Now You've Gone and Done It

For Rae

When he wished me Happy Birthday,

I emailed back: '75. So I'm having

a week at least of celebrations. How 

are you going?'  'Running to catch up 

to you,' he said. 'Panting.' (He was

two years younger than me.) But now, 

18 months later, he's gone and stopped.

How could you do that? Now you'll never

catch up! Or is it I, now, who'll always be 

trailing, unable to catch up with him?

Poet Rae Desmond Jones (1941-2017) and I knew each other slightly for many years, and were aware of each other's work, but only really became friends late in life, via the internet. In those recent years I came to treasure his humour, intellect and very sweet nature. I'll miss him!

Linking this to the latest Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads', where change is a theme.

Pubiished in HAVE YOUR CHILL, July 2018

Looking for Myself in 'Peanuts'

1.

All I know is, I’m not Charlie Brown –

don’t play baseball, wouldn’t wear a cap.

I could be Lucy with her bossy frown;

I could be Linus clutching at his blanket.

All I know is, I’m not Charlie Brown.

I might be that romantic, star-crossed blonde

drooling for Linus, only briefly cast down

by rebuffs; or else dedicated-to-his-art Schroeder.

(I’d like to be grown-up Schroeder, with renown.)

Perhaps, writing up a storm, I’m smart Snoopy?

But if so, who would feed me? Charlie Brown?


2. 

I think I’ll be Schroeder,

living (w)hol(l)y for art,

soul-child of Beethoven,

oblivious / impervious to all else. Yes,

I think I’ll be Schroeder.

I don't really think I’m Snoopy,

master of the cliché – moreover

typewriters are old; I love my computer.

Of course he’d need a make-over

from muso to poet (I’m tone-deaf)

but, that sorted, I could be Schroeder.

At 'imaginary garden with real toads', we were invited to find ourselves in cartoon characters in the prompt: Fashion me your words to fold ~ ergo (in less than 100 words). The mention of 'fold' inspired me to use Gillena Cox's Fold form. And then I was moved to write a second one. Each, individually, is under 100 words, but I didn't want to post them separately when they so clearly belong together.

Think Positive

The TV shows me Kenyans dying of drought.

Cattle become skeletal; babies droop.

On facebook people chirrup:  'Life works out.’

The parents of the babes don’t scream or shout.

They weep, but are resigned. Their shoulders stoop.

The TV shows them close up, dying of drought.

Calm commentators tell what it’s about.

I pour myself another bowl of soup.

On facebook people burble: ‘Life works out.’

The self-help gurus urge us, 'Banish doubt!'

I sign a petition, join a spiritual group.

The TV shows me Kenyans dying of drought.

On facebook, though, we know that life works out.

Prompted by dVerse: How to Write a Villanelle (I have written this one a little bit 'wrong'; let's call it a modified villanelle.)

This Poet Thinks She’s Me

This poet thinks she’s me,

and furthermore that her work is mediocre,

and furthermore to that (further-further-more?)

that she must do it, can’t help it, can't walk away.

‘The stars are green and gold’ she wants to say

right now, but I censor that. It comes in

out of nowhere. It’s a nonsense.

She says it’s pretty. I say, ‘But….’

It has to have a place in the poem, see.

And this is a poem about this poet

who imagines herself to be me, or conversely

that I am she, capital-P Poet.

Clearly, I am more: 

widow, former librarian, friend, cat-lover, witch …

all right all right, so they get into the poems.

So maybe there is only one poet/me.  Then,

am I also green-gold stars? (Am I nonsense?)

Written for Literary Excursions with Kerry ~ Metafiction at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

The Yoga Master

How sinuously 

she contorts herself

into positions which,

on the basis of eyesight

and some idea of anatomy,

should be impossible.

She makes it look easy –

shoulders high, head low;

arched back, then slump;

limbs curving over bent head;

body recumbent while legs

reach gradually further up the wall.

Then she relaxes flat,

motionless, and I realise

she has gone into deep meditation,

zoning out, stilling her mind.  

She can lie a long time like that

before slowly stretching and purring.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Yoga

My Upbringing as a Girl

My parents and grandparents, my aunts 

and uncles, and several of my teachers

were progressive thinkers who thought 

that girls, too, could grow up to have careers, 

just in case they never married (in which case

of course they wouldn't – or, more precisely, 

home and motherhood would be the glorious,

totally fulfilling and naturally preferred career) 

but they still believed, those adults of my youth,

unquestioning, that girls couldn't, indeed mustn't

play football, or any of those rough sports, 

because that was what boys did: those critters

who were made of slugs and snails and –

you know how it goes.

(The era was the 1940s.)

This grew out of (1) a discussion, 'Exploring our feminine' inspired by the writing of Brooke Medicine Eagle in Buffalo Woman Comes Singing, and (2) an exercise in Wingbeats, to create a one-sentence poem of 14 lines and at least 100 words.

