My WP Friends: an Ode

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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.

Frissons





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?

Snail *

He is a hobo;

his worldly goods humped

upon his back





He is an athlete;

in the race to be slowest

he excels





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

all obstacles





in the kingdom of the small

he looms large.

He is a king!





*after reading Beth’s post ‘Slowing Down’

Heretical Beauty

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

Jojo Al-waealy

Your face, my friend, is a poem.

An ode to youth,

masculinity,

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

as well

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

More Lamb than Hedgehog

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.

the Red Wheelbarrow & Frankenstein

It’s the little things I love

Like watching

 ‘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

I loved

The funny little fat guy

And that’s where he came from,

Paterson, New Jersey.

The Woman in the Glove Box

20190812_104843

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?