When I was a kid I used to wander down the park and watch dragonflies flitter over the pond like tiny, restless angels.
Later I wanted to write poems about them the way Monet would go down to his garden at Giverny to paint water lilies.
The only difference is that water lilies stay still. They don’t dash and dart about the pond at 100 ks an hour. Even when they have sex they’re on the go, coupling like planes fuelling mid- flight.
I almost got one once when a dragonfly dawdled on the front doorknob one drowsy afternoon, after summer rains, then saw me and took off, its gossamer wings flashing rainbows.
Perhaps I should turn like Monet to waterlilies. He got 250 paintings out of them. I haven’t got one poem though I reckon I’ve made 250 trips. [ pic by loriedarlin on pinterest ]
What sort of wuss wears a beanie around the house?
It’s not Outer Mongolia for f**’s sake
But it looks exotic and it’s warm and woolly.
A tower of a hat from Ulaanbaatar, the trader told me. A beanie fit for Genghis Khan.
I could see him storming through the steppes wearing it proudly like a crown,
I had to have it with its burnished reds and browns and black leopard spots.
But I look a proper Charlie wearing it in the mall or library or on public transport.
In restaurants people just stare.
So I wear it when gardening or on evening walks along the esplanade before disappearing
into my yurt where I cuddle up with a copy of Sonomyn Udval’s ‘Collected Short Stories’
which everyone should read.
- what’s the strangest structure you’ve slept under?
- have you read any of Sonomyn’s wonderful stories?
- do you wear beanies on cold, wintry days?
the musky glow of the candle bowl
the frisson of flesh on flesh
the cinnamon zing of Venetians
crosswords over coffee
Joaquin Phoenix singing Cry, Cry, Cry
the ineffable sadness of Jackson because we both
know people like that
the voice of Johnny Cash, proof that there’s a God
Rick Springfield on Gospel Radio speaking to the sky
& those blackbirds, after rain, bless their untidy little hearts.
Nice bag, she says as I place it on the chemist’s counter.
Thank you, I say.
Yes, she says, admiring it.
Not likely to topple over.
A bit like me, on a good day, I reply
She smiles, the sort of smile that says, I better humour this guy, he might be dangerous.
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
Mountains loom over it.
Dragonflies dawdle overhead.
A light breeze blows quilting the surface.
Two kayaks lie on the banks of the boathouse
red prows nudging the water.
An old railway dam steam trains
Once guzzled from.
Now I drink its tranquillity
Store it against the coming week.
*have you a tranquil place you go to for replenishment or a piece of music you listen to or picture you look at?