Wrong Men

Poetry Month, day 26
For A list with a twist at "imaginary garden with real toads" we are asked to create our own list of five items to write about. What I haven't done is name my – er – items, but I've listed them by other characteristics, and the title tells you the category.

Wrong Men
The ship's deck cold under stars. A hidden corner; your warm hands.
Your father advised, two years later: Don't marry. You, sadly persuaded, obeyed.
Dazzling dancing man, lover of jazz ... we both were. I still am.
Oh long ago so briefly wed, wild gambling man ... our parting sobs.
You bent deliberately for that kiss. I reached up, standing on tiptoe.
Lamplight and incense, our mingled hair. But the secrets broke us later.
Your face appeared always sunlit, eyes blue-green oceans for my swimming –
yet you lived in engulfing dark. Until your escape forever into light.
Our lovely laughter! How you delighted my foolish heart, sweet wicked boy.
Knew you fae – forgot those can't attach humanly; also I can&…

My Favourite Vices

Poetry Month, day 25

In Virtue or Vice at "imaginary garden with real toads" we are asked to write about at least one of the Seven Deadly Sins or Seven Heavenly Virtues.

My Favourite Vices
Mine are the sensual vices, gluttony and lust. And they are worth their prices – if pay one must. My moist, warm orifices weren't meant to rust!
I cherish both sweetness and savour, equally willing to relish any flavour so long as it's filling, and feast in a blissful fervour of juices spilling.
Mine are the sins of pleasure, the decadent. I love to gorge at leisure with full intent. I never hoard my treasure, I like it spent.

In that lost part....

Poetry month, day 24
For this Tuesday Platform at "imaginary garden with real toads" we are offered the suggestion of writing twitter poetry, within the 140 character limit. Here's mine:

In that lost part of morning just after first light I forget not to think of you. You're linked now to birdsong, and rosy sky. #tweetpoem

I do occasionally write twitter poetry (or tweetpoems) and am grateful to Sanaa, today's prompter, for not specifying a poem of exactly 140 characters. This leaves room for me to include the hashtag, which I normally do.
The poem is untitled, but this post had to have a title, so I made it the opening phrase.
Yes, the poem has been posted – hashtagged and untitled – to @SnakyPoet on twitter.


Poetry Month, day 23

Written for An Antic Disposition at "imaginary garden with real toads", where our focus is "those troubles of the brain, shaping fantasies and antic dispositions which make us human."

When the other passengers' heads warped out of shape, becoming skulls and leering monsters, I knew it wasn't real, even though I was really seeing it, with my naked eyes. And I wasn't on any drugs, so I knew I must be mad.
I got off the tram at my stop, acting calm, after sitting very still and quiet. Must appear normal. I told no-one. But later when I had the mood swings, after I couldn't stop the hysterics, I said to my doctor, "I think I need a psychiatrist." He asked why.
So I told him. "I think I must be going mad." He asked why. So I told him that. It felt brave and desperate. No turning back. He said if I was mad, I wouldn't be sitting in his room requesting psychiatric help. But he did agree I needed a psychiatrist. And h…

Born to Jump

Poetry Month, day 22

Born to Jump
You've done a bit of it in your life, but never quite got over that moment of panic before the thrill – to feel that sudden shock, the jolt, the drop. Jump and soar doesn't immediately happen; you're off the ground but not flying. Look Ma, no wings. The realisation hits and you scrabble for anything –  cliff grasses, broken twigs, fallen feathers, all cobbled together somehow, mid-air, and stitched. The wind is whistling past rapidly, loud and screechy. Time is not on your side. But you do improve with practice, and hopefully, even as a beginner you stay aloft, you build a serviceable floating device – your parachute, perhaps – until you learn to grow wings, real live ones ... anyway it's not easy but on the whole, it's exciting, it gets addictive: the sudden shock, as I said, the scrabble, the thrill.... Way too soon really, you're flying with ease, up and up and down to the ground again to touch and bounce, and leap, and start all over.

Image: f…

Mistaken Identity

Poetry month, day 21
For Mythical Creatures at "imaginary garden with real toads"

Mistaken Identity
Enamoured I was, of his fiery breath, the metallic clash of scales and claws and those magnificent wings.
"No," said my friends, "he is reptile" but I was blind to that point of view. Perceiving no look of snake, I saw Dragon.
Only when finally alone with him, I wondered why he chose, instead of sky and glorious flight, that rock in the water.
He folded his wings and began to look like ... could it be a lizard? Then he opened wide  a huge jaw. At last I discerned the crocodile.

Of Country

Poetry Month, day 20

The prompt today at "imaginary garden with real toads" is Say the Names of the Places You Love.

Of Country
Murwillumbah in the Northern Rivers, under the mountain known as Wollumbin (which Captain Cook christened Mt Warning) is a home which I came to late in life. Seers, oracles and guides all told me I belonged far north of where I was. Then Fate and the Universe took a hand, offering a house for rent, all the way up here, in Pumpenbil out past Tyalgum, at the end of a dirt road nearly to the top of the hill. The name our landlady gave that place was Djieriong, a Bundjalung word meaning "Freedom of the Heart".
And we found that here. Though we didn't find any of the "many possums" we were told that Murwillumbah was the "place of" – and as for the mountain, there are those who say white settlers misunderstood. That name, they say, belonged originally to a different mountain further along the range. Be that as it may, it seems to me they are a…