This One’s for Ginge

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I’ve just been informed it’s World Turtle Day.

As usual I’m a little slow off the mark

But I’m sticking my neck out now

writing a poem to Ginge

in his tiny turtle tank looking out at the world

I’ve been reading him some famous turtle poems
including Robert Lowells’ Waking in the Blue

but Ginge and I are shaking our heads:

the only turtle reference is ‘I strut in my turtle-necked

French sailor’s jersey’.

but the one by Mark Doty has a few really good lines:

‘a snapping turtle lumbered down the centre

of the asphalt like an ambulatory helmet’

Ginge liked that

I read him a few more but their meanings were slow

to emerge

Perhaps that’s the point.

I hope he likes this poem.

I’ve been working on this one all day but I still

haven’t got very far.

 

 

 

Will This Do?

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“Will this do?” you say to your stomach at three in the morning. “Can I go to bed now?”

“Just a minute,” your stomach says. “Have I had enough?”

I know what it’s thinking: too little, it’ll come back for more; too much it will churn out nightmares.

“Perhaps a little more?” says the stomach, looking up at me pleadingly like a cat.

“No,” you decide, “You can have more in the morning like normal stomachs do. Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Where do you think?”

And it follows you back to bed, shoulders a little slumped.

Okay. Well, that didn’t work

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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

In Which I Take the Goldfish to Task

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I go out the front to get something from the car when  a voice pipes up from the fishpond.

Hey! Where are the f*&*ing fish flakes?

It’s Goldie in her usual peremptory tone.

Mind the language, I say.

You taught us to alliterate, she snaps. You gotta love the ‘lit, you said.

I know, I say.

I got three ‘f”s out of that, she says.

You did well. It was just a little inappropriate, I say.

F**&&& the inappropriateness, she says. So where are the flakes?

Coming , I say.

That’s the trouble with having a literate family. They answer back.

A Very Heavy Ten Minutes

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between

1.10 and 1.20

on Saturday afternoons

he pumps out

Polaris

Parkway Drive

Bring Me The Horizon

from his tiny unit

by which time

whatever he’s got

in his system

he’s got out

or whatever he hasn’t

he’s got in

 

  • pic of Metallica onstage in London courtesy of Wikimedia Commons:

One Perfectly Round Ear

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Locked between his headphones

the scraggly haired beachcomber

scours the beach with his detector

its one perfectly round ear

listening to talk-back from the sand

music to his ears :

dollar coins , gold ear rings

or bottle tops , tin cans —

relics of summers empire .

On and on he goes

in his hand a miniature spade

and a blue bucket of hope

 

  • pic by senila ilinykn from Unsplash