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 T- shirt isn’t dumb. It knows what’s coming. Soon as I get in the door, I let it rip.
What do you mean, lapping up all the praise? They’re my mates. I didn’t know you’d dominate the conversation. You were shameless.
I didn’t do a thing, the T – shirt says. I just sat there, on you, covering up your flab.
You could have been more inconspicuous.
Hey, you chose me. It’s not my fault you chose a loud T-shirt. And anyway, you know what they say?
If you’ve got it, flaunt it.
You certainly did that.
We look at each other in the mirror for a minute or two.
Anyhow, I say, I still like you. You look great.
Look at it this way, the T-shirt says, the next time you take me out, your mates will be over it. They’ll move onto you.
I guess you’re right, I say. We mustn’t get too precious.
Friends? Says the T-shirt.
Friends, I say and put my arms around myself, giving the T a good hug.
A writer disappears into his books.
It is a familiar story.
And a familiar paradox.
If a man does not disappear into his books
They will not be written.
A judicious voice says, a balance must be struck.
But we are talking Creativity.
It is in the same category as Love and War.
If a man is to write a million words
Then he must disappear into his books.
He will not always be available.
Marriages will strain, children be neglected.
A woman can disappear into her books too
But not as readily.
Maybe she is more tethered to the world.
Maybe that’s it.
Maybe I was too precious.
Maybe I should have had a thicker skin.
That way I wouldn’t have let the hurt in.
But then I wouldn’t have had that poem.
The equation holds.
Sometimes the best poems come from the deepest hurts.
But maybe I could have tried forgiveness too.
Chelsea spotted it in her comment.
‘Ha! Often that rail has a broken line’.
Maybe I had offended him. I’m not dim
But I am slow.
I should be building bridges. Not walls.
But then I would have had a different poem.
A more upbeat one.
I will try/
The phone rings.
Me: [chirpy] Oh Hi Lynne. Good to hear from you.
L: Oooops. Sorry, John. Didn’t mean to phone you. I pressed the wrong button.
Me: [shoulders slump] Don’t feel bad, Lynne. Most people who phone me don’t mean to.
Me: It’s alright. I’ll have a little weep in the broom closet and get over it. Until the next time, that is. But just don’t ask me ….
L: [sounding worried]. What?
L: Well are you?
I hang up.
This little red demon is driving me mad. Why? Because I can’t come up with a poem or flash fiction piece or even a caption to go with it. Can you? Would love to hear what you come up with. Please post your contribution in the comment column. It will be great to see the results. The little red demon will be pleased too
I was on the home stretch from the shops when it came on. I turned it up and pulled in the driveway but remembering the baby was probably asleep in the bedroom, I turned it down a little but not off. I stayed in the car as the music made me shudder, the windows vibrate, eyes closed for the occasion as Prince worked himself into a frenzy… It was the extended mix not the radio edit. How could you walk away from the 8 minute 41 second orgasm that is ‘Purple Rain’?