Tethered

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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.

Too Precious

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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 Broom Closet

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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.

L: Oh.

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?

Me: RUOK?

L: Well are you?

I hang up.

 

 

Devil of a Prompt

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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

The 8 Minute 40 Second Orgasm

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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’?

Trains of Thought

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Trains of thought have no timetables.

Nor, if they did, would they keep

To schedule.

 

Trains of thought always pull in when

you are busy doing something else.

 

They require no ticket, no payment

only that you get on board and leave

your luggage behind.

 

Trains of thought have their own itineraries

And take you places you may otherwise

Never visit. Bring a notebook with you.

 

Trains of thought run on the fuel of

pure Imagination

Of which there are endless reserves.

 

In Praise of Slowness

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It was World Turtle Day last week.

I was a little slow off the mark

But I’m onto it now penning these lines.

I’d write a little more; trouble is

things are whizzing by , my head is spinning.

I’ve got to slow down, take a pit stop,

Pace myself a little. Whew!

I should be done by next World Turtle Day

But I wouldn’t want to stick my neck out.

A Cadaver of Red

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What is your wish? said the genie.

A cadaver of red, please.

A cadaver of red? Don’t you mean a cask or bottle? Or perhaps a magnum? I’ve had a glass or three myself. I’m feeling generous. How about a jeroboam — I’ve never granted one of them — or, maybe even, a nebuchednezzar?

No, thanks, mate. A cadaver of red, said the lazy vampire

 

The Kite and the String

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I am reading a manual called ‘The Kite and the String’

Because I have trouble getting my thoughts

off the ground;

 

They run away from me like that fifty dollar note

The wind caught while I was crossing

the main road;

 

the writer taught the need to ‘abandon’ and ‘control’;

a kite that lifts and a string that unspools just enough to let the kite

fly happily along

 

but not so much that it gets caught

In power-lines or entangled in its own tail.

I like that very much.

 

The kite is the thought

and the string the firm hand of the poet

that keep that thought aloft

The Factory

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The factory’s closed, he said.

Closed? As in Closed Down?

No, the security guy chuckled. Closed for repairs, renovations.

I understood.

I had been going there for years, churning out my poetry, those little dispatches from the frontiers of perception. Lately however the software had stopped working, the hardware was getting cranky too.

Someone had noticed.

When will it be re-opened? I asked.

Soon, he said. We’ve got people working on it. You work here or something?

You could say that. Guess I need a break too just as much as the machines. Thanks anyway.

He watched me go as I trudged down the street. I gave him a little wave just before I turned the corner.