I love my community of bloggers.
I love them
Each and everyone.
There’s Hobbo, Beth,
Eden, the Don,
dear old Ed
& a Coyote name John.
There’s Chel. also,
a big fat can of worms
Little Charmer’s pithy poetry.
with her eyes of blue
her mystical poems
their music too.
Karen, of course,
her Yard Sale of Thoughts
teasing us with ruminations
her imagination has wrought.
Then there’s foresty Ulle
what can we say of him?
A man , sharply observant
with a taste for whim.
Then like a shooting star,
there’s our phantasmagoric friend:
David, jester and artificer
on a trip that will never end.
Not forgetting Jewish Young Professional
and Sarcastic Fringe Head
like my mum used to say,
you wouldn’t for quids be dead.
So to my fellow bloggers,
one and all,
each day spent with you
is a real cyber carnival.
So where are you?
In a galaxy far far away.
No. Where are you really?
Isn’t that where …?
Yes, where Billy Pilgrim went.
That time traveller from ‘Slaughterhouse Five’?
Yes, he went there on his days off.
His days off? From where?
Reality. Reality bites, you know.
But what if you never came back?
Like Hugh Conway in ‘Lost Horizons’? Dorothy in Oz ?
And Peter Pan in Neverland.?
Would it really matter? You’d be where you want to be. Would you even want to go back?
Have you a favourite fantasy place ? Which fantasy world would you live in if you could? What if you couldn’t come back?
My rubbish bin has lost its lid
& asks me what to do..
“How would you feel if your Id,
was exposed to full view?
All that rancour, all that passion,
the outright lies and fibs
You wouldn’t want someone peering in
the trashcan of yr Id.
And what if the rain should tumble down?”
“All right,” I say, “all right, don’t be such a squib,
I’ll phone the local council up.
You shall soon have your lid.”
Everyone should have their lid,
pleasant though firmly secured.
The Id is not a pleasant spot
& should not be long endured.
It always come down to this: Did he see it or did he not?
Warren goes to the Children’s Hospital to see his daughter who’s been run over by a car only he gets lost in the maze of corridors. He panics, opens doors at random, many without signs. That’s when he sees it, the thing in the cage. It’s humanoid, hairy,stands upright and rattles the iron bars. It looks him in the eye. A stricken, get-me-out-of-here look. Warren is horrified. What is it doing in this big white room? In a Children’s Hospital? Warren backs off, fumbles for the door handle, and races out, down the corridor, any corridor that leads to the light. What had he seen? Was it an experiment? Was it top secret? Had he seen something forbidden? He retches for air.
When he steadies himself, he goes back to Reception, makes sure of directions this time and finds his daughter. He does not say anything about what he has seen. He knows he has seen something he should not have seen. Or maybe he had seen nothing at all. Frenzied phantasmagoria. He keeps quiet. He talks to his daughter about home, about how she is, about when she is coming home. They talk and talk and talk and he holds her closely. .
I walked past that place today.
You know, the one we walked past last month with the nude couple canoodling in the front yard …
Well, they’re still at it.
Must have happened when the wind changed.
You know that old saying: if you screw your face up when the wind changes it will stay like that, Well, it could extend to the position you were in when …
What if you were ….Or even ….?
Don’t even think about it.
Could be a blessing or a curse then? Let’s look at that photograph again. I can’t think of a better position to be in when the wind changes.
Nor can I.
Don’t go morbid on me, I say.
It’s my mother coming out in you.
At least she walked it off.
Tap into your jocular vein.
Give your funny bone a bump so it knows it’s alive.
Look at yourself in the mirror. Pull a funny face.
No more ‘Hittites’. Too dark, gloomy.
And no, you’re not putting ‘Icy Innuendoes’ up for another run.
Don’t even think about it.
Lighter stuff. A bit of fluff,
Think Hobbo. Think Don.
With their clown hats on.
Away moroseness. Morbidity.
You’ll be the death of me.
He’s just heard the news. He slumps, decides to act breezily.
“I am getting a half -Van Gogh,” he says over the phone.
“A half -Van Gogh? What is that?”
“You know how Van Gogh lopped off his left ear after a fit of madness, or so it’s claimed?”
“Well, I’m getting half my left ear, the lobe lopped off.”
“Why? Why would you do that?”
“You said you would love me even if I had half my face missing.”
“I know but …”
photo by Jean Carlo Emer from Pinterest
It’s not my kryptonite
my Achilles’ Heel
but I know a man
who would rather risk
a heart attack
than give up black licorice
& bechamel sauce
but strips of licorice
& béchamel sauce on flathead,
flounder & blue grenadier.
Why black? I ask. Is it a racial thing?
No, he says. It’s sweeter,
has more of a kick.
But can you kick the habit, I ask.
No, he says. And if I tell the doctor,
he’ll tear strips off me.
Wine, I can understand. Coffee.
Mrs. Kipling’s Salted Caramel Slices
but black licorice?!
How do people end up with such strange addictions?