Linked to The Tuesday Platform for June 20 2017 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Visiting Letitia

I have left behind 

a head-shaped dent in the pillow,

a tub of cashews on the table,

a loaf of dark rye in the fridge,

a pair of long dark boots 

that fitted you better than me,

and some reassurances.

I have taken away

some deeper certainties,

my chakras re-aligned,

a magic square of cloth

to tuck under my mattress

for comfortable sleep,

and your wise face in my mind.

All that good talking stays –

a form of nurture. 

So much better than messages, 

emails, or even phone:

a weekend sitting on a couch

opposite yours in your living-room,

going nowhere but going everywhere.

Happily at home in your home –

over the years the scene

of family Christmas feasts –

I feel myself unfurl and stretch

like a fern, expanding in light.

You see me and do not judge

though you surely discern.

Because you share with me

the steps and halts of your journey, 

I've watched with concern, 

fascination, and final delight –

falling easily into a role

I've trained for all my life:

sounding-board, reality-check.

Again we told each other

more and more parts of our stories.

We ate good food. We laughed.

Occasionally we noticed

tears in each other's eyes.

We offered and needed no comfort

but open seeing and spoken truth.

You didn't want me to leave.

I didn't want to go.

But Life is calling us onward

into the everyday non-ordinary.

Never fear! I shall return

again when the time is right.

I know the road.


Linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #367

Dark Emerald

The large green stone,

square-cut, was mounted

on simple gold: a plain setting.

I crept in often to gaze –

sitting at her dressing table,

tugging open the heavy drawer.

My mother must have known

it was my dream of beauty,
never told me it was only glass.

Written for Micro Poetry ~ Dark Emeralds at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Ordinary

Walking in the rain, smiling,

she has a light in her face.

She is unaware of it, focused 

on the rain splashing in puddles,

making little circles of ripples

around the spot where each drop 

hits the water. She stops to watch.

On the wet grass, a drenched

brown twig, darkened by rain

and rounded, glistening, looks 

to her amusement like a cigar.

She knows what it is, but likes

to entertain other, stranger ideas

caused by the wealth of water.

She is only an old woman 

in a little country town

situated near the coast

and also close to mountains.

Ordinarily, she likes to explore

her town in its usual abundant sun.

But the rain, too, interests her.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Seeking the Extraordinary in the Ordinary

Neruda in the Rain

I am lunching at a window

overlooking rainy Murwillumbah,

reading a book about young Pablo Neruda

writing poetry to the tune of the rain.

He loved the sound of the rain, we are told,

even while hating the rain. I too

am not enamoured of the bleak wet

but find strange comfort in the rhythmic sounds.

But I don't want to be Neruda,

even as I envy his words their liquid music.

I want to be me, living where I am, in my life 

that has been as rich as his in love.

Almost as rich as his in travel, art,

engagement; probably even richer
in its plethora of dear, true friends. I love to be 

me, reading about Neruda, and reading Neruda.


Submitted for The Tuesday Platform June 13 2017 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Also linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #360.

I Am Made of ...

the Old Gold Rum 'N' Raisin

chocolate I just had for breakfast

and the low-calorie high-fibre cereal

I have most other days,

and raisin toast and cocoa just before bed,

red wine and strong black coffee,

crayfish and curry and pasta and dhal

and spun-sugar, creamy Pavlova;

the wailing hillbilly songs of desperate men

that punctuated my homework when I was 12,

the rich tunes and stirring words

of Carmen Jones and Porgy and Bess 

(the movies) and dancing with my broom

as a young mum while Janis poured out 

Me and Bobby Mcgee, oh and Dylan and 

Cohen, and the blues, always the blues;

Alice in Wonderland, the Musketeers,

Sidney Carton, Jo and Beth, Five Children

and It, the Swallows and Amazons, 

The Little Mermaid, Ivanhoe, Charlie 

(is my darling) and also Good Queen Bess, 

and Hiawatha and Lochinvar, the goblin craving 
green glass beads, the nymph who refused, 

The Highwayman, and those in Flanders Fields ...

I am made of delights and dreams and treasures.

Written in response to a prompt of the same name at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. (It was supposed to be three stanzas only, but I had to have that extra line!)

Star

Star light, star bright –

working magic

to grant a wish,

her hands conjure

a puff of light.

The star of hope

still shines tonight

above the world 

of darkness,

far but bright.

From this long tunnel

we shall come out,

she promises,

her golden light

blowing kisses.

Good night, 

child of light.

A star is watching 

over you.

Sleep tight.

For Words Count with Mama Zen at 'imaginary garden with real toads', we were asked to pull a Tarot card and be inspired by it. The Star card does represent hope, optimism and the light at the end of the tunnel, which fits well with the idea of wishing on a star.

Also shared at Poets United's Poetry Pantry #358.

Image: the Star card from myTarot Muchas deck, used in accordance with Fair use.

Card for the Day

I chose my Tarot card for the day

from a recommended site online,

glad to see it was the beautiful Empress.

But the accompanying reading

was bullshit. (Oops, my French – pardon me!)

