To Look or To Be?

 

If I need a lewk, can it be

Morticia Addams; or would that be

delulu? New hair would be

a must, but you know I’d be

so fine in black. Now, don’t you be

telling the broligarchy! They be

hating witches; so then where’d I be?

 For Friday Writings #192 at Poets and Storytellers United, we are asked to explore or include the following words: delulu, lewk, broligarchy. This is when I know I'm old! The prompt is not compulsory, so I needn't have done it, but I thought I'd have a go. However, I didn't love these words enough to really enjoy them.

PS I hoped that ending each line with the same word might help make some sort of poetry out of  this piece of nonsense.

(Morticia Addams came to mind because I have been enjoying the second season of  'Wednesday' lately – and yes, I am very old: I've been wanting to look like Morticia since Carolyn Jones inhabited the role.)

TV News (Australia)

 

Thousands march 

in our major cities.

(I too, if younger, fitter.)

No mere rumpus,

although impassioned.

Determination!

One placard arrests me:

WAR CRIMES ARE NOT

SELF-DEFENCE. 

Next, an overseas bulletin. 

I recoil, shriek,

cover my eyes. 

Children’s bones 

poke like sticks

through empty skin.

Written for dVerse, for Quadrille #230: Let's kick up a rumpus! (44 words excluding title, which must include the  word 'rumpus'.)

Comments are disabled for this post. (I appreciate that the topic is very hard for any of us to engage with, and I don't wish to start a quarrel here – but sometimes a poet must speak up, as a matter of  honour. You are of course free to use your own poems, on your own blogs, to express yourself on this subject if you feel an urgency to address it.)

My Cat, Poppi

 

This little one, neatly made, quick to jump to a high place, either for resting or vantage, or with tiny paws flip a blanket over her own curved, snuggling back: agile, heat-seeking, comfort-loving, curious, adept … changeable moment to moment, yet she is definite, predictable: creating her life with both whim and established habit.

A fine intelligence shines from her eyes. She is knowing, sums me up every moment. She is wise, accepting my limitations: I’m only human. She is demanding, knowing her due; miaowing bugle-call loud when she needs: food / a clean litter tray / scritches and cuddles (reasonable demands, I say).

Tit for tat. When I stroke or hug her, she purrs deep, nestles in. I kiss the top of her dainty, wee head. One afternoon, lying down for a nap, I rouse to find her licking my hair just where it edges my forehead – grooming me, like one of her kittens. 

The smallest cat I ever had, and the sweetest-natured, she is nevertheless queen of her domain. I only live here. 

We both know my function: to care. We both know hers: to be, thereby to delight.

~ Small cat in high place, with blanket and view ~

Written for FridayWritings #191: Small but Beautiful, at Poets and Storytellers United. I've also attempted to write this as a flash poem: a form of prose poetry characterised by brevity and intensity. (My first attempt. Not sure I've pulled it off.)

Stopping Time

 Prison Suicide 1982

You had to go. I know you had to go. 

How could you have stayed, to moulder? 

(Would you have mouldered? I don’t know.

I know nothing. I know I know nothing.)

What good would it have done you to stay, 

seeing, only from Inside, the way the world 

would move, open out, the whole vast realm

of the Internet happening so soon – ten years

or thereabouts, in Australia. We might have sent 

emails! Would that have been allowed? What

do prisoners do now? How do the screws

keep track of words going in and out?

I don’t, I discover, see you ever getting 

away. Well, maybe when you were very old.

I’m old now. You’d always have been

younger. As it is, you are forever young –

you who grew old as time, in the time you 

served. At last you made time serve you,

cutting it off suddenly, interrupting 

no, not time so much as that place

where They wanted you to stay. Where,

having freed yourself, strangely you do stay.

Find the back story in my memoir, Breaking Into Pentridge Prison: Memories of darkness and light. Available as paperback from Pentridge Prison Inside Out. Soon to be available as an ebook on Amazon.

None Will Last

 

None of it will last, the poet said, 

contemplating a seascape, a loud 

sunset, a quiet tree. And she cried. 

This poet says: True. It won’t last, but it

is here now and I can love it now. It must 

go; I can’t stop that. Lord knows, I tried 

in my long lifetime, but those who might have 

prevented the decline of all this beauty, didn’t.

