Hope is the Helium

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I was down in the dumps when someone praised

A recent poem of mine.

I know we should be immune to Praise

And Criticism

But it’s hard not to be lifted

Like a hot air balloon

Above the petty doubts and grievances

That beset us all

And to bask in the warm sun of appreciation

Knowing that, yeh, we’re okay,

We’re going to get there

We are not alone.

Hope is the helium that keeps us aloft.

 

can you think of an occasion when praise made a difference in your life?

what is the helium that keeps you aloft?

Little White Horses

 

music

 

I was tearing along the coastal route

The little white horses racing into shore

When this song came over the radio

And galloped into my heart.

I pulled over onto the shoulder.

I was transported.

I closed my eyes and let the music

Take me.

8.30 seconds later I was released.

It was good to hear Derek and The Dominoes again.

It was good to hear ‘Layla’

 

What songs stop you in your tracks, transport you to other places? What songs do you pull over for?

 

Beach Balls, Rabbits & Heads

rabbit

You haven’t got your head up your arse

Or in the clouds any more, he said,

But firmly secured where it should be.

Atop my shoulders? I suggested.

But my big brother was right.

I was a dreamy kid but when the hormones kicked in— boy!!

My head was every which way but loose.

It was like a beach ball bobbing along

On choppy waves,

A dog chasing after every rabbit which crossed

its path.

I’m still a bit like that but the hormones

Are quieter now

& if I don’t watch it I still find myself

Head up the arse or in the clouds,

A head’s gotta go somewhere.

Stuck in the Moment

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Once I was stuck in the moment.

It was like being stuck in a lift.

I was going nowhere.

Not even up and down.

There was no way out.

No alarm button to press.

No keypad.

I tried not to panic.

Tried smoking a cig.

Humming a tune

Studying a fly on the wall

Studying me

Reciting my nine times tables

And then suddenly SNAP

I was out of it.

I don’t know how long I was in it.

It did have its moments

I must admit.

But you wondered if you’d ever

Get out and join

The flow of life again.

Waterlogged

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The rain has begun.

I park the car close as possible, then dodging the drops, duck into the library.

“Ahh,” says the librarian, “we’ve been wading through your requests and look what’s washed up.”

It is like Santa handing over a present.

“Ahh, ‘Waterlog’”, I say.”The perfect book to read in the bath,”

“Just don’t drop it,” he says.

I should have seen that coming but Steve is quick, very quick.

“Thanks,” I say and we have a brief chat on the merits of reading in strange places, like baths.

“Have to go”, I say. “The rain’s getting heavier.”

By the time I get to the car, the book and I are waterlogged.

Steve would have appreciated that pun.

Now I don’t have to worry about dropping it in the bath.

 

I Can’t be Buggered

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I could go for a walk but I can’t be buggered.

I could check my Facebook status but I can’t be buggered.

I could cut back the bush near the letter box so the postie can chuff past more easily on his motor scooter.

But I can’t be buggered.

I could put more effort in getting my next manuscript together — the editor is interested — but I can’t be buggered doing that either.

I almost can’t be buggered writing this poem about not being buggered.

Would rather curl up in the sun out the back with a good crime novel and lose myself in the plot.