The Water Taxi Arrives (Caye Caulker Chronicles Take 2)
like Sherpas in search of an expedition
the backpackers tumble onto the dock
clutching Lonely Planet guidebooks
it’s nowhere near as lonely here
as their guidebooks promise
but it is part of the planet
they got that right
it is part of the planet.
(in the café below
Bob Marley is still jammin’
the locals talk of paradise lost
of Eve and apples bitten.)
This is a rewrite of a previous post.
and truth is
a ball of
white gas, glimpsed
through the trees.
let it be
the answer
lies in the
wondering
A Slow Day (tanka 2)
the sky did not fall
the winds of change did not blow
the boat was not rocked
the cat ignored the pigeons
the chickens did not come home.
Hornby Island Tanka
wave-sculpted sandstone
distant sandbar dune buggies
tie-dyed hippie ghosts
eagles, thermals, glaucous gulls
sand dollars , querulous seals.
Participating on Open Link Night over at dVerse.
Children held in camps at the US border…
the sultan of spin
in all his orange glory
can’t polish this one.
This was first posted a year ago, I guess I was wrong.
haiku tortured night
surplus syllable flop sweat
cherry blossom hell.
The Poet Steps Out with Uncharacteristic Resolve
No free verse today
I’m taking my doggerel
for a long, long walk.
This haiku, by my good friend, Slim Volume, was short-listed in the non-starter category at the Mountmellick Haiku festival. Well done, Slim!
Exhibitionist
San Diego Zoo
a pink-arsed baboon presents
it’s late afternoon
Rooster
still dark, the rooster
starts his moronic complaint
damn pre-emptive cock
Retired Mathematicians at a Party (tanka)
there in the corner
reeking of stale calculus
old derivatives
life’s equation, the hard one,
still not balanced, still unsolved.
Participating in Open Link Night over at dVerse.
A Ghazal about Everlasting Love (and a rabbit)
like that rabbit on TV
our love will last
you know, the pink one with the drum
(our love will last)
and the dark sunglasses
(our love will last)
who sometimes hits a wall
(our love will last)
and sometimes stalls
(our love will last)
but he keeps banging that drum
(our love will last)
the rabbit keeps banging the drum
(our love will last)
but unlike our love
alkaline batteries are not everlasting
and eventually the rabbit falls
breathes his last
and we need another simile
one that lasts
like plastic in a landfill
our love will last
like craters on the moon
our love will last
like the power of the sun
our love will last
like the winds out on the ocean
our love will last.
In my previous ghazal , “Bucket List” I vowed to write a ghazal about everlasting love for the dVerse ghazal challenge. So there you have it, my first love poem, a big challenge – I’m the kind of person whose usual response to the words “I love you” is “right back at ya”.
Listening to Carlos Santana in Kitsilano Gym.
listening to Carlos Santana
in Kitsilano Gym,
his guitar solos
leading always
to that existential wail
on the top fret
above the cutaway
takes me back to Asbury Park
walking along the boardwalk
having watched Woodstock
my head an unsustainable mix
of idealism, hedonism.
This is a response to Quadrille #82 – Fretboard of Poetry, the prompt from Kim at dVerse, which is to use the word fret in a 44-word poem that does not require meter or rhyme.
Landline (for Dad)
Sometimes, I think
I should text my dad
give him an update
tell him where I’m at.
Not that he would answer
he’s been gone a few years now
and even if he were alive
texting would hardly be his thing;
at the turn of the century
he was still approaching
what we now call a ‘landline’
with some trepidation.
Landline: a rope
uncoiling towards the shore.
He once told me
that when we have children
of our own
we begin to understand
our own parents better
so I think my text
would be an attempt
to let him know
that, yes, dad
I have found this
to be true.
Slim’s Other Dream
3 a.m.
Slim returns to his dream
of pipes bursting in the attic
even though he knows
there are no pipes in the attic.
4 a.m.
Slim wakes
to the remains of a poem
crackling on the antic air.
A re-post, the weather is too good today to be indoors writing!
Stock Market
a bear is on the loose
the once priapic market
losing altitude
false hopes and false dreams for sale
nothing tangible.
This is response to the dVerse prompt to write about markets. It’s a haiku that I have upgraded (?) to a tanka, check out the poetry over at dVerse, some excellent market poems.
The photo is of an actual market in Sicily.
Foraging with Farage
In his new television series
Foraging with Farage
coming soon to The Bollocks Network
Nigel laments
the influx of foreign fungi
to the hallowed fields and forests
of the Kingdom By The Sea
and the subsequent decline
of the Great English Mushroom.
In the final episode,
under the influence of psilocybin
Nigel takes a walk in the forest
and encounters a naked Boris Johnson
sitting on a giant toad stool
in a sunlit glade.
Boris, Nigel exclaims,
full of chagrin
and psilocybin,
I thought you were a natural blonde!
Has it all been a lie?
This is dream sequence, you fool,
Boris replies
The writers have run out of ideas.
He then tumbles off the toad stool
and bounds on all fours into the forest.
I tell you folks
if you miss one television series this year
make sure it’s this one!
