1886 - My Pets

My Pets

 For the last sixty years or so

Creatures shared in my roadshow:

Some hidden, some on display

More dependants, I would say—

Cats and dogs and the ATO.

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For the overseas folk: ATO = Australian Taxation Office.

Prompt from What’s Going On

1885 - The Club

 

Image by ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece

limits list still bill smoke ring distant wish silky spill fit key 

Poets & Storytellers asked us to take inspiration from bookshelves.

The Club

The first thing that you see 

Is all the books:

They cover many of the walls

Of the premises.  Wall-paper.

Browsers—the traditional kind,

Search through them.

Others are absorbed in a book—

And a Chesterfield,

Sitting still, distant, wishing, dreaming.

A waitress appears and disappears

Into the mahogany shadows,

A silky smooth apparition,

Like a swirl of smoke,

To appear as needed 

No need to ring, she knows.

Coffee, liqueurs, cold drinks

Latte, aperitif, amuse bouche.

No bills, accounts are mailed.

A board on the wall lists options

Little changes though—

The room drips history, consistency.

Change of any sort doesn’t fit.

There are limits here—

understood, not stated.

This is another world

Nothing spills into it.  Or out.

That is the key to its charm.

And success.

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1884 - The Meeting

 

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  
rifle grass flush steam radiance beetle perfume drifted swaying hypnotic hiss skin

Didn't use steam but it was steamy enough.

Poets and Storyteller's prompt was 'desserts'.  Getting them?

The Meeting 

“He’s away.
On a business trip.”

Their eyes ask,
their eyes answer.
The bodies concur.

They walk to the beach,
a rug on the grass.

She undoes
his shirt,
slowly—
fabric loosening,
intent made clear.

He turns her,
breathes her in—
perfume,
hypnotic,
entrancing.

The hiss of satin
sliding over skin.
Iridescent fabric,
a green beetle,
falls to the ground.

She turns to face him—
unabashed,
natural radiance.

Skin on skin.
No questions.
Only answers.

Swaying together,
the rhythm of waves
drifting in
from the beach.

Time loosens.
Breath deepens.
A faint flush,
warmth rising,
then quiet.

He kneels up,
looking down at her
lying before him.

Behind him,
nearby,
very close—

the unmistakable sound
of a rifle
being cocked.

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1883 - Times Three

 

Photo: from our garden, with watercolour filter overlay.

What's Going On has the prompt: Write a poem of THREE stanzas only.  
Begin the first stanza with the word "Yesterday".  
Begin the second stanza with the word "Today".  
And begin the third stanza with the word "Tomorrow".

Times Three

Yesterday is golden,

Viewed through gauze.

It can be perfectly good—

Or irretrievably bad.

Or sometimes a mixture of the two.

Defying change or correction.

It is nuggets of memory,

Sifted from the mud 

Of day-to-day life.

Snippets.  Snapshots.

Usually wrong.

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Today is blunt.

Stuff to do.

Wash.  Clean.

Mow the grass.

Empty the bins.

Chop wood.

Water seedlings.

Hang stuff.

Fold stuff.

Cook meals.

The tyranny of now.

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Tomorrow is uncertain.

Dreams. Wishes. Aspirations.

These are the seed trays

Of the days to come—

The perennial plants 

In the garden of hope.

But it is by no means

A certain harvest:

Weeds. Drought. Pests—

Birds poo on your crop.

Tomorrow’s tomorrow?

Plant again.

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1883 - The Table

 The Table

I'm sitting here, at the head of the table.

A table of memories, past and present—

Its origins long ago, as tall timber,

The meals shared with family and friends.

I made the table and, loyally, it has followed me.

Tonight, as head of the table,

At the head of the table,

I look at it and cherish the story 

It is telling me tonight.

Four pomegranates, the fruit of love,

From my love, sit before me.

A vase of tall, yellow...yes, yellow,

Rebellious flowers, not destined to see

The light of Thursday.

There is artwork in progress.

This table is not a decoration,

It is a meeting place.

Serviettes, pens, placemats, napkins, scissors,

The paperwork for a future audit.

The remnants of a meal.

A printout of John O'Donahue's

Grace for Meals, read not memorised

But digested before the meal,

Reflecting the gratitude for the meal to come

And gratitude to the lady 

Who introduced me to it.

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1882 - A Party on the Beach

 

MLMM Monday Wordle invites us to write a piece using the following words:

share, clock, hand, party, warm, fried, crisp, cold, hard, enough, brown, safe.

