the Great, Big, Uproarious Laugh


It’s still dark outside but my brain’s awake so I drift down to the study.

I hop onto the computer.

That’s when I read it, Shelley’s comment on my post about that sign in the gym: ‘


Shelley said: ‘Noooooo. Not the sacred apostrophe being misused!’

That’s when I burst out laughing.

“Can you tone it down, please? You sound a bit manic.”

It’s the voice of common sense coming from the bedroom.

“I’m sorry,” I say. ”It’s so hilarious”.

“It’s not even 5 o’clock, “she says. “You’ll wake the neighbours.”

“Would it be better if I hold back till seven?” I ask. “Would that work?”

“Yes,” says the voice of reason.

So that’s what I do. I go back to bed, set the alarm and let it rip at seven, a great big uproarious laugh. It feels cathartic like a colonic cleanse.

I wish Shelly could have heard it..

She’s right though, the voice of reason.

It’s all a matter of timing.


  • when’s the last time you had a really good laugh — or a colonic cleanse?


Scratching His Cerebrals


What are you doing? I asked.

Scratching my cerebrals, uncle would answer studying the crossword before him, his right hand deftly scratching his scalp, between loose strands of sandy hair, as though he had nits.

It seemed to work. The more furious he scratched, the better he got, the crossword soon solved.

Then uncle would go out in the garden and within a short space of time, as aunty used to say, he’d be ‘off with the fairies’.

Perhaps the two activities were allied.

Perhaps I caught it from uncle but whenever I work on a poem or a piece of stubborn flash fiction, I scratch my cerebrals too.

My partner caught me at it one morning.

Stop it, you’ll go blind, she says.

We both chuckle.

It’s good to make light of things then go back to scratching your cerebrals should things become difficult.


  • picture courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Love Song of the Garbage Truck


Come to me, says the garbage truck to his love,

Waiting on the edge of the road for him,

You’re late, she says, looking at her watch.

I’ve been here since early morning.

Never mind, he says. It’ll be worth it

Grabbing her firmly around the waist,

Clutching her with his cold metallic hands,

You could have warmed them first, she says

Never mind the temperature, feel the grip,

he answers. Come into these loving arms,

Closer, closer,

Now. Doesn’t that feel good?

Wasn’t that worth the wait?

I bet you say that to all the bins, she says

As he gently places her back on the sidewalk.

See you next Thursday, he calls back.

Getting my Mojo Back


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.

If I Sleep In *

1 AOqIfJZqy34IdO2romiT9QI am learning the pleasures of sleeping in

Not leaping up at the first bounce of whimsy

Things can wait.

The Mad Hatter will still have his ball.

Blades of grass still grow tall

If I sleep in.

There will always be another train pulling in at the station.

Things will not be rationed any more or less

If I rest.

Wendy will still be in Neverland

& I can still hold your hand a little longer

If I lie in.

Dreams will not evaporate.

We can still meet each other at the gate.

Beneficence flow free.

I will still be me,

The lambs still bleat.

If I sleep



* with thanks to Chelsea who saved it & David R who inspired it


the Color of Hope


I show him my little book of poems.

Hey, it looks good, he says. Can I hold it? Can I have a look?

I can do better than that. I’ll give you a copy.


Sure, you’re a mate. Have a read. Tell me what you think.

Gee, thanks.

You don’t have to read them now.

It’s not a big book. It’s only 24 pages. Why, so short?

It’s a chap book, I tell him.

What’s that when it’s home?

A mini collection on one topic or theme, I say.

So what’s the topic?

Hope, I say. Like the title.

Why are the pages blue?

Remember the blue berets worn by the United Nations peacekeepers?


Well, blue’s the color of Hope. The poems are upbeat, funny, cool like me.

He smiles.

I’ll have a good read at home, he says, and get back to you.