I wish there were a place called Mojos
Where you could go to replenish
Your creative juices, to kick start that poem
Or story that won’t budge, where, in short,
You could go to get your mojo back
Should you lose it, and then I find there is!!!
It’s just around the corner, down the road a piece,
where ‘it’s local and foreign, hard and soft,
obscure and obvious, friendly and furious’
& it’s open ‘seventeen days a week’! I just knew
There had to be a place like that, a place like ‘Cheers’
But where creatives go. I just hope they still run
flights there, and I can get in.
The poems whiz past like buses ‘Not in Service’.
There is no time table.
No bus shelter.
Only a sign saying, ‘Bus Stop 29’..
Anywhere is good as anywhere else.
That’s what Raymond Carver meant when he said:
Be At Your Station.
Be alert, open.
The deus ex machina will come.
Still, I’ve been waiting here for the last twenty minutes
With the girl with incarnadine hair.
It will be good if the poem or bus pulls up anytime soon.
And another thing …. What does it matter if you wear your hat inside?
My mate got told off by our host just for doing that. And my mate said, at least I don’t go around putting my feet on people’s poufs or coffee tables, having a dig at me.
Our host looked at both of us wondering what a pair of turkeys he had got in.
are manners truly arbitrary? which behaviours/ manners do you think are worth keeping?
Creativity is a terrible thing,
When it gets you in its clutches.
It won’t let you sleep, rest.
It jerks you awake,
Kicks you out of bed,
And before you know it
You’re at the keyboard
At 3 a.m.
Belting out a poem
Belting through the bleariness
To get it down
Then head back to bed
Where it starts again
The brain twitch, the jerk,
The plummet into wakefulness.
You don’t even make a living out of it
But it’s the way you’re living
The gift, equal curse
But when that sweet chariot swoops you up,
Oh the rush, the voltage,
You’d trade your grandmother for it
Were she still around.
Who would do that?
Put a dead pigeon in yr rubbish bin?
If it was good enough
To put in my bin
Why wasn’t it good enough
To put in theirs?
O the stink,
The weight of it!
I shovelled it out of the bin
And tossed it,
Neck all crumpled,
Into the far right hand corner of the garden
Where it could decay
Among the cluster of leaves.
The only good thing is
It’s given me something rancorous
To write about.
have you had any incidents with neighbors or strangers re your rubbish bins?
Someone once said to me, Expect the Unexpected.
It seemed daring at the time so I took it on board.
The only problem was because I expected the Unexpected all the time I wasn’t really surprised when it happened.
It was expected, right?
Life was losing its surprise factor.
I felt heavy as a watermelon.
My counsellor suggested — wait for it — Expect only the Expected.
So I do,
When the Unexpected happens I light up like a lantern
twinkle like a star.
It wasn’t expected, right?
I am staring down the barrels of
the red pencil sharpener
big as drainpipes
fat as full moons
flared like the nostrils
O-shaped mouths hungry
The red pencil sharpener sharpens