A Party on the Beach

Hard.  Cold.  Utilitarian.

Municipal concrete seats,

Painted brown.

The lap of the waves,

Regular as clockwork.

The steely eyes of the gulls,

Wanting their share—

Wanting it all really.

A hand delves inside 

The warm newspaper parcel.

Old school.  No boxes here.

Inside, fried, crisp, warming—

Chips and battered fish.

Man eating shark.

The gulls fidget, edge closer.

Wings give them courage,

Make them feel safe enough

To gate crash.  

A flourish of unwanted chips—

A melee of beaks and wings.

Then… gone. 

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1881 - He Said No.

   Image: ChatGPT 

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

stalk sky luck harness pepper jewel ribbon splash layers set light face

Poets & Storytellers posed the question: 

'The world feels completely meaningless. Why f**king bother?' 

My answer?  Because you can.

He said No.

Luck was not involved.

Consciously…

He had shed his harness.

Consciously…

He had cut the ties,

The cords, the sashes, the ribbons—

The golden chains

Of social expectations

That stalked his daily life.

Consciously…

He turned his back on his old life

And set his face to the wind.

Consciously…

He let layers of social obligations

Fall away unwanted.

But here’s the thing—

Did this cause a splash?

Did people try to change his mind,

Pepper him with fears and doubts?

To see the light and return

To the jewelled cage of… 

Of what?

Of course they did.

The lead sheep is always trouble, they say.

He looked them in the eye

Consciously…

He looked to the sky.

Consciously…

He said No.

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1880 - This poem...

 

What's going on suggested we write a poem that starts with the words:

This poem…

“What a strange way to start” he thought.

This poem… and now what?

It has no objective, no destination.

How do you write to something like that?

Well, this poem makes no sense.

Perhaps it is not meant to?

Is it meant to be a limerick?

Perhaps.

◊

There was a old poet of Oz

Who rambled rather lost becoz

The topic prescribed

Was poorly described

And he had no idea where he woz.

◊

No, this poem isn’t a limerick.

And too long to be a haiku.  Or is it?

◊

No topic to use—

The Keyboard rattles about

Producing some words.

◊

Hmmm…technical rather than emotional.

Or a villanelle perhaps?

Please God, no, not  a villanelle.

There is nothing for it.

This poem is over.

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1879 - Scuttle Rebuttal

 

Scuttle Rebuttal

Clouds don’t scuttle across the sky.

I just fail to understand why

Some poets insist that they do.

These are adept wordsmiths who

Should know better than to try

To take a fluffy cloud and apply

Words that sit awkwardly awry,

Totally ignoring the truth that’s due—

Clouds don’t scuttle.

Crabs will scuttle, if you drop by.

Cockroaches too, but late at night.

People at airports scuttle too.

But clouds just drift across the blue—

Putting paid to that poetic lie.

Clouds don’t scuttle.

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1878 - Moving Out

 

  Image: ChatGPT 

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

ravenous lurked shame space found glass hollow flicker rattled slip red crash

Poets & Storytellers suggested Legacy

dVerse Poets also have an Open Link night.

Moving Out

I

My mother chose to move out.

When I found her, strangely trussed,

The note said “Do not resuscitate”.

A second note, reflecting her shame,

Apologised for the mess.

But there was none.

Just a hollowness.  Gone.

II

I opened her wooden dresser.

Things rattled strangely in the void:

Glasses, crystal, treasured items

From a long and eventful life.

Now just things.  Mum’s things.

Slips, her red cardigan, coats,

Woolly hats—they all smelled of her.

III

Three stuffed fabric hearts beside the bed,

Spaced out evenly and labelled:

Dad. Me. Her.  And her watch.

Did ghosts lurk in the house?

No.  No ghosts.  Just memories.

Are memories ghosts?  Maybe.

Pieces of her life flicker and shine,

But they are Mum’s sparkle, not mine.

I pack them carefully.

Outside, the birds sing.

