patch of blue

as a curtain of fleecy clouds parted:

cornflower blue, aqua blue

and later towards evening

a majestic midnight blue

 

& he looked up over the days

and week that followed,

noticing the interchanges:

teal blue, robin’s egg blue

& his favourite, denim blue

 

the colour of the stone-washed

jeans he wore as a young man

when he strode the byways

of the world, a king, & the sky

stayed denim all week