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 ]
Love yr top.
Yes, it’s blue and fleecy. So soft and warm.
Yes, like you, I reply.
And we cuddle like clouds.
pic courtesy of Pinterest by BuzzFeed
I like a poem with muscle
a poem with vim and vigor
I like a poem with its hand
firmly on the trigger
Love a poem low and lusty
a poem that readily scans
the sort of poem that you hear
at a poetry slam
I thought about what Fiona had said,
the female lead in ‘The Bear Came Over the Mountain’
about her developing interest in Iceland,
how she looked at travel guides,
read accounts of famous writers who had visited,
Auden, William Morris,
but didn’t really plan to travel there herself.
There ought to be one place,
one special place,
‘you thought about and knew about
and maybe longed for
but never did get to see’
*have you a place like this?
toil and twaddle
the cat’s in its cradle
the boy’s in the bubble
The king’s in the counting house
counting out his money
the red back’s on the toilet seat
in the outdoor dunny
Old Mother Hubbard’s
in lockdown at home
the poor little dog
still hasn’t a bone
but the cow’s over the moon
the sun’s in the stubble
and Basho’s feisty frog
plops in the puddle
My extension cord is kinky.
It winds around itself, gets tangled up in knots.
What can you do?
Iron them out?
I have kinks too.
The world would be a straighter, sadder place were it not
Our quirks, our oddities, the little handbag we carry around our talents in.
How we’re wired, the way we spin, the bands we listen to.
They’re in me and you.
Those pairs of long thin strands coiled like the banisters of a spiral staircase.
You don’t want to untangle them.
post courtesy of dykeanddean.com on Pinterest
Those rosemary & garlic sausages
to ‘beef up’ the barbie
in case the eye fillets weren’t enough
to stink out the fridge:
‘the beasts revenge’ ;
so when we took them to your place and you declared
your barbie was ‘lamb intolerant’
we hit a snag
so when I said, I’m going to have to put them in your fridge
I thought you would say,
my fridge is ‘lamb intolerant’
but you never did;
in spite of those setbacks
we had a pretty good evening
though when we left we forgot to take home
so we hope you enjoy them
in one form or another
and no, we do not need them back
I love my community of bloggers.
I love them
Each and everyone.
There’s Hobbo, Beth,
Eden, the Don,
dear old Ed
& a Coyote name John.
There’s Chel. also,
a big fat can of worms
Little Charmer’s pithy poetry.
with her eyes of blue
her mystical poems
their music too.
Karen, of course,
her Yard Sale of Thoughts
teasing us with ruminations
her imagination has wrought.
Then there’s foresty Ulle
what can we say of him?
A man , sharply observant
with a taste for whim.
Then like a shooting star,
there’s our phantasmagoric friend:
David, jester and artificer
on a trip that will never end.
Not forgetting Jewish Young Professional
and Sarcastic Fringe Head
like my mum used to say,
you wouldn’t for quids be dead.
So to my fellow bloggers,
one and all,
each day spent with you
is a real cyber carnival.
You don’t see many poems celebrating the sense of smell.
Sight rules the roost, cock-a-doodles its pre-eminence
on every page; the nose rarely gets a look-in.
An anthology of ‘Smell’ poems would be very thin indeed
and would be ‘on the nose’ for most readers.
I haven’t had a whiff of a good smell poem for years.
- I can’t think of a single poem celebrating the sense of smell, can you?
- have you written a short poem, perhaps a funny one, on smells you could put in the comments column for the delight of readers?
- have you a vivid memory of a particular smell?