Like Gustav

Which one is he, I say of the quartet by the river. Which one is Klimt?

Oh, he’s the one with the kaftan. He always wore one in public.

And I think, maybe that’s the answer, maybe if I wore a kaftan

everywhere I go people might take more notice, might say,

o, that’s the famous poet, he has a new book coming out.

And I could promenade along the jetty, frequent the famous kiosk

where all the trendy people go; and maybe go the full monty like Gustav

beneath his kaftan painting in his studio so he’d feel less constricted;

maybe that’d do the trick, maybe that’d free my poetry up

A Bit of Love

Some of my poems end up like this,

bashed, broken , bent beyond repair,

car wrecks,

the ones you don’t usually see

in the showroom

of my blog,

the ones abandoned in the junkyard

out the back,

but sometimes I remember a part that worked

when the rest of the poem didn’t

and I go down & look for it amongst

all that scrap metal

of words

misshapen phrases

 give it a polish, an oil change

a bit of love

& fit it into the poem I’m working on now

so the old gives vigor

to the new.

It works every time.

Two Pockets

Ever think about pockets? the post asked.

Whenever I buy clothes, I say, I always think pockets.

Doesn’t everyone?

Two pockets. Roomy, Capacious, Like the report said.

The top left for the wallet, the right for the mobile so I can whip it out like a gun from a holster and do a Covid Safe check-in.

.If someone buys me a shirt with no pockets I won’t wear it.

If someone buys me a shirt with one pocket, I might.

Sometimes you gotta compromise.

Trousers too. Two hands, Two pockets.

It doesn’t get much simpler than that.

I like to walk around sometimes with my hands in my pockets.

It helps me think.

I’ve got a dressing gown with one pocket. What am I supposed to do

with the other hand??

I’ve heard that shrouds have NO pockets.

I don’t intend dying anytime soon.

• google Roadtirement Blog for the post and video

The Worst Thing

“What’s the worst thing?” I was asked in my zoom workshop.

“The worst thing? What a writer can do? Let’s see.” I said. “The worst thing is being staid”.

I had to spell the word to make sure they got the right meaning.

“You know what ‘staid’ is?” I asked.

:Yes,” Tamara answered. “Unadventurous. Dull.”

“Correct. And you know where the word ‘staid’ comes from?”

There was silence.

“It’s the adjectival use for the past tense of ‘stay’ which is ‘stayed’ so the worst sin of a writer is being rigid, unadventurous, unchanging, unwilling to take risks, staying the same.”

I let that sink in.

“Living things evolve,” I said. “Let your writing evolve. Take risks. Don’t worry if some don’t take off. Others will hit their mark. But you don’t know if you don’t try.”

We took a short break … and we all came back a little different.

• do you agree? what do think the worst sin a writer can commit?

Green: a Prompt Poem

Green is gentle. Green is kind.

Green brings colour to the cheeks

of leaves and blades of grass.

In times of drought paddocks

dream of green.

Green is found in the fluoro vests

of rainbow lorikeets

and the glistening jade skins

of tree frogs.

Green is patient. Green is humble.

When colours line up for a group photograph

green is not pushy.

Green is content to stand in the middle.

You can always spot her

between flashy yellow and sombre blue

quietly smiling

fourth from the top.

• what is your favorite color? can you write some lines on it, say a miniature of 3 to 5 lines and post your poem in the comment section? would really love to see what you come up with;
• or if you prefer just leave a comment

The Poem Outside my Window

There’s a beautiful poem outside my window

a shrub two and a half metres tall

with coquettish purple flowers

and a little frost of throats.

There are other colours too

lavender and white

a trinity of colours.

It has a botanical name, of course,

though I much prefer its common name:

Yesterday. Today and Tomorrow.

I’ve written about it before but not like this,

Yesterday was our 215 th day with no community transmissions.

Today we have 20.

Tomorrow?

We watch the News Bulletins, updates from the Chief Medical Officer,

Blooms of anxiety.

Viral blooms.

You Hear a Noise

You hear a noise. It’s past midnight.

So what do you do?

You hop up, turn on a few lights, tramp down the passageway. open and close cupboards, bang doors, make a lot of noise.

Then you stop and listen.

There it is again.

Those bloody mice, you say, though you’ve seen no evidence of any.

It’s nothing, you decide, nothing. House noises.

You head back to the bedroom, turn off the lights.

Someone taps you on the shoulder.

Like Hummingbirds on Crack

D,H, Moore wrote

in 2014

that his thoughts buzzed around

‘like hummingbirds

on crack’

but I like to think

of

Wordsworth & his sister Dorothy

wandering aimlessly

as a cloud

through the fields

in 1804

& being seized

by the vision

of the ‘host of golden daffodils’.

my distractions sit

in between

plentiful & constant

as weather;

sooner or later one settles

like a hummingbird

on a flower

pic courtesy of Wiki Commons

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.

the T-Shirt Keeps its Cool

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?

What?

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.