pic courtesy of Pinterest
When my writing ‘seizes up’ like my laptop
when it gets too stiff, formal, clunky
I call in my little imp
that firecracker of mischief
to get in amongst the words
like a dog
amongst the sheep
to shake them out of their torpor,
their locked in state,
nip a few ankles if necessary
give them the run-around
so everything’s loosened, wide awake,
I can call him off
& when the dust settles the poem settles too
into something like
relaxed, loose, easy.
So these pigeons wing in from the wild sky,
their coats a rainbow sheen, but when the sun goes in,
they’re all drab, all except one, a pretty little albino,,
white as the Taj Mahal, and when they descend
on the grass patch near the footbridge, and start pecking away,
happy as diners in a food court, you can just tell
these guys all hang out together, weekends, whenever,
them and their albino mate and I ask Daz, ‘cause he knows
everything, why we can’t do that, Daz, coloureds and whites,
one happy family and he says because we’re not pigeons, that’s why.
*pic courtesy of Rodolfo Clix on pexels.com
I thought of the times I had fallen short.
Let the side down.
Not been up to scratch.
Been urged to pull my socks up,
My finger out
Take a good hard look at myself.
That I was always a few kangaroos short
Of a full paddock
a stubby short of a six pack
but I didn’t give a rats
I had the hide of an elephant
- thanks to K L Hale’s www,flannelwithfaith
I came across a stricken Xmas beetle on my walk along the lake.
Somehow it had toppled over and was swivelling on its back like a break dancer, its little legs paddling the air.
Ants swarmed over it,
I grabbed a leaf and flipped the beetle over.
Ants leapt off, a black sizzle of anger..
I flipped it a few more times till all the ants had let go, then I stood back and as it rose into the air. the sun glinting off its sheeny wings, it looked back and seemed to give a little wave.
*pic courtesy of Wiki Commons