The Winter Solstice (No Time for Solipsism Now)
Solstice, a sibilant word
except for that L in the middle
lolloping around like a Christmas drunk.
There’s solace in there too.
A compression of days
a primeval huddling against the dark
that low December sun
illuminating the dust under the sofa
and that kid’s toy from last Christmas
that no one could find.
The promise of longer days to come.
Taking part in Brendan’s solstice challenge over at Desperate Poets
Advice to myself on the subject of writing poetry after a number of years trying to write poetry
Avoid the polemic, the rant,
the bromide
be all you can be
avoid the hackneyed phrase
the weak-kneed phrase
the self-consciously poetic line
the moon, a pale orb in the evening sky
never call the moon “an orb”
never call the sun “a fiery ball”
your waves should not
crash on the shore
they should collapse
like marathon runners
avoid foliage
excessive leafiness
too many trees
the reader needs to see the poem
and remember it’s unlikely
that your poem
will be an agent of change
no one is going to march through the streets
chanting your poem
unless your poem is a three word slogan
but your poem can chronicle change
and the lines should resonate
should generate heat
meanwhile concentrate on
impressing yourself
avoid lines and rhymes ending in “ution”
the rest will take care of itself.
The prompt from Brendan over at Desperate Poets is as follows:
“For this challenge, write a poem about your creative process.”
” Is it a different animal now than when you first decided to make writing poetry a vocation?”
This poem is an edit of another poem which was a response to another prompt from Brendan, back in the earthweal days . That man is The Prompt Master!
Jeb, the Lonesome Cowpoke
His parents called him “Jebedie”
short for “Jebediah”
he was never sure why,
“Jeb” suited him fine.
Jeb, the Lonesome Cowpoke
the stubble on his chin
could sand a fence post smooth
although he was never quite sure about “cowpoke”
there was an inference there
that he didn’t like
he would never get so lonesome that he would…
you know what I mean.
But sometimes
in his sleeping bag
by the dying embers of a campfire
listening to the lizards
chatting in their lizard tongues
and staring at the cacti
looking psychotic in the light of the desert moon
he would feel a tad lonesome
but then he’d think of Jean
the buxom proprietress of The Lost Pants Saloon
and the joke they always shared
when he arrived stale from the trail
“Hi Jean”, he’d say
“Hygiene”, she’d reply,
“you got a nerve
go take a bath
you smell like a coyote’s scrotum”
and Jeb would laugh
and head for the bath
at the same time wondering
how she knew what a coyote’s ….
but then he’d think
“don’t go there”
long before that phrase became popular.
After his bath Jeb would repair
(he liked those old timey words)
Jeb would repair to Jean’s four poster bed
where later in the evening
just before nodding off
she would turn to him and say
“that was to Jebedie for”
and they would both laugh
while downstairs in the empty saloon
the ghost of Ed the piano player
killed in a gambling dispute cross fire
would scrape back the piano stool
and the sound of his ghostly tinkling
would echo through the upstairs bedrooms
lulling the lonesome
and the not so lonesome cowpokes
to sleep and dreams of cattle drives,
beef jerky and coffee pots on open fires.
This poem first appeared as a response to the prompt GHOST TALES FROM AN IMAGINARY WESTERN over at the now sadly defunct Desperate Poets
Taking part in OpenLink Night over at dverse.
Who’s That Knockin’
It’s early in the morning
you’re sitting on the can
who’s that knockin’
who’s that knockin’
at your front door, man.
Well it could be Jesus
it could be the Pope
it could be Barrack Obama
carrying a message of hope
who’s that knockin’
who’s that knockin’
who’s that knockin’
at your front door, man
It’s early in the morning
you’re eating your raisin bran
who’s that knockin’
who’s that knockin’
at your front door, man
Well, it could be Elon Musk
it could be Jonathan Cope
it could be that kid from across the road
the one that smells of dope
who’s that knockin’
who’s that knockin’
who’s that knockin’
at your front door, man
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse.
The Poetry Superhero Convention.
What a weekend that was
truly a Marvel
all the usual suspects were there
and they were all into the sauce from the get go,
Ricky the Rhyme King did his rap routine
Simile Sal sang:
Nothing Compares to U
Assonance the Loud and Consonance the Cool hooked up again
can’t keep those two apart
and the bands
The Meta Four and The Alliteration Alliance
laid down a solid groove,
and let’s not forget the families:
the Sonnets – lovely people, very iambic
the Villanelles – again lovely people
but don’t get stuck in conversation with them
they can be a tad repetitive
the Lai’s , the Sestinas, the Rubai’s
all knocking back the vino
the Ghazals had visa problems
and couldn’t make it
but the Haiku’s and the Tanka’s
came all the way from Japan
(you don’t have to bow all the time, guys)
and the Epics were there too
it took five buses to fit them all in, but they made it.
The highlight of the weekend of course
was the Bad Pun Competition:
For Better or for Verse
and the winner for the tenth year in a row
was, yes, Logan King of the Limericks.
A great weekend indeed, all verse no chapter,
some sore heads of course
and some poetry in motion in the washrooms
but well worth it.
This is a response to Brendan’s challenge over at Desperate Poets:
“So why don’t we dream super big for one unsettling week. What would your poetry superhero or heroine look like, what would h/her powers be?”
Also taking part in Open Link over at dverse.
