Jelly Cakes.
They were called jelly cakes and they melted in yr mouth.
Marge brought them for Ted’s birthday.
Baked them herself.
What a whizz.
They were cheery and cherry coloured like Xmas.
No need to scrabble around for words to describe the taste like you do for wine.
One word would do.
One syllable.
Yum.
Was watching 24 Hours in A & E
where this skater
tore down a flight of steps on his board
then crashing at the end
ending his chances of becoming
a pro
& I thought
we don’t take chances like that in our writing
not really
we don’t face broken bones, torn ligaments
or worse
we don’t face much
what’s the worst?
no one ‘likes’ our post, no one comments,
we put up a post that upsets a few people
it doesn’t get much worse than that
we don’t really risk much
but what if we did?
what would it look like?
what’s the riskiest post you’ve put up?
*pic courtesy of pinterest
The car next door has not moved all week.
It sits on the verge, desolate, forlorn.
I put a notice on the windscreen under the wipers.
“I’m bored. Please take me for a drive’.
The lopsided moon sniggers.
The next day I hear its engine rev.
And off it goes sprightly as a mountain goat up the hill.
Who says writing doesn’t work?
When it gets home a few hours later it looks buff, glowing like my hair when you rub
argan oil into it
You must sit like a ruler, the instructor says.
So I do. Back ramrod straight.
What are you doing? the instructor asks.
Sitting like a ruler, I reply. A steel ruler.
No, not that kind of ruler, he says. Like someone in control. A king or commander.
Like Genghis Khan? I say.
I hear a few rogue giggles.
No. More like the Dalai llama. Posture is important in yoga.
I relax a little.
It would be very tiring, after all, to go through life in the presence of others, back stiff as a steel ruler.
[pic courtesy of wikipedia]
When I was a kid I used to wander down the park and watch dragonflies flitter over the pond like tiny, restless angels.
Later I wanted to write poems about them the way Monet would go down to his garden at Giverny to paint water lilies.
The only difference is that water lilies stay still. They don’t dash and dart about the pond at 100 ks an hour. Even when they have sex they’re on the go, coupling like planes fuelling mid- flight.
I almost got one once when a dragonfly dawdled on the front doorknob one drowsy afternoon, after summer rains, then saw me and took off, its gossamer wings flashing rainbows.
Perhaps I should turn like Monet to waterlilies. He got 250 paintings out of them. I haven’t got one poem though I reckon I’ve made 250 trips. [ pic by loriedarlin on pinterest ]
This song comes on the radio.
It’s one I know but they’ve done something to it
it’s softer, whiter, drained of passion and angst, its southern origins.
It’s a cover of Lodi, the Creedence song.
They’re singing the lyrics but they’re not singing the song.
The chunky guitars are gone and it has a clarinet and acoustic guitar backing..
Come on.
There are good covers.
Think Ry Cooder’s cover of Elvis’s ‘Little Sister’,
the Soup Dragons cover of the Stones’ ‘I’m Free’
Amy Winehouse’s cover of the Zutons ‘Valerie’
but this cover’s a travesty.
Look what they’ve done to my song, mama.
Why would anyone bother?
This guy’s stuck in Lodi. He’s desperate but he’s given up.
He’s drained. It’s like the Eagles’ ‘Hotel California’,
Billy Joel’s Piano Man but you wouldn’t know it
hearing this pallid, weasel kneed version.
I know I shouldn’t get worked up. Hey, it’s only a song
but I’ve loved songs all my life; it’s my passion, more than poetry
but Hey! a good song is poetry
so I’m playing Creedence’s ‘Lodi’ to get me out of this funk.
*what are some of your favourite covers?
pic courtesy of Pinterest
Three nights of frazzled sleep
crammed into four hours on the couch
mellowed by malbec, merlot, mataro
an afternoon of tasting platters & wine samplings
at Penny’s Hill where black-faced sheep slumbered
under the oak; now you slumber so gently:
sweet Lethe has taken your troubles over the border;
you will awaken and forget
Today on my front doorstep a bundle,
tied in coloured string, wrapped in cellophane,
5 New Yorkers, a Paris Review and
two School Magazines with my poems in,
the Covid backlog I thought would never come.
It felt like all my Xmases had come at once,
enough binge reading to last me till the Big Day.
How was it, love? How was yr cuppa?
Dark and warm, thanks.
Dark and warm?
Yes, like a secret.
Love yr top.
You do?
Yes, it’s blue and fleecy. So soft and warm.
Like me?
Yes, like you, I reply.
And we cuddle like clouds.
pic courtesy of Pinterest by BuzzFeed
John Malone 