I Do My Best Work in Bed

I do my best work in bed, she said.

I do my best work in bed.

When all is said and done,

I do my best work in bed.





Scurry beneath the covers,

pull the sheet up over my head.

I do my best work in bed, she said.

I do my best work in bed.





It’s where my magic garden is,

my fantastic flower bed

where poems and images blossom

& music plays in my head.





Some think better sitting up,

but I’m too easily misled.

I do my best work in bed, she said.

I do my best work in bed.

  • pic by Pinterest
  • * have you a special place where you find inspiration?

The Perfect Tea Spoon

It is the perfect tea spoon

small

slender

stubby handled

like the pen

I write with

snug as a haiku

in my hand

ready to stir

the sullen brew

to life

  • have you a special piece of cutlery or a small everyday item that is dear to you?

How Does That Work?

My mind is a scold.

It calls me sloth,

a lassitudinous layabout.

Is that even a word, I say?

Get off the couch, it says. It’s early afternoon

Attend to your blog.

Your Yorkshire mate puts up three posts

to your one.

Write that poem about airing the sheets.

How they purr like cats as they are stroked

by the sun.

Re-read that article :

‘Should Leopards Be Paid For Their Spots’.

Phone your daughters.

Go see your sister.

Give people their worth.

Go to gym.

Release your inner Thor.

Okay, okay, I grumble

but, in truth, I’m happier

and have loads more energy

when I’m buzzing around

like a gingery bee.

How does that work?

Pyramid Beach


All along the foreshore they stretch
brown clumps of seaweed
shoulder high
like Van Gogh haystacks
harvested by the sea;
overnight they sprang up,
these dense, damp mounds,
these camel humps,
little Ulurus,
flat top pyramids
for children to run up
and down on;
I stand on one
like a statue on a plinth,
fold one arm on my shoulder
like Lord Nelson
and gaze fixedly out to sea


* pic courtesy of pexels.com by Lachlan Ross
 

The Loves of My Life


 
I love
Peroni pint glasses
Ohio
Blue Tip Matches
& the waifs of light
the sky at sunset snatches
 
I love a cutting comment
but not at my expense
I love Jabberwocky
though it doesn’t make
much sense
 
I love the nonchalance
of cats
who’ve mastered
the art
of just getting on with it
& not giving a fart
 
I love the lilt & lift
of ‘a brown-eyed girl’,
the ballet of a kite
& how we enter
the world
in a rush of light.
 
*what things do you love?

If you go looking for me

If you go looking for me sometime after dark

I’m out with my flashlight, hunting for a snark,

a perfect metaphor for an imperfect poem

so I can bag it briskly and bring it home,

a perfect metaphor, so rare and so apt

that captures the mood, the Magnificat

of the vision splendid I hope to impart,

the perfect, perfect metaphor somewhere in the dark.

Love on the Wing

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 ]

Shambala

Shambala
 
I like to stand beneath the stars
on the road to Shambala
wild, dishevelled, totally free
pissing ‘neath the lemon tree.
 
There is no more pleasing sound
than someone piddling on the ground,
wide eyed, loose, totally free
like a surfer in the sea.
 
I held a star in my hand
Immediately I could understand
how beautiful you truly are.
on the path to Shambala.