This is my version
of an imaginary person.
I will call her Jinx.
The name stinks,
for it reeks of pranks -
the kind folks murmur "No thanks!"
to; folks on whom tricks,
like a ton of bricks,
Ones who missed out on the gene
for humour. Know what I mean?
Jinx, on the other hand,
how a quick quip
into a conversation
like a well placed decoration,
cause a smile or a giggle
without causing a wriggle
She likes to please,
make the world a better place
by bringing a smile to its face!
Fireblossom, at IGWRT asked for a newly written poem about someone who inspires us. Hehehe! So here you are... sort of...
If life were a film, our mistakes
could be out-takes. Bloopers? Cut!
What a mutt!
Did I fall into the trap
of meeting the wrong chap
in my teens,
saying goodby to dreams?
But times change.
expectations and realise,
to our surprise,
life lead to 'now'!
Beyond Mother Hen days, life starts again.
The feathered nest with no rest
transmutes to a time when 'us' and 'we'
shrinks to 'me', and I may at last fly...
In realms of myth and fantasy the Green Man has survived.
From far away as pagan times I think he's lived and thrived
within the minds of country folk, through good times, or through bad,
and this kind of longevity is anything but sad.
Fruitful gifts of mother earth have morphed into a man
in this, my painted image - ignore him if you can!
Thanks to Tess at Mag 120 and Klaus Enrique Gerdes, whose image below sparked all of the above!
A blind, half pulled down, curtains, half drawn, maintain privacy but let outsiders see the light which, by night, stems lunacy.
For darkness encourages many stages of madness; wild imaginings which seem to tinge dreams with their sadness
as daylight fades from the sky and we humans shy away from phantoms and other shades which we may ignore by day.
Detail from a painting by Edward Hopper, which featured in Mag 119 thanks to Tess. I've tried to follow a rhyme scheme used in Welsh poetry, which was first brought to my notice on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.
Their nerves have been conquered, the battle is won;
two barefoot artistes are finally done.
Now, these high-wire acrobats bow to the crowd
who clap and applaud them. The music sings loud
from brassy gold instruments glinting in lights
of the circus Big Tent, this Saturday night.
Children and parents on ranged tiers of seats
anticipate multiple breathtaking feats
thanks to animal trainers, to jugglers, to clowns,
to spangle-clothed ladies who jump up, then down
from galloping horses which race round and round
while the ringmaster's whip cracks its pistol shot sound.
The colour and movement both serve to enhance
the skill of performers who thrill and entrance
every new audience, day after day,
till it's time for the circus to be on its way.
Then the tents and the caravans all disappear -
and folks are heard shouting "Come back next year!"
Words and picture inspired by Mag #118, thanks to Tess and Marc Chagall.
In 1079, William the Conqueror designated the New Forest, in Hampshire, as a royal forest and hunting ground., and you can read more about its history if you click HERE.
I found many photos on the web, including this free one... But idyllic as it seems, there is a darker side to this well known beauty spot, where life sometimes hangs in the balance, and this is what prompted me to write a series of shadormas for Poetry Jam today.
For any who have yet to encounter one of these, let me explain. It is a six line, unrhymed 'verse' whose syllable count follows this pattern: 3/5/3/3/7/5.
And the second photo tells its own story...
Ponies graze; the forest is theirs and freedom to wander has been an unquestioned right for centuries past.
Dry summer is an enemy; potential to kill lurks among fronds of dead bracken's natural tinder.
Unwary, unthinking humans cause chaos, their litter ready to spark disaster, and let loose fire...
I have a blind spot.
the usual kind
that you might find
where my seeing fails,
wind taken from my sails,
I've lost sight of love.
Has push come to shove?
Has the cost
of loving lost
I'm not sure...
But still I must
It would be missed
by more than I,
if it should die..
Poetry Jam asked us to consider the word 'blind' - and this is my interpretation.
I'm the Cookie Monster.
I lived inside a jar,
till someone took the lid off -
and well, now, there you are!
Or rather, that's where I am -
all free and on the loose.
But freedom, I've discovered,
is not a lot of use
when you haven't got a body,
let alone a pair of feet,
and now the jar is empty,
I've nothing left to eat!
Original image by Manu Pombrol used by Tess for Mag #115
My long time Blogpal and verbal fencing partner, Doctor FTSE, has seen fit to write 55 words about **the pros and cons of horses as house pets ! Yes folks! But remember, his blog name 'Stop!...This is getting very SILLY' does give you fair warning... And Jinksy, or even Jinksie, can rise to that Footsie humorous challenge, like so...
Thanks to indecipherable photographer!
In the question of horses for courses
dear Doc Footsie has plenty to learn.
His idea for changing a light bulb
is one I would certainly spurn.
I ask you, a horse in the house? Man!
Imagine the mess that might cause?
For dirty great dollops of horse dung
are most certainly best left outdoors.
And thanks to G-Man for whom I have penned a Friday ditty in 55 words.
** Click on these words to read all about it.
Late Night Extra : Or now, clickon these, to see how Caddoc Trellis has horned in on the act!
For this week's Mag #113 prompt Tess gave us a picture by Marc Chagall, called 'Red Roofs'. I have taken a detail and adapted it to fit my tale, told in four shadormas - syllabic verses which follow a pattern of 3/5/3/3/7/5, in six lines.
on his sleeve.
is not an occupation
which he can enjoy.
upwards from the roof.
on his back
burns through the material
of a cotton shirt.
of coming winter's
wind and rain
him to continue labour
with no thought of rest.
But when storms
rage round his homestead,
this day's work with gratitude,
all pain forgotten.
First came the nest.
Then all the rest,
No further reason
needed for a pair
of birds, except where...
and how many eggs to lay.
a Mummy duck laid one.
"Way-hey! here I come!"
her duckling peeped
as the water seeped
"It's grim. I must swim!"
I'm not like that man.
take off his shoes
to stay nest-bound,
on the ground.
I shall head for the high seas
if it please
me. My brain's not addled."
And off he paddled...
This is the Mag #111 picture by ParkeHarrison, which sent me dashing for my computer wizardry. This happened to give me the gift of duck 'shape', eventually. It set me versifying.April Fool's Day seemed an opportune date for such an offering....
The one between life and laughter, I mean - though cooking and recipes connect well, too! Poetry Jam is responsible for this mixture.
Cooking is a gentle art –
until one day it falls apart
and best laid plans of recipes
come unstuck, for all to see!
A cake that’s soggy in the middle
will maybe give the cook a giggle,
when he sees the state it’s in,
before he lobs it in the bin!
But one ingredient never mentioned,
even by the well intentioned,
is a special sense of humour.
It’s a fact, not just a rumour,
that laughing at the trials of life
will add a very special spice
to every dish, both sweet and savoury and it won’t add a single calorie!