Why reinterpret the card that way

when the meaning is perfectly fine

as it is: Earth Mother / Mother Earth / Goddess.

Maybe charlatans think they’re needing

to be different to earn their money?

I ignore the rot they had to say –

rot that diminishes the Divine

which the Empress card is designed to express.

I know what it really says, seeding

a way that I can be, and shall be.

A way for me more fully, this day,

to embody Divine Feminine:

filled with Her unconditional Love, no less,

Her nurture and compassion, leading

to oneness with nature, strong and free.

I’m glad to walk in Her grace today,

receiving the gift as wholly mine 

by which I am blessed, and by which I can bless

others I meet, who may be needing

to be loved, nurtured, allowed to be.

(Not the card I pulled. This is the Empress from my Tarot Muchas deck, shared here according to Fair Use.)

Inspired by a prompt in Words Count by Mama Zen at 'imaginary garden with real toads' – but this fails to conform to the 60-word limit for that one, because I decided to use it for the rimas dissolutas challenge at Poetic Asides instead.

(Then I did write one in 60 words, on a different card. It's here.)

Btw, did I mention that I'm a professional Tarot reader? Far from helping, it probably limits my flexibility with such a prompt, LOL.

A Photo of a Rose

for Shae

This rose, a gift from her lover

(in whose garden tenderly grown)

tells her she too is exquisite –

more treasured than any other.

No longer need she stand alone

to wait, yearn, anticipate, wait….

Roses do not last forever

but love is constantly reborn

in the ever-renewing heart,

not needing as a preserver

poem, photo, or anyone

to assure her that this is right.

Yet for beauty’s sake, moreover

affection, I take it upon

myself to hereby celebrate!

As the rose reflects the giver

equally with the gifted one,

I rejoice that now you are met.

Written for the Poetic Asides rimas dissolutas challenge.

And linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #357

Living on the Rim

How amazed I was when I read
a description of the ocean as green –
but that, I saw, was the Atlantic,
which I do not live beside.

The ocean, always, in my head
is the bluest blue you have ever seen –
deep blue, sparkling, sunny, romantic,
and vast, huge, gorgeously wide.

Never mind what others have said
about other seas where I have not been.
I’m drunk with love for the Pacific
and its thunder-crashing tide.

When I lived close, I’d lie in bed
paradoxically lulled in-between
the rhythmical roars – the volcanic
great ocean at my bedside.

Living on the edge, I am ecstatic
for this bluer beauty, this wilder side.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Ocean(s)
and for the Poetic Asides rimas dissolutas challenge.

I Have Woken Up

I have woken up at half past three

on a winter night, but not too cold

with the heater on. Even the cat

has gone back again to the bed

we share, after joining me for a snack.

Sensible creature – unlike this poet fool

who thinks that wakefulness must mean, ‘Write!’

Why else I’d wake is a mystery.

We may need less sleep when growing old –

well, they tell us so – but surely that  

doesn’t mean three hours? My head

is busy with thoughts, long before the crack

of dawn, ye gods! Now I’m cold; this isn't cool.
Not even poetry makes it right.

Since I'm up, I thought, I'll just see what's going on over at Poetic Asides; it's been a while. Oh my, they're having a rimas dissolutas challenge! And it finishes on the 9th of June!

(17 July) Delighted to report that this one was placed in the top 10, in very good company. And you really should check out the brilliant winner. Details here.

Jim Died Today

(or, The Beginning of Winter)

Jim, who was my age, died today

at 2pm his daughter's email said.

He was my husband Bill's best mate

since they were wild young lads.

Later, a good friend to me too.

Best man at our wedding. 'His family

was my family, and mine his,' he said

in Bill's funeral oration decades later.

His Joy went on ahead six months ago.

Since then I've phoned him once or twice,

exchanged emails ... the last few days

he was so much on my mind, I meant to call.

And Bill, too, has been around a lot.

Now I think I know why, for both.

I was remembering already, this last week, 

his words for Bill. A reminder?

There's only me left of the four of us, 

who married about the same time, 

whose kids were like cousins. They're all

in middle age, with children of their own,

still I resolve to travel the long miles

to help lay Jim to rest. I'm now

the only one of that generation here –

not blood, but very close family.

‘Aunty Rosemary,' the emailer 
called me. As always. 

I look back over the years;

I phone my son and cry.

The sun starts going down

behind the mountains.

The air develops a chill.

Grey clouds fill the sky.

(For those who may wonder – I was married to Bill for 27 years before I was married to Andrew.)

PS Travel to the funeral from where I live proves complicated, costly and time-consuming, so after all I'll be staying home and saying my own prayers here instead.

'My Heart is a Ghost Town'

the man sings, lamenting

love lost, a lover gone

and I think, never mind my heart, 

my head's where the ghosts reside

of lovers gone – never lost –

the talkative ghosts

who haunt my old age

pleasantly

as we reminisce, and finally 

resolve our stone-cold issues ...

good to have a yarn

for old times' sake.

Written for Flash 55 – PLUS! 3 June 2017 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.