However, every moment is the past. This sea 

changes every second. Let alone every day, 

month, century …  This tree likewise; and often

the sunsets will soften or mute. And yes, even 

the whole world may collapse any minute. But 

I am here now, in my short life, and I love it.

The poet quoted in first line: Diane Seuss, in Frank.

Pretty Speeches

 

He jabbers of nothing

in empty sweet-speak;

refining its shape,

giving a tweak.

Then he adds tinsel,

a sequin or two,

a frill of paper lace,

and hands it to you.

Are your eyes alight?

How trite,

how absurd!

He means not a word.

Written for dVerse's Quadrille #229: Shall We Jabber On? (44 words not counting the title, including some form of the word 'jabber'.)

The Virgin Queen

 

Why is it so surprising? Unbelievable; they had to

make up salacious rumours, disbelieving, making her

a cheat, a secret wanton – but not so extremely unnatural

as to deny the satisfaction of a male body inserted

between her royal thighs, into her female person.

She was wiser, I believe: having seen what men

may do to women who cede them the power

of possession. She, of all women, had the position

to retain power, supreme, but only if she never.

Also, perhaps, surrounded by schemers, such desire might kill 

a man she cared for. (Did she in truth care, as rumoured, for Tom Seymour, the tempter? It’s said he was handsome and charming, but 

we know she refused his early proposals of marriage.) In any case, 

virgin need not mean lacking: all power kept in her own hands.

(After revisiting material about the Tudor Queen Elizabeth, one of my favourite characters in history, and also reading Diane Seuss’s wonderful sonnets, which break nearly all the formal rules. I don't think this is quite a Seussian sonnet, which is characterised by very personal subject matter among other things, but it fits the wide variety of  'contemporary sonnets'.)

Shining Silver

 

Is it something about being a witch? For my jewellery, I have always preferred silver to gold. I notice many witches do. After all, it goes so well with black! (That’s a joke. Witches don’t really dress only in black.)

We do all love the silvery moon. (Gold is the colour of the sun.)

 

My favourite silver earrings are odd – a pentacle in one ear, a Scorpio sign in the other. They were meant to be pendants, but I replaced the chains with hooks. (A pentacle is a five-pointed star within a circle. In America – I found out when I was there – they call that a pentagram. No-one knew what I meant when I said ‘pentacle’! We’re not exactly in disagreement, but elsewhere we say ‘pentagram’ to mean only the five-pointed star with no surrounding circle.)

I used to wear many rings. Since COVID, with all that hand sanitising, I mostly wear only two, one on each forefinger. They are silver rings with no stones. They sit quite flat, you see. (They bind me to two pantheons. One is a Celtic knot, the other a scarab.)

‘Gold glows,’ says my friend who is not a witch, to explain why she prefers it. I tell her, ‘Silver shines.’

winter dark –

the waning moon

a silver sliver

Written for dVerse Haibun Monday: Silver

Also sharing with Poets and Storytellers United for FridayWritings #190: Summerween! Summerween is a summer version of Halloween. I didn't write to this optional prompt, but I'm at least sharing something witchy. (Smile.)

Your Life Is Not Wasted If ...

 

[Not a poem; a reflection.]

Someone told me: ‘I feel I’ve wasted my life.’ I was shocked, because I don’t see her like that at all. So I thought about what would make a life wasted, and what would mean it wasn’t wasted. I don’t think it necessarily has anything to do with our achievements or our success in the world (although in my eyes my friend has plenty of both – but she doesn't always see it). Instead it seems clear to me that :

Your life is not wasted if:

 you have enjoyed its various pleasures

      e.g. tasty food, the beauties of nature, 

      singing and dancing, passionate sex …

you have given kindness to someone

you have smiled at someone

you have loved someone

you have cared for an animal

you have taught someone something useful

you have laughed 

you have been moved to tears

you have gasped in wonder

you have seen a rainbow

you have read books which you treasure 

you have had a friend.

A piece of prose this time, which I had occasion to write and feel is worth sharing. For Friday Writings #189: The Most Important Step, at Poets and Storytellers United, we are asked to write about what we think is the most important step a person can take. Although not written to the prompt, I think this answers it obliquely. Sometimes a simple realisation is a vitally important step!