Whenever the bowl
is boring, bland, stale , stodgy.
I bring out
the sultanas,
those frisky little pellets
of goodness,
that add
zest and zing
to cereal
that put the sing
in snap, crackle, ‘n’ pop
nifty little metaphors for writing
that needs an uplift
a whiff of lightness.
that needs to find its funny bone.
open up its Id,
roll like a dog
in
the muck and merriment
of language
I wonder if spiders
in their webs
at night
spin poems
‘bout me & you
nattering away in the moonlight
in neat little haiku
you with your cigs
me with my brew
of jasmine tea
spinning our memories
wishes
of how things might be
or would they instead
taking a jaundiced view
spin snarky little
senryu
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,
shifted,
moving again
then ,
I can call him off
& when the dust settles the poem settles too
into something like
normalcy
relaxed, loose, easy.
Those rosemary & garlic sausages
we bought
to ‘beef up’ the barbie
in case the eye fillets weren’t enough
were beginning
to stink out the fridge:
‘the beasts revenge’ ;
so when we took them to your place and you declared
your barbie was ‘lamb intolerant’
we hit a snag
so when I said, I’m going to have to put them in your fridge
I thought you would say,
my fridge is ‘lamb intolerant’
but you never did;
in spite of those setbacks
we had a pretty good evening
though when we left we forgot to take home
the snags
so we hope you enjoy them
in one form or another
and no, we do not need them back
You’re in for a treat, I say.
We’re off to see Arthur.
My toes do a little tap dance on the floorboards.
Come on, you two. Mustn’t be late.
We hop in the car and we’re off.
Thirty minutes in the Waiting Room
then the call.
The doorman lets us in.
Arthur bounces up to us.
Cheerful. Chubby. Cherubic.
Have a seat, he says to my toes
resting my feet on a pouf.
30 seconds one foot.
3o seconds the other.
Done and dusted.
All over red rover.
It’s a tough job,
but someone has to do it.
he says, chirpy as a cherry.
See you in six months.
My toes do a little dance
on the way out.
You are furry like a dog
sit at my feet like a dog
follow me around like a dog
always under my feet
but you don’t woof.
You are my slippers,
a handsome, friendly pair.
My ex never liked you.
She said I’d be wearing
a dressing gown next,
smoking a pipe,
reading cozy murder mysteries
in front of a log fire
but now it’s just you & me.
You often hear the phrase
‘let me slip into something
more comfortable’
as a prelude to sex
in steamy novels
but comfortable to me
means something else.
You can’t get into much trouble
wearing yr furry friends.
The Kings of Leon could still use somebody, Caleb sings in his Kurt Cobain voice
& the Kurdish Freedom Fighter comes on too strong to Lynne, wanting to whisk her away with his Hindu Kush eyes
& the woman with the Mastiff shoulders walks past in her low cut dress
& sniggering sneer
& Des starts knock knock knocking on Heaven’s Door again because he knows we’re all here and I tell him to get back in his box coz you’re in the undiscovered country from whose bourne .. well, you know the rest
while Ruth limps off to the Ladies and Ted calls after her, that’s the best part of you gone,
and Sirocco knocks over his second glass of red on the white table cloth and Jarrod frowns and Gerry rushes over
and Max is cuddling Peter in the corner and the mulberry mutt mourns for its owner outside the window
& I’m talking much too loud but I’m in my cups And I tell the funny story about the pony walking into a bar again and I won’t be put down like a mad dog
& an officer from the penitentiary phones and says, no, Ades cannot be let out because it’s a Friday night
& we’re going round and round like skid marks on tarmac
& it’s just another Friday night in Paradise
The sun peeps behind a cloud
I hope it is not too loud
The swallows doze in the trees
I’m in dreams up to my shiny knees
tweedledum and tweedledee
the honey-eater swings on the trapeze
of the scrawny twig
& I have another swig
of ambrosia lite
and this poem is shining much too bright
unmoored again I chase links
but my cottontail heart shrinks
I love my community of bloggers.
They’re fun.
I love them
Each and everyone.
There’s Hobbo, Beth,
Eden, the Don,
dear old Ed
& a Coyote name John.
There’s Chel. also,
formerly Chelsea,
a big fat can of worms
Little Charmer’s pithy poetry.
There’s eob2
with her eyes of blue
her mystical poems
their music too.
Karen, of course,
her Yard Sale of Thoughts
teasing us with ruminations
her imagination has wrought.
Then there’s foresty Ulle
what can we say of him?
A man , sharply observant
with a taste for whim.
Then like a shooting star,
there’s our phantasmagoric friend:
David, jester and artificer
on a trip that will never end.
Not forgetting Jewish Young Professional
and Sarcastic Fringe Head
like my mum used to say,
you wouldn’t for quids be dead.
So to my fellow bloggers,
one and all,
each day spent with you
is a real cyber carnival.