I was not
aware of
Botero
until I
visited
Medellin
where he is
famous for
his art and
his largesse,
one could say
his largesse
is nigh on
bottomless
but his art
it is not.
Fernando Botero, the Colombian artist, died on Friday. He was 91.
The photos were taken on a trip to Colombia.
A Pedestrian Affair
they met on a zebra crossing
it was a pedestrian affair
she had an air of competence
he……just had an air
they went downhill from there
to her house
in the middle of a roundabout
near the station
in the morning they looked out
and the cars had changed rotation
the clouds were tinged
with a tawdry shade of orange
the sky was diffident
the sun judgmental
things would not be the same
would not be the same again.
Over at Desperate Poets, Brendan asks us to take a look at illicit encounters.
Pickets in the Midnight Hour
Barbeque
A meet and greet
with meat and grease.
Father’s Day
A low metronomic plash
waves flat-lining on the shore
sailboats tacking
kayakers kayaking,
someone talking loudly
about the cost of child care,
two blankets down.
It’s Father’s day
and all the dads and kids are out
throwing ball, kicking ball
building elaborate castles in the sand
and they are not alone,
the ghosts of fathers passed are here too,
including my own;
pale-bodied, they roam the beach
wearing old-fashioned swim trunks,
grinning widely
at the continuum
of dads, kids, sun, sand and sea.
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
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 am finding this
to be true.
Father Bragg
he was a humble priest
until his altar ego
took over.
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.
Easter Monday Haiku
blue sky, scattered clouds
slow day at the pearly gates
not a soul in sight.
Stock Market Crash
a bear on the loose
the once priapic market
losing altitude
Angel on the Move.
always, yes, always
take your pedestal with you
with you when you go
Brendan’s challenge over at earthweal is to write an ekphrastic poem inspired by the images he provides or one of your own. This is one of my own but check out Brendan’s images, you will be inspired!
Also taking part in Open Link over at dverse.
Delilah
My friend, Slim Volume,
had a girlfriend once.
called Delilah.
The relationship did not last long
and it wasn’t exactly a passionate affair,
mostly they just liked to watch television together.
I’d say hey Slim, what are you up to this weekend?
and he’d reply with an I’m glad you asked grin
Samsung and Delilah, he’d say
Samsung and Delilah.
Breakfast
sometimes we travel
a long, hard road, to arrive
at the obvious:
the unbearable flatness
of pancakes in the morning.
2023 and the Second Person Singular
2023 dawns
and you’re still writing
in the second person singular
you think of the Ukraine war
and you think
satire is the first casualty of war
then you think
maybe you should throw out glibness too
you think of evil
and you see Putin’s face
you think of heroism
and you see Zelensky’s face
you think of Ukraine
and you see
headscarves and overcoats hunched around a guttering candle
and you think
this second person singular thing
is not providing the distance
you expected.
Taking part in Open Link weekend over at earthweal,
Autumnal Sketch (haiku)
trees leaking colour
like a paint store catalogue
et tu, chlorophyll!
Loose Thoughts About Change
doom has a harbinger
death has an angel
change has an agent;
if the winds of change are blowing,
staying inside is always an option;
to embrace change
put your hand in your pocket.
Repartee
Slim gets off the no.3 bus
at the corner of Hastings and Main
-the corner of Desperate and Lost-
having travelled east on the 99 express,
his nose stuck in the feral stink
of some guy’s armpit,
wishing, not for the first time,
that he was six inches taller.
A country lyric twangs in his head
something about “the losing side of town”.
He surveys the wreckage all around him:
a guy with a raw scabrous face
scratches frantically;
a bundle of rags twitches in a doorway;
people are scurrying back and forth
like they’ve received a message
from an alien dispatcher
that the mother ship has landed,
and they can’t find a toothbrush;
further on in a laneway that smells of piss
a man and a woman, both dressed in black
with sweating raddled faces
sway back and forth shouting:
Fuck you! No! Fuck you!
in a profane loop.
Repartee, Slim says,
to no one in particular,
what an unexpected bonus.
This poem first appeared in The Galway Review
Taking part in OpenLink over at dverse
Tracker
No sign of them for days
then a raven rising above the trees
seen from a boat on the swirling river
leads the tracker
to the bodies of the killers
mosquito whine, black flies buzzing
a homicide, then a suicide
evil turning on itself.
Taking part in the Quadrille (44 word poem) prompt over at dverse. The prompt word is “track”!
The Unbearable Lightness of Verse 8
he was a tautology
an oxymoron
a figure of speech
an agnostic
an atheist
he beggared belief
he was terminally contradictory
though he would say
he was not
he was a man for all seasonings
but not paprika
not bergamot.
Taking part in OpenLinkNight over at dverse.
After the Queen’s Funeral
after 10 days of pomp, mourning
and celebrity tears
the evening news with alarming insouciance
reverts to reality
the high cost of bananas
the prices at the pump
the war in Ukraine
another climate change catastrophe
the door slams shut on a fairy tale world
of kings, queens, princes and princesses
palaces, country estates, horses, hounds, corgis
and armor that’s always shining.
Summer has left the building
is already in the limo
snorting white powder
drinking champagne
dupes, fall guys
we wait for the encore
ignoring the bouncer
pointing to the door .
Taking part in OpenLink over at dverse
Stopdraggingthepanda 