The Worst Thing

“What’s the worst thing?” I was asked in my zoom workshop.

“The worst thing? What a writer can do? Let’s see.” I said. “The worst thing is being staid”.

I had to spell the word to make sure they got the right meaning.

“You know what ‘staid’ is?” I asked.

:Yes,” Tamara answered. “Unadventurous. Dull.”

“Correct. And you know where the word ‘staid’ comes from?”

There was silence.

“It’s the adjectival use for the past tense of ‘stay’ which is ‘stayed’ so the worst sin of a writer is being rigid, unadventurous, unchanging, unwilling to take risks, staying the same.”

I let that sink in.

“Living things evolve,” I said. “Let your writing evolve. Take risks. Don’t worry if some don’t take off. Others will hit their mark. But you don’t know if you don’t try.”

We took a short break … and we all came back a little different.

• do you agree? what do think the worst sin a writer can commit?

A Skylarking Poem about a Belligerent Tree — or We’re All Allowed a Misfire now and then

I like to flex my muscles,

says the tree,

waving its branches

militantly,

I’m coming at you,

wait and see!

You’re on, I say,

just back from gym,

in an adrenaline

driven whim.

I’m going out

on a limb.

I engage it

in an arm wrestle.

Something snaps,

sadly droops.

Round one to me,

I whoop.

Green: a Prompt Poem

Green is gentle. Green is kind.

Green brings colour to the cheeks

of leaves and blades of grass.

In times of drought paddocks

dream of green.

Green is found in the fluoro vests

of rainbow lorikeets

and the glistening jade skins

of tree frogs.

Green is patient. Green is humble.

When colours line up for a group photograph

green is not pushy.

Green is content to stand in the middle.

You can always spot her

between flashy yellow and sombre blue

quietly smiling

fourth from the top.

• what is your favorite color? can you write some lines on it, say a miniature of 3 to 5 lines and post your poem in the comment section? would really love to see what you come up with;
• or if you prefer just leave a comment

Snail *

He is a hobo;

his worldly goods humped

upon his back

He is an athlete;

in the race to be slowest

he excels

He is Hansel

leaving a silvery trail to mark

where he has been

He is a bear

hibernating in the cave

of his shell

He is a tank,

tough, tenacious, passing over

all obstacles

in the kingdom of the small

he looms large.

He is a king!

*after reading Beth’s post ‘Slowing Down’

Since the Break-Up

I’ve been taking myself to the cinema again

watching brooding masterpieces like ‘The Dry,’

learning  to play Scrabble by myself but not too often

as I’m a bad loser; giving my self-esteem a face lift,

shed a few kilos, muscled up, become sharper;

I post more , comment more especially on posts

that comment on mine: the noble art of reciprocity;

but, most of all, I move more easily in the world.

have got to know myself more, and know in spite

of slurs like ‘nutcase’ and ‘creepy lizard’ I’m not

such a bad guy

Buddhist Fly

We drove to the Buddhist temple

At sunset.

A hot breeze blew in

From the north.

Clouds of insects rose

In reverence.

One, a fly, landed on my nose

And would not

Go away.

I gave it the good old Aussie salute *

A few times

To no avail,

Making me wonder whether

One should swat

A Buddhist fly

Or merely contemplate it?

The Buddha looked on.

• aussie salute = a brush of the hands to ward off bush flies
• pic courtesy of Pexels.com by Daniela Ruiz

Maybe it was Me

Maybe it was me

maybe it was her

it was some time ago

a bit of a blur

We both grabbed it greedily

we held it for a while

life lowered its fangs

put on a smile

But she had her demons

I had my ways

we were on different pages

in different plays

Maybe it was me

maybe it was her

it was some time ago

al a bit of a blur

Berating a Barramundi

We were talking about Milly, Bev’s cat

who had just butchered a baby blackbird

when Rob went feral.

I have never liked cats, he said. They should be locked up. Murderers all.

Go easy, I said. You ever eat at a restaurant?

Of course, he said.

Ever ordered a barramundi?

Often.

Ever sent it back because it was too fishy?

No, of course not.

Well, I said, you may as well berate a barramundi

for being a fish

as to castigate a cat

for being feline.

Don’t Throw Away Yr Old Stuff

Don’t throw away your old stuff.

You will never have enough

new material to work with;

writing can be tough.

Put away your frail and flaccid.

put it in a book.

And in an idle moment, open it,

lighten up, have a look.

Give it iron, backbone,

a new voice, beat

find it a new form.

Let the old be reborn.

Everything will have its place.

Everything its time

the giddy, garrulous, the gruff.

Don’t throw away your old stuff..

Dragonflies: a Quartet

the Maserati of the insect world

they leap from dawdle to dash

in one second flat

at one moment hovering helicopters

the next fighter planes

daredevil pilots at the controls

coupling in mid-air as if refuelling

how do they do it?

sex on the run

& here comes junior, red-headed

as a matchstick, parents in tow,

learning the ropes