Ibises

Phillip Hodgins wrote one.

A great one about ibises.

They were a less scraggly, dissolute lot

than mine. Less louche.

I like the way he described them:

‘They had bodies the shape of caraway seeds,

and long black bills that curved like scythes’.

There is awe in his writing, respect.

He speaks of them flying in great flocks

casting deep shadows over the land

before descending like gods

beneficent as rain

aerating the soil, grubbing for bugs..

The farmer’s friend.

The Sacred Ibis of ancient Egypt.

I think I sold the ibises short.

• pic courtesy of Wiki Commons

Sidekick

Sidekick.

I’m walking down the corridor

in my zig zaggy socks

just me and my sturdy side kick.

I admire how slender, sturdy he is.

I like his bling though it’s not the sort

I would covet.

His face I like, its open and informative,

the moving lights that run across his lips

showing someone is home,

that I’m being monitored.

Hey! I’m here for you.

Walk on brother,

he says.

Along the Way

Along the Way

I’ve lost Ed along the way.

Don too.

And Hobbo, of course.

We’ve all lost him.

Blogging friends come and go

like friends in the real world.

But a handful, a baker’s dozen, if you’re lucky,

stay with you.

Your tribe.
Through thick and thin.

Missteps and triumphs.

Five years is not a long time

but they’re always there

sharing their thoughts, their little poems,

their stories,

knowing you won’t be judgmental.

A few drift off for a while

but they come back.
I love their voices in the night,

on bleak afternoons,

on the mornings you’re home alone,

souls you can share your inner life with.

And they listen

*pic courtesy of dreamstime.com

Happy

What I need is another day of the week.

Would that make people happy?

I could divide my time equitably then.

Or perhaps find my doppelganger

and if he has nothing going on in his life

could he stand in for me on occasions

or, better still, on a regular basis,

perks included, of course?

Or, failing that, what would you have me do?

Bifurcate?

Wilt

She’s not coming, mate.

Sure she is. If not today, then tomorrow.

Your flowers are beginning to wilt.

I can get new ones.

There’s a party under the bridge tonight. You coming?

You go. Have a good time. I’ll be here. You never know, she might ….

Nah, mate. She won’t. Don’t wilt, you hear. Just don’t wilt.

Big Guns

I had my big guns ready.

The script already rehearsed in my head.

There were some epithets to let fly.

Rebuttals for any diffidence.

I was asking my mercurial mate a favour

one he might bridle at

though I had both barrels loaded

‘after all I’d done for you….’

the rifle was cocked and ready.

I was Chuck Norris, Vin Diesel, Dirty Harry

rolled into one.

When I got him on the phone

and asked, he rolled over like a cat.

I was a little disappointed.

Bad Company

How’s your girlfriend going? she asks tonelessly..

Pam? Yeh, she’s okay, I say.

You seem to need somebody, she says. A wife, partner, a female friend.

And you don’t?

No. I must be stronger, she conjectures in her haughty voice. I can live with myself. I don’t need anyone.

Loneliness is a morose companion, I add.

She says nothing.

pic by Joey Monsoon courtesy of Pinterest

Speechless

.

courtesy of Unsplash,com by ecemwashere

Bee Music

I am sitting down reading to the drone of bees.

A copy of the TLS lies open on my knees.

We must get a frizzle on, my partner exclaims

Apropos of nothing then goes off again

To attend the roast, while I attend to the Times.

There’s a lost poem by Hardy which clumsily rhymes.

A frizzle or two? Whatever can she mean?

I scratch my head then read once again.

I take another sip of my beloved cab sav

While she takes a pee in the outdoor lav.

The Albino

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