Explanation

A replica will not be found in any book...
Look for a dog with big ears, and perhaps,
chaps, you will see what I see.
Heehee! No, not three, but two eyes... and his nose
goes according to plan. Man! He's ugly, though,
so be kind.
Find one small thing to inspire,
fire your imagination. Perhaps his long(ue ?)
tongue (hung left) is panting,
wanting water, or a friend to lick.
Quick!

Who will come to his rescue? Will you, Tess? For it is your Mag 218 which caused his creation thanks to Salvador Dali's equally strange image :-)

At The Going Down Of The Sun

Original Image by Penny Smith

Stillness spreads
over the landscape
as evening
stands poised on the horizon
   of another day.

An edit of something I wrote earlier, updated and posted for Poetry Jam.

Prepare Yourself

Pull up a side table equipped with snack, thermos and mug;
plug in the computer and prepare to feed the muse.
Use words floating in the air
where many books have left reading sessions'
impressions on the room's ambiance.
Dalliance with famous writer's ideas
appears to make our own, grow.
So devour the library from 'aye' to 'zee'.
See? Home comforts will
still be on offer to provide some
fun, as you can (between each scribble)
nibble on another toothsome,
winsome, chocolate coated digestive -
festive fare with style. 
Smile!!

Written for Tess at The Mag 217

Suitcase

Similar image found on eBay

Pack my life in a suitcase,
like one I had as a child,
with brown cardboard corners
rubbed grey and tin handle rattling,
as it lollops side to side
between silver  flip-clips
which open to display
a retro paper lining...

In first, goes a layer of war-torn sounds
to cower in corners.
Cover them with school uniforms
and scatter primrose memories
of picnics in the woods.

Layer paintings from college
with tears from teen dramas, until
confetti and a wedding veil shroud them
in mists of time, and baby powder scent
sends kisses and cuddles whirling
in ever growing spirals towards adulthood.

Tissue paper days of work and ageing,
of living, of loving, of life itself,
sandwich together as I press down
the lid to preserve my memories.

Margaret at IGWRT's set me off on a strange tack today, with her talk of asylums and artistic impressions...I hope my padded cell is ready?!

 “Write a poem that is full of personal emotion, sentiment, longing, confusion… wherever your mind takes you.”

This was a sentence near the end of the diatribe that I chose to focus on, as the rest was too depressing for words, and the mention of all the suitcases left behind did the rest…

There's No Accounting...

...for the way a prompt can lead the mind into lateral thinking. As I saw a Poetry Jam post on my long deserted reading list, and noticed the word 'Deserts', my initial reaction was to flip to 'desserts' an often mis-spelt, dictionary neighbour, but then two words took its place - arid desert. Is that tautology, I wonder? Nevertheless, it reminded me of a sad little poem I'd written in the days of my youth, which I decided to resurrect in the hope that some Poetry Jam sweetness might result, thereby  adding to its flavour. Not all deserts are sandy!

Apparition

Do I create you
from my own wishes
when suddenly you appear
at unexpected times?
I know when you're nearby.
Unbidden, my mind creates
a vacuum of suspense
and your form rushes
to fill the void
and breathe new life
into my existing  being.

Nothing can parallel
the surge of joy
that such chance meeting brings.
Love’s blossom blooms
in the arid desert of a day
till then without you
and my very soul takes wing.

P.S. Perhaps I should change the title to 'Mirage'?!

Easter Monday

Yellow-green gold, Euonymus leaves shine,
basking in their own beauty. Day uncurls
towards noon and flowers unfurl petals,
yawning, blinking into startled life. Birds
serenade Spring, composing symphonies
no pen could capture within black barred lines
of manuscript, perches only for notes
which can never be caged. And Easter-time
echos a message of hope around the world.


Written for IGWRT's Open Link Monday, this bright morning.

Refuge

Beyond the plantation, a mysterious glow lit the horizon. It seemed to creep closer, until it had outlined both young and old, and its energy drew them inexorably towards the source.

Indistinct bell-tones echoed through the crisp air, strands of notes swirling like garlands, to drape tree branches and shoulders alike.

There was a feeling of calm, and a great sense of homecoming as the people quickened their steps, eager to the reach their destination and begin a new life.

Written for The Mag  Thanks to Tess for the prompt, and to George F. Mobley, from whose photo 'Finland 1968' I chose this detail to play with.

Terri Daktill

Terri Daktill was a bird
without much wing or feather.
But in his mind he was quite sure
he was the best bird ever.

He strutted across desert plains
defying wind and weather.
But now his bones are fossilised
until the twelfth of never.

For he fell into a weed strewn pond
which had a muddy bottom,
and over time this mud ensured
he'd never be forgotten.

Terri is secure at last
thanks to primordial slime;
an image from our ancient past
he's a relic fused in time.

Earlier in the week I watched a great BBC program about a world heritage site in Messel, Germany, which has produced a wealth of fantastic fossils. I am indebted to that for my inspiration, as well as Tess and her Mag picture by Balthus, from which I produced this image.