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1877 - Mind Games

   Image: ChatGPT 

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

mind visit thinking creature exists criminal know dirt walk head writer rumbles

Poets & Storytellers offered us some quotes to use.  I chose:

“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” ~ George Orwell 

Mind Games

Writer: OK, time to write something. (Stares at blank page…)

Writer’s Mind: It’s April you could write Aprilly is that word things I wonder showers April has showers is that a northern hemisphere thing didn’t Orwell write something about April clocks that’s it clocks in April striking thirteen unlucky for some why only somewhat unclear overcast showers mud dirt take your shoes off before coming in to what eat maybe rumbling tummy ordered breakfast where is it thunder rumbles rain forecast should I walk home is where the heart is hearth too shouldn’t worry wrinkles and ulcers op soon write while in post op don’t know probably whacked who’s to know no to know no-know words exist meaning is optional subjective no use if meaning not understood cool isn’t necessarily cool Granny said things were criminal but they broke no laws are made to be broken records repeat repeat repeat like my thinking doesn’t make it so what Shakespeare I think or not to be sure what now where was I for an eye seems harsh I’m sure creatures don’t do that clash horns then graze side by side calmer life brutal too at times are a changing what does that mean where are they going who knows chop it off to spite yourself visit clinic here sew it back to the future do I want to go there sorry I wandered off where were we trying to find a writing topic to meet the prompt hardly.

Writer: (still looking at the blank page) *sigh*

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1876 - The Taste of Life

 

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

taste summer sweetness snap rush half resin turn melts luck passion hand

dVerse Poet's Pub has the prompt "Comfort Food".

Poets and Storyteller asked us to write on what we feel deeply.  Food!

The Taste of Life

Preamble

I have been lucky, blessed

With a family that cooks—

A passion that nourishes.

I

Apricots

The early fruit of summer.

My mother would slice them

Onto fresh, buttered bread,

Sprinkle on cinnamon

And a little brown sugar

For added sweetness.

Served on pine floorboard off cuts.

The taste has been stored for a lifetime.

II

Gravy beef,

The cheapest of cuts.

Slow cooked until it melts—

A rich, gelatinous meat,

Served with sliced potato

And mum's special coleslaw:

Half cabbage, half tinned pineapple.

The taste has been stored for a lifetime.

III

Mrs Kier.  No first name.

Granny’s sister ironed her shirts

And was given the recipe

For a rich dark fruitcake.

Granny would regularly turn out

A cake, sometimes iced, often not,

For all family occasions.

Hand mixed, no rush, delicious.

The taste has been stored for a lifetime.

IV

Burnt butter.

Sounds a disaster but it’s not.

Burnt Butter biscuits

With half an almond on top.

The smell is rich, unique, 

And should they cool—

They snap 

And crumble as you eat them.

The taste has been stored for a lifetime.

Postscript

The taste has been stored for a lifetime.

But, in truth, the recipes live on—

In the repertoire of sons and grandsons.

The people too—my mum, my grandma.

Who else but us now remembers Mrs Kier?

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1875 - You Never Know

 

 Modified by ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

facade doubts curiosity bitter torn hit restless hope massive frail strip sting

Poets & Storytellers has the prompt "looking back".

You Never Know.

The Elder

I was young, I was raw,

I was full of idealism and hope.

The world was wondrous 

And I was very curious.

The Youth

I am young, I am raw,

I am full of idealism and hope,

I am curious, but full of doubts too.

Confident, restless, reckless,

I put up a façade.

The Elder

Now, my journey nears its end.

I am frail and getting tired,

I am not bitter, but alone

I wonder—

What’s it all been about?

The Youth

What to do? Where to go?

I am torn between choices—

What is the right path to take?

Could I be making a massive mistake?

Will my choices hit their mark?

The Elder

There was no right or wrong.

Life’s decisions were made

And it unrolled accordingly.

That is the sting, I guess—

You never know.

The Youth

Is there a right or wrong?

If my choices are wise… or otherwise

Life will unroll accordingly.

That is the sting, I guess—

I will never know.

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1874 - Denial

 Poets and Storytellers invites us to use “the world is burning, but…”  in a writing piece.

Denial

The government happily kicks it,
Down the road of "voters will nix it".
The world is burning, but… 
There's a complacency glut
And a hope that someone will fix it.

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1873 - What did we lose?

 Modified on-line image.

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

colony rattling still lose crunch life fits hunch scan packages grasping chains

What did we lose?

“Perfection of means and confusion of goals

 seem to characterise our age.” 

— Einstein

Chains clank.

Unseen things rattle.

Here and there a crunch.

Boxes jostle on roller tracks.

Robot arms grasp packages

Moving them smoothly

From machine to machine,

From track to track,

Scanning, labelling,

Fitting them into pallets—

There is noise everywhere.

But beneath it all—

A strange stillness.

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It looks like a bustling colony,

Never stopping, never still, it bustles—

But it is devoid of life,

The thing that drives bustle.

It hums—

But there is no-one humming,

No-one hunched over screens,

No-one pushing buttons—

Just machines.

The robots are here.

What did we gain?

And what did we lose?

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