Bliss is ...

Bliss is having 

one upon whom 

to lavish love.

It is having 

my small cat

to coo over,

rubbing my face

on soft fur,

murmuring silly endearments,

hearing her purr.

How Not to Behave in a Posh Hotel

Selected a sliver, palest green,

from the side plate. Bit into it.

My teeth melted. The top of my head 

blew off. I reached over, grabbed and 

downed a complete stranger’s milkshake.

‘What was THAT?’ (when I could 

breathe).‘Oh, a raw tabasco pepper.’

For the latest Monday Quadrille at dVerse, we are asked

to write 44 words, including 'pepper'.

I miss my dear friend Philip ...

I miss my dear friend Philip, who, older than me, 

died too many years ago – so close and confidential

a chum, many believed we were secret lovers. (No, 

but we told only each other about the ones who were.)

I could phone him after midnight, knowing he too 

would be awake alone at his desk, working on poetry

(just a few streets away, which was somehow warming). 

When I couldn’t choose between several good options

for one of my poems – as I can’t now (not this one) – he

could always put his finger right on it, and also tell me why.

If you needed ...

If you need to assemble something complicated, 

such as a new bench-top kitchen trolley, make 

sure you have a good neighbour!

One prepared to sit

and crawl around

on your kitchen floor.

If there was one screw missing, 

would he go fetch one from his house?

What do you think?

In the story ...

In the story I’m reading, a girl turns twelve. 

On my twelfth birthday my parents gave me a notebook 

with a glossy black cover and a small, slender fountain pen 

that had rainbow spots embedded in the dark blue barrel 

like flecks of light. I was already a poet, as they knew. 

 

I still have the book, worn and faded now: several years of 

youthful poems. I still think some are pretty darn good.

my childhood notebook

a diary in verse — a friend,

reading it later 

 

On a still, cold night ...

On a still, cold night, the few sounds – 

a lone car, a distant train, a dog barking 

briefly – could all break my heart.

They sound so lonely, so haunting.

Something, or someone, is leaving. 

Someone or something has gone.

Am I longing for the return? Or do I yearn 

to be setting out myself on a far journey?

My Tarot deck ...

My Tarot deck gave me Sorrow (Three of Swords) for today, with the addendum that it can mean getting over sorrow. The day revealed that it wasn’t a sorrow of my own I’d meet, but a friend’s – a friend who needed me to listen and hear. I don’t think that cured the sorrow, but perhaps, for one day, made it easier to bear. 

our conversation

goes from sombre to laughing –

it fills up the day

This is the card, from the Lioness Oracle Tarot which I'm playing with lately. Interesting that the (non-traditional) image could represent one person comforting another.

Oh, the dark …

Oh, the dark comes down. Close the curtains, 

switch on the oil heater, lay a blanket by it so 

my little cat can hug it all night.

It’s only 5pm. 

With dark comes cold.

With  cold, unease.

What was it in childhood

made the cold (not the dark)

so deeply to be dreaded?

Yes, I have fallen in love with the liwuli. I hear tell that other poets  all over the internet have done so too.

More and more ...

More and more, these days, I wander in my memories, ranging over many years, events, places ... particular people ...

I wonder if I am doing a kind of life review, instinctively preparing for the death which must one day come. I feel fully alive, and healthy enough, but each day which staves off death also brings it one day closer. That is just the nature of things.

late autumn —

on my geranium

still one bloom

Written for the latest Haibun Monday at dVerse, where we were invited to write on the theme of memory.

One will ...

One will have to go first. I’m older, but we’re 

close in age and, I think, health. Either might 

be left asking how, then, she’ll navigate.

Keepers 

of all each other’s secrets 

till death, and beyond –

how will it feel, when one can’t tap

the other’s understanding

and point of view?

Keep enemies close?

Keep enemies close? No, I excise them out of my life. Block from phone, email, facebook. Move off their radar; remove them from mine.

I know of only four. One 

(a jealous colleague)

has died. 

What are your memories of me now – 

you others, whose fierce love 

turned fiercer hate?

Trying a liwuli, which I learned from dsnake1.

Suddenly one runs out of time ...

Suddenly one runs out of time –

or at any rate the large, leisurely 

stretching of it ahead. Suddenly

it becomes truncated, inevitably,

no matter how long it may still 

have to run. All those ideas you had, 

for playing with different poetic forms 

or mining gems from your old journals,

they are all blowing away on the wind.

I decide, most days, just to do living.

 

Is it a waste of my days ...

Is it a waste of my days to read beautiful books 

instead of writing them? To watch fantastic stories

brought to the screen instead of divulging on the page 

my own fantastical life experiences? To spend time

smooching with my cat instead of doing the dusting?

To have a long phone call with an old friend, rather than

getting my ironing finished? To ponder the messages

in my Tarot cards while ignoring those in the newspaper?

Will all this leisurely self-indulgence make me old, or

keep me young? The terrible truth is, I’m doing it anyway.

Late afternoon light ...

Late afternoon

light on my garden.

Not a breeze.

Not a sound.

How easy to slip into

a matching stillness.

I’m not sure if my dreams ...

I’m not sure if my dreams

are mirroring my life, or

my life my dreams – only

when I wake, fragments

of the fantastic are left with 

me in those dim memories 

from a busy night, also arise 

new as I walk about my day.

Written for the Quadrille, 'Mirror, Mirror on the wall' at dVerse, and as one of the daily small poems I've set myself to write this year.