Small Bird
without caveat
fucks off, just like that
small bird
apropos of naught
the birch tree distraught
no word
from the bird, not yet
how soon we forget
absurd.
It’s time for another verse form over at dVerse, this one is called a “Lai”; learn all about it here.
Easter Monday Haiku
blue sky, scattered clouds
slow day at the pearly gates
not a soul in sight.
…… a repeat, because of the day that’s in it…..
Holy Scripture
when asked to
pick a font
he replied:
baptismal.
Photo Of Baptistry, Pisa, Italy.
So Long, Halong
As we ride out of Cat Ba
through a valley circled
by limestone crags,
a compilation of pop ballads
from the seventies and eighties
oozes from the speakers
and the affable English backpackers
at the back of the bus
groan in faux horror
as Aerosmith follows Bryan Adams
follows George Michaels
follows Michael Jackson
but when the Bee Gees launch
“How Deep Is Your Love”
the backpackers quieten down
and the driver stops honking his horn
at the dogs, children, women
in cone hats and cyclists
with finely balanced cargos
who drift carelessly
in front of the bus
as if it was an invisible
visitor from the future,
and we all strain against
the tug of the song’s chorus
far too cool to sing along
except for one backpacker
let’s call him Nigel
or Christian, or Jason, or Justin
who, in a high piping voice
declares his oneness
with the song’s embattled lovers.
This poem was first published in Oddball Magazine, and is a re-post from 2016. Participating in Open Link Night over at dVerse.
Why National Poetry Month Makes Me Anxious
It’s National Poetry Month
and all across the internet
poets are dutifully posting a poem a day,
the blogosphere is loud with words
like babble, ripple, burble, unfurl
glow, glitter, shine, glisten
winds are blowing
suns are setting
dawns are breaking
waves are crashing
on every available shore
and birds, yes, birds
are chirping, trilling, twittering, even singing
nature is under siege
but I have to admit
I’m not up to it
I don’t have the diligence, the discipline
the creative bandwidth
all I want
is to produce
just one clear image
and nail it to the page
like a proclamation.
Take-out Tanka
hopped up on pale ale
I’m heading to Akbar’s Own
for lamb rogan josh
prawn curry, alu gobi
vegetables jalfrazie.
A Tanka for the Memory
that familiar ache
the sun is a bawling fire
in the western sky
a grand stretch to the evenings
my mother would say, in Spring
Taking part in Frank Tassone’s weekly haikai challenge…….March Equinox
Also linking to Open Link Night over at dverse.
That Poetic Hum
that poetic hum
that poetic drone
your ear always on the alert
for that cadence in the every day
that unconscious internal rhyme
there’s a barber shop on Dunbar Street
or that line that requires a non sequitur
she was a woman before her time
and you say
in a town lost to time
to everyone’s irritation
then when you find that seed
that germ of a poem
you are lost to all around
family, colleagues, friends
your head in the clouds
and when you poke your head through
the accumulated cumulus
you come face to face
with another poet who says
that last line’s a bugger, eh?
and you say
it most certainly is
it most certainly is.
Over at dVerse, Gina’s challenge is to write a poem around the notion that the poetic mind never turns off, that it’s always there in the background as we engage with the every day. Check out her excellent post here.
This a post from February last year, I thought it would be worth another read. Ever since the UK slipped on that Brexit banana skin, it has been suspended in mid air bracing for a collision with the ground. It won’t be long now.
Brexit at Tiffany’s
I ask Slim for his response to a recent report that Nigel Farage thinks it would be a good idea to re-do the Brexit referendum. We arrange to meet for a few pints in ‘The Post-Coital Beetle” to discuss his response and catch up. Slim is late, so I get a booth, and order a pitcher of Blue Buck. On the television screen suspended from the ceiling, two ex-soccer players – Matt Holland and Phil Neville – are discussing possession stats for the English premier league; apparently, the team that keeps possession of the ball usually wins. Not rocket science, but then Matt and Phil are not rocket scientists. They both look trim and fit in their English sportscaster casual wear. Phil is wearing a beige V-necked sweater, a white button down shirt, tight black pants and fashion sneakers. Matt is wearing a black crew neck, tight black pants and, yes, fashion sneakers. They look like their mothers dressed them.
I have never met Slim’s mother, but I doubt if she would have dressed him in the outfit he is wearing as he bursts through the pub door like an overweight, balding Kramer – faded baggy jeans, a MEC Gore-Tex anorak whose wicking days are long over and a white T shirt, one size too small, with the message “Fragile” on the front. He slaps a sheet of white paper on the table and says:
“Here you go!”
On the paper lies the following poem:
Disparaging Nigel
Nigel Farage
will be remembered forever
as the man who made
the word, ‘wanker’,
seem inadequate.
Very good, I say, “disparage”, “Farage”. What do you want to call the post?
‘Brexit at Tiffany’s’.
