I love my community of bloggers.
I love them
Each and everyone.
There’s Hobbo, Beth,
Eden, the Don,
dear old Ed
& a Coyote name John.
There’s Chel. also,
a big fat can of worms
Little Charmer’s pithy poetry.
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.
You feel a frisson when you hop in the bath—
or hear your grandson’s multi-coloured laugh.
It’s rain on a tin roof: a tinkling xylophone
or dancing to Robyn’s ‘Dancing On My Own’
A frisson is what you get when you ride the ghost train
Or rush out wheeling in the sudden summer rain
Or whenever an idea hits you high in the brain.
Frissons almost always go against the grain.
It’s the feeling you get when you take a big chance
And it pays off big time; or in a romance.
It’s the feeling you aim for when you write a poem.
Frissons are what keep the readers turned on.
*where do you get your frissons?
He is a hobo;
his worldly goods humped
upon his back
He is an athlete;
in the race to be slowest
He is Hansel
leaving a silvery trail to mark
where he has been
He is a bear
hibernating in the cave
of his shell
He is a tank,
tough, tenacious, passing over
in the kingdom of the small
he looms large.
He is a king!
after reading Beth’s post ‘Slowing Down’
No one in their right mind while wandering
lonely as a cloud would proclaim they had spied
a host of scrawny weeds upon the hillside
and break into a jig. Yet weeds have their worshipers.
You can scour the internet and dig up poems,
odes to weeds, panegyrics. They are the bones
of the earth. Wordsworth got in first, that’s all.
But his daffy little poem is not the last word.
The weeds will rise up, their heretical, skewed beauty,
tough as barbed-wire, will find its bards.
Your face, my friend, is a poem.
An ode to youth,
not the toxic kind
but the Howard Keel kind
of Seven Brides & Seven Brothers
cocky, confident, wholesome.
I bet you have a brawny baritone too,
can hold a song
in any amateur musical;
I bet there’s a bit of the buffoon about you
that swaggery moustache
that raucous smile;
it’s not a bad dial
to go through life with
the poetry is pretty good too. Visit JOJO by googling JOJO AL-WAEALY and his blog comes up
My mentor told me how to write a poem about slippers. Make it easy, he said. comfortable and cozy, warm, no prickly bits. More lamb than hedgehog.
I had a girlfriend once who forbade me to wear slippers: ‘Next thing I know”, she said, ‘You’ll be wearing a dressing gown, reading cozy murder mysteries and shuffling around the house like an old man.”
My dogs when they were puppies took a violent dislike to slippers, tearing them apart with a vitriolic zeal of which my girlfriend would have approved. For years I walked around the house in loafers until the puppies grew up and out of their habit.
Whenever I hear Bing Crosby sing White Christmas over the PA system in his hush puppy voice I think of slippers. Slippers are like bean bags for the feet.When you slump into them they have the feel of home.
It’s the little things I love
‘Paterson’, the movie
About the bus driver
Who wrote his little epiphanies in his note book
like William Carlos Williams
the doctor who wrote
the red wheelbarrow
And finding out
That’s where Lou Costello grew up,
Paterson, New Jersey
There’s even a park named after him,
Lou Costello the chubby comedian who played alongside Bud Abbot,
The straight guy.
I used to watch those guys in the funhouse
Of the fifties,
Frolicking with Frankenstein and The Wolf man.
But it was Lou Costello
The funny little fat guy
And that’s where he came from,
Paterson, New Jersey.
the voluptuous girth
yr full mouth
tiny tiny waist
between forefinger and thumb
yr long tapering body
of yr beauty
of yr full-bodied flavours
It is time to bring out the woman in the glove box again.
There are no gloves in there.
But there is Olive,
Quirky , off-kilter as this blog which is perhaps why I like her.
I like her feistiness too,
How she tells her husband,
“Stop shouting! Do you think that makes you a man?”
“All men need to be told this,” my partner tells me
Who likes Olive too.
She is getting the new book, the sequel, when it comes out.
But she is not like Olive.
Olive has a big personality and is not backward in coming forward,
As my mother used to say.
She is curious but curiously vulnerable.
She is the engine of the novel, the fuel, the vehicle
That takes you there.
She waits in the glove box like a car in a garage.
have you a favourite fictional character?
* what do you admire in them?