Bucket List (a ghazal)
mountain climbing in County Meath
put it on my bucket list
fly fishing in the Sahara
put it on my bucket list
snow shoeing in the Serengeti
put it on my bucket list
surfing in Saskatchewan
put it on my bucket list
stop hiding behind a shield of sarcasm
Really? Put that on my bucket list?
write a ghazal about everlasting love
aw fuck it, put it on my bucket list
stop peppering my poems with profanity
that’s a prohibition, it has no place on the list
It’s ghazal time again over at dverse, so here’s another attempt. By the way, in a classical ghazal (which this is not!), it is customary to insert one’s name in the final couplet.
Sorry about the language, I’ll do anything for a rhyme!
Saturday Morning in Idabel
There’s a dead armadillo
On the side of the road
Empty beer can in his claws
That joke just never gets old
There’s a dog on the shoulder
Trying to bite his own tail
I’m in the motel parking lot
Watching that dog fail
And I can’t remember
When I ever felt this low
Saturday morning in Idabel
Saturday morning in Idabel
Saturday morning in Idabel
And I ain’t got no place to go.
Down at the Piggly Wiggly
There’s no one in the aisles
No one at the check-out counter
Hasn’t been for a while
There’s a big box store sitting
Out of town, someplace
People are moving towards it
Like it came from outer space
And I can’t remember
When I ever felt this low
Saturday morning in Idabel
Saturday morning in Idabel
Saturday morning in Idabel
And I ain’t got no place to go
And Cookie he is worried
His wife’s leg has turned black
He’s got a concealed weapon’s license
A shotgun and a rack
And he has no idea
How he’ll pay the hospital bill
He says: guns never hurt nobody
only people kill
And I can’t remember
When I ever felt this low
Saturday morning in Idabel
Saturday morning in Idabel
Saturday morning in Idabel
And I ain’t got no place to go
Amaya, over at dVerse has asked for a poem about or based on a song to which we have a strong emotional connection. The above piece is a song lyric I wrote thinking of Kris Kristofferson’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down”. I used to travel in my work, and I got stuck in strange towns and cities on Sunday mornings quite a lot. Being away from my family was a depressing experience at times and Kris Kristofferson’s song lyrics resonated. On the upside, being stuck in Idabel, Oklahoma, generated a poem, and a song lyric which my friend, John Mitchell wrote music for, (I have previously posted about that process).
“On a Sunday morning sidewalk
I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone
And there’s nothin’ short of dyin’
That’s half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleepin’ city sidewalk
And Sunday mornin’ comin’ down”
Walk (Dublin 2016)
In Iveagh gardens an exhibition promises:
Contemporary sculpture based on
Non-monumental ideas of the uncanny.
This phrase sticks like chewing gum
To the bedpost of my mind
As I walk through Stephen’s Green,
Replacing: One then offers the cat up to the aperture
Which, according to my brother,
Is the ultimate step in programming
One’s automatic cat door to accept
One’s micro-chipped cat.
Outside the Shelbourne Hotel
Tourists wearing horned helmets
Board a Viking ship on wheels.
I am in search of a pub sandwich
Two slices of white bread, ham, cheese ,
Toasted in a cellophane pack
Small jar of mustard on the side
Served with Guinness
In a quiet pub where I can sit
And think non monumental thoughts
And where the barman asks me
As we watch Lionel Messi
float past three transfixed defenders
Is he the best ever?
And I am surprised not at the question
But at the deference.
The challenge from Anmol over at dverse, is to write a poem on the subject of walking and observing. This poem was written after a trip back to my home town of Dublin. Walking around one’s home town is not so much about looking for the new as it is about re-discovering the past; it’s more about the memories that the place holds rather than the physical aspect of the place. It’s also about trying to recover a feeling or an experience from the past.
The photo is of Dublin from Sandymount Strand, and of course, Joyce’s “snot-green, scrotum-tightening sea”.
(The poem appeared previously in the Galway Review)
The Wrong Way Home
happy hours and peeler bars
he’s taking the wrong way home
a friendly toke, a line of coke
he’s taking the wrong way home
the night is young, pass that bong
he’s taking the wrong way home
a McFlurry, an Indian curry
he’s taking the wrong way home
a pounding head, a stranger’s bed
he’s taking the wrong way home
early dawn, suitcase on the lawn
he’s found his way home.
…..over at dVerse, the verse form of the month is a ghazal, this is my attempt! For a full description of the form, check out their very informative post .
Hal The Halibunist Looks Back On His Long Career
halibuns about Haliburton
halibuns about halitosis
halibuns about Halle Berry
halibuns about Halley’s Comet
halibuns about Spiritus Mundi
halibuns about Rosamund Pike
halibuns about Solomon Grundy
halibuns just for the fun of it
halibuns at Sun Dance
halibuns in Halifax
halibuns about halibut
halibundance
halibundance
halibundance.
That Eternal Question
god’s old dilemma
exercise or exorcise
judgement or demons
(the prompt from Kim over at dVerse is to write a quadrille -44 word poem- using the word “rich”)
Little Richard
Richard Penniman
Little Richard
not just any man
a pioneer of rock and roll
twelve bars and no holds barred
and all about that one thing:
Molly likes to ball
Sally has everything that Uncle John needs
Sue knows just what to do
a-wop-bop-a-loo-bop-a-wop-bam-boom.
Stopdraggingthepanda 