Ha! Or how about : ‘Guess who’s coming to Brexit’!
Slim looks like he has just swallowed a cup of Drano.
I think you’re missing the fucking point. It has to be a movie or book with ‘Breakfast’ in the title, like, say, ‘Brexit of Champions’ or ‘The Brexit Club’.
Well, anyway…… so it’s not a homonym, it’s not a synonym, it’s not really a pun, what is it?
It’s a malapropism.
Who took Sidney Poitier to dinner?
Katherine Houghton
How did you know, no one ever gets that right.
I know because every time you have a few drinks, you ask the same fucking question.
Poutine?
Why not? Life’s short.
It’ll be even fucking shorter if we keep eating Poutine.
We both lean back and laugh. On the screen above our heads, Manchester United score a goal and the colour commentator says:
“See, what just happened is that United have put the ball in the net and it’s been proven time and time again that if you want to score goals you have to put the ball in the net”
**********
A Brexit poem from Slim’s locker:
Come what? May?
Hard Breggsit?
Soft Breggsit?
Breggsit over easy?
Not on the menu.
Aesop gets the call
Aesop!
Get your ass over here!
We need a fable
ASAP!
Photo: Approaching Planet Cistern (2)
Pantoum of the Opera
A night at the opera
I have to admit, it’s not my cup of tea
the braying sound of a male tenor
the smell of moth balls in the cheap seats
I have to admit it’s not my cup of tea
the diva’s ululating grief
the smell of moth balls in the cheap seats
if only it was brief, if only it was brief
the diva’s ululating grief
the uncontrollable urge to sleep
if only it was brief, if only it was brief
there would be some relief
the uncontrollable urge to sleep
the braying sound of a male tenor
there is no relief
a night at the opera
The challenge over at dVerse is to write a pantoum. Click here to learn all about the form. I have stuck to the form for the first 3 stanza’s, I have improvised in the 4th, which I think is within the rules!
photo: Approaching Planet Cistern
Living on Tanka Time
up on Dunbar Street
the barber shops are empty
a guy smokes a joint
and laughs hysterically
at the blank screen of his phone.
Talking Senses (a Rubaiyat)
Wet whiff of sour milk
the rustle of silk
the kerang of a guitar
– the Who, or their ilk
the whirl of a dervish
the bloat of a blow-fish
the wince of a lemon
that chocolate fetish
I doubt my ability
to convey tactility
but, hey, here’s an eggshell
go on, feel the fragility.
Jilly’s challenge over at dVerse is to write a rubaiyat, using imagery that evokes all 6 senses – 1.) Visual, 2.) Tactile/Touch, 3.) Olfactory/Smell, 4.) Taste, 5.) Auditory, and 6.) Kinesthetic.
I gave it a go….I didn’t pay too much attention to syllables per line, I just went with what sounded right, but I did stick to the rhyme scheme!
The Town of High Dudgeon
In the town of High Dudgeon
at the corner of Grump Street and Curmudgeon
people talk about the old ways
about young people these days
with their smart phones, their social media
their Facebook, their Wikipedia
hell, in our day we had to know stuff.
Harrumph! They shout in unison.
Harrumph! They shout harrumphantly.
Outside the town limits
the future raises a middle finger
and data accumulates
about this moment
and the moment before
in cabinets that hum
a one note tune.
Participating in Open Link night over at dVerse, one of the best poetry blogs around!
Slim’s Trip
he was appalling in Nepal
patronising in Patagonia
fractious in Frankfurt
stoned in Estonia
he was paralytic in Paris
he had a toke in Tokyo
he was hammered in Hamburg
stocious in Stockholm.
Toadstool
I see a toadstool
and wonder: what in toad hall
has that toad eaten?
he felt deleted
like a worn-out expletive
declined, like a noun.
Photos: Waiting for the Drop
there’s a sign
out on the highway
Jesus, Lord,
over us all
well no one
here can tell me
that submission
was hard won.
stoned in the meadow
channelling Ansel Adams
lens like a cannon.
Photos by Marie Feeney
he felt deleted
like a worn-out expletive
declined, like a noun.
Photos: Waiting for the Drop
Between the caucus and the carcass
Between the chaos and the calm
Between the fracas and the ruckus
Between the righteous and the damned
Between the priest and the sermon
Between the sermon and the song
No one can determine
Why we all can’t get along.
Between the question and the answer
There is a lifetime of space
Between the dance and the dancer
There is beauty and there is grace.
****************************************************
While you’re here, check out “The Mitchell Feeney Project, country rock with an edge!
“The sun beats down like judgement
on the armour-plated road”
From “The Road” by The Mitchell Feeney Project. Click here to check out our album, also available on iTunes (search for “The Mitchell Feeney Project”).
“Lock the door, Schoolmaster,
Keep the children in,
The river in spate at the schoolyard gate
Roars like original sin”
From “The Life of the Poet” by Charles Causley
