This One’s for Ginge

celebrationx

 

I’ve just been informed it’s World Turtle Day.

As usual I’m a little slow off the mark

But I’m sticking my neck out now

writing a poem to Ginge

in his tiny turtle tank looking out at the world

I’ve been reading him some famous turtle poems
including Robert Lowells’ Waking in the Blue

but Ginge and I are shaking our heads:

the only turtle reference is ‘I strut in my turtle-necked

French sailor’s jersey’.

but the one by Mark Doty has a few really good lines:

‘a snapping turtle lumbered down the centre

of the asphalt like an ambulatory helmet’

Ginge liked that

I read him a few more but their meanings were slow

to emerge

Perhaps that’s the point.

I hope he likes this poem.

I’ve been working on this one all day but I still

haven’t got very far.

 

 

 

Will This Do?

IMG_20180320_132429

“Will this do?” you say to your stomach at three in the morning. “Can I go to bed now?”

“Just a minute,” your stomach says. “Have I had enough?”

I know what it’s thinking: too little, it’ll come back for more; too much it will churn out nightmares.

“Perhaps a little more?” says the stomach, looking up at me pleadingly like a cat.

“No,” you decide, “You can have more in the morning like normal stomachs do. Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Where do you think?”

And it follows you back to bed, shoulders a little slumped.

Okay. Well, that didn’t work

800px-A_glass_of_red_wine

I have a very bad feeling.

Tell me I’m wrong.

That I have written myself into obscurity.

That I was too clever by half.

That no one knew what the f*** I was writing about

in the previous post ‘Not a nightingale ode’.

It was a glass of red wine.

But that’s what happens when you put up a post

while you’ve been drinking

while you’ve been rhapsodizing about a glass

of red wine

In Which I Take the Goldfish to Task

20200513_085907

I go out the front to get something from the car when  a voice pipes up from the fishpond.

Hey! Where are the f*&*ing fish flakes?

It’s Goldie in her usual peremptory tone.

Mind the language, I say.

You taught us to alliterate, she snaps. You gotta love the ‘lit, you said.

I know, I say.

I got three ‘f”s out of that, she says.

You did well. It was just a little inappropriate, I say.

F**&&& the inappropriateness, she says. So where are the flakes?

Coming , I say.

That’s the trouble with having a literate family. They answer back.

While on the Subject of Udders

Cattle_feeding_on_pastures_at_Keernaun_-_panoramio

We were driving past cows full of paddocks when my friend

asked me whether I thought bulls considered cow udders

‘sexy’? I said I hadn’t given it much thought but added,

you don’t  see many pinups of naked cows on the sides

of barns or bulls wanking off to them thoughtfully

on sunny afternoons; unsatisfied we pulled over

and did a Google Search, typing in ‘do bulls …’ to which

suggestions came up, such as ‘do bulls hate red?’, ‘do bulls moo?’ ,

‘do they have horns?’ and then the big one: ‘do bulls find

cow udders sexy?’ to which Google replied, ‘no, it’s a human thing’.

and that was that till Denzel Curry’s cover of ‘Bulls on Parade’

came over the radio, and my friend started all over again

 

* pic courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

I Know a Little about Eagerness

person-beside-black-leather-heavy-bag-980437

Hey! when are we going to gym?

my muscle shirt calls out to me from the bag in the corner

where my gym shorts and sneakers also reside.

I know a little about eagerness, I reply.

I’m eager to finish ‘The Alps’, that short story by Colin Barrett which is why I’m at the laptop at six in the morning.

I’m eager to see the next episode of ‘Lego Masters’ — only 14 hours to go.

I can’t wait to get back to the pub with my mates

or go to the cinema again to see the live action Mulan, the new James Bond

so yes, I know a little about eagerness, I say.

Okay, okay, my gym clothes say, we didn’t want a sermon. A date would have done.

I get that, I say. Weeks, maybe a month. Can you guys hang on? I’m just as eager to get back as you: the punching bag, the weights, the lat pull down….

Okay, they say, shoulders a little slumped. Can you drive us past the gym, just to have a look ?

I can do that, I say, just soon as I finish this poem.

 

* the prompt for this was eswini’s ‘The Museum of Unnecessary Things’ on WordPress

Rosco’s Autobiography

pexels-photo-208984

Rosco is writing his biography.

“Isn’t it a little premature?” I say. “After all, you’re only five years old.”

“Thirty five!” he shoots back.

“Oh, you’re using that old argument about one year in a cat’s life is equal to seven in a human’s.”

“Precisely.”

“But you’ve done nothing. You just sit around and eat and sleep.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

“That’s a bit harsh: biting the hand that feeds you.”

“If the shoe fits …”

“Have you written anything yet?”

“Not quite.”

“Not quite? Either you have or you haven’t.”

“I’m not sure how to begin. I’ve got a few openings.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.”

“Hang on,” I say. “That’s been done before.”

“Someone’s copied off me?”

“The other way around more like it.”

“How about: ‘Call Me Rosco.’”

“I think we need to have a talk,” I say, “about plagiarism.”

 

* have you begun writing your autobiography yet? what do you think you might call it?

* what’s one of the best autobiographies you’ve read?