Denim

blue

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

 

 

the Great, Big, Uproarious Laugh

index

It’s still dark outside but my brain’s awake so I drift down to the study.

I hop onto the computer.

That’s when I read it, Shelley’s comment on my post about that sign in the gym: ‘

20200216_114014

Shelley said: ‘Noooooo. Not the sacred apostrophe being misused!’

That’s when I burst out laughing.

“Can you tone it down, please? You sound a bit manic.”

It’s the voice of common sense coming from the bedroom.

“I’m sorry,” I say. ”It’s so hilarious”.

“It’s not even 5 o’clock, “she says. “You’ll wake the neighbours.”

“Would it be better if I hold back till seven?” I ask. “Would that work?”

“Yes,” says the voice of reason.

So that’s what I do. I go back to bed, set the alarm and let it rip at seven, a great big uproarious laugh. It feels cathartic like a colonic cleanse.

I wish Shelly could have heard it..

She’s right though, the voice of reason.

It’s all a matter of timing.

 

  • when’s the last time you had a really good laugh — or a colonic cleanse?

 

If I Sleep In *

1 AOqIfJZqy34IdO2romiT9QI am learning the pleasures of sleeping in

Not leaping up at the first bounce of whimsy

Things can wait.

The Mad Hatter will still have his ball.

Blades of grass still grow tall

If I sleep in.

There will always be another train pulling in at the station.

Things will not be rationed any more or less

If I rest.

Wendy will still be in Neverland

& I can still hold your hand a little longer

If I lie in.

Dreams will not evaporate.

We can still meet each other at the gate.

Beneficence flow free.

I will still be me,

The lambs still bleat.

If I sleep

in

 

* with thanks to Chelsea who saved it & David R who inspired it

 

My First Daft

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I always call it ‘my first daft’ because I let the ideas roll recklessly out of my mind onto the page. No censoring, no editing. That comes later. That comes at the draft stage. For the moment what you have before you, were you to read it, is ‘daffy’, it makes little or no sense. It is amorphous writing. This little piece began amorphously, no punctuation, grammar awry, phrases all jumbled like a Rubik’s Cube before it is solved. If you’re in a hurry, if the ideas are rushing past, then daft writing is the way to go.

Costa or the Piqued Poet

golden-runner-2

Halfway through my walk I’ve got this poem in my head.

I’ve got to write it down.

I pick up pace, race through the Brickworks Market. Someone, surely ….

A stall owner looks up as I go past.

You got a pen and paper? I ask. I’ve got this poem here — [pointing to my head] — I got to write down.

Sure, he says, do I get my biro back?

Of course, I say. Do I get to keep the paper?

He gives a feeble smile.

What’s yr name? I say. Yr first name? I’ll dedicate the poem to you.

What human being wouldn’t be impressed by this grand gesture?

Costa, he says in a deadpan voice.

Just then his mobile rings.

It’s his girlfriend.

He’s yabbering on what they’ll get up to tonight while I’m furiously writing. It’s hard to stay focused.

Some of what he says gets in the poem.

He keeps adjusting his crotch.

That gets in the poem too.

Then sensing the monologue winding down I stagger to the end of the poem like a runner over the finishing line.

Here, I say. I’m done,

I’m hoping he’ll ask for a copy or at least a read.

But Costa isn’t interested.

He only wants his biro back.

No hard feelings, I say. This poem’s still dedicated to you.

And I write his name, Costa, above it in bold letters with a flourish.

But I needn’t have bothered.

The poem was crap.

 

* the photo prompt was the running man

 

The Return of the Native

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.So what’s your story? You’ve been out all day, painting the town red at night, for all we know, and just when we’ve locked up and getting ready to go out, you rock up! Nice one! I know what you want. I know what you’re after. So, what’s your story, eh? She looks up at him with her mock-innocent amber eyes, but the cat has nothing to say.