Which Famous Writer Are You? (Facebook Quiz)

I wanted songs around the campfire,

and a pet raven.

I decided to walk in the woods.

I chose to become a dragon.

For this, I get Stephen King!

Loved by millions but not by me.

I can be, I am told, a master of horror.

Recalling childhood nightmares, I shudder.

If I had an attraction to horror,

I'd watch the news on TV

or see what was trending on twitter.

No need to write my own.

I suppose it's because I selected

for my favourite holiday, Halloween.

(There wasn't a box labelled Samhain, 

my real choice – not quite the same.)

I pick up my staff and call to my raven.

I'm off for a ramble among the trees.

I'll practise my songs for the campfire,

and turn into Ursula Le Guin.


Linking to the Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

Coffee with a Friend

I was a bit early.

He was a little late.

(He got slightly lost

on the way.)

I stood on the corner

where I’d told him to turn,

leaning out over the rail

of the café’s al fresco section.

I wanted to be highly visible.

(He said later I looked like a beacon.)

A toot from a white sports car.

Yes! I waved like mad.

I hugged him too warmly.

(Old lady’s privilege.)

Slightly taken aback, he

responded with kind grace.

Once we started talking

we could hardly stop.

Poetry and physics;

our marriages and kids.

We couldn’t keep the grins

off our faces.  We lingered

until the last minute

of closing time.

I gave him directions

to the best local crystal shop,

which was closing

and selling off stock.

Now he’s posting

polished fossils

and amethyst obelisks

all over facebook.

It was fun. He always

felt like a friend.

It’s so not true what they say, 
that fb friends aren't real.

Celebration of the Green Tree-Frog

The small frog squats at night

in the track of the sliding door,

hunched below the level of the glass.

Lamplight turns him brown;

his eyes are amber beads.

He is carved stone

watching the moths.

They flutter above him,

little brown leaves

falling against the flywire

and twirling off.

In daylight the frog is green,

sticky and shiny with big webbed feet,

transparent as a leaf.

On top of the water tank

in the gap between pipe and filter,

just where the rain spills in,

he rests and celebrates.

When storms lash and the pipe gushes,

we hear from his tiny throat

a pulsing, continuous drum-beat

heavy and huge and deep.

                              

19/2/96 - 21/8/00

Resurrecting this old poem because I had occasion to post this photo in a facebook group today. This pottery frog was given to me by a friend in Texas in 2006, after he heard me recite the poem. (It looks more blue than green in the photo, but that's a trick of the camera.)

Of course, the Aussie ones look more like this. 

Sharing at Tuesday Platform, 'imaginary garden with real toads'.