Golden Years

I am about to embark on a journey with lots of old people. Some of them even older than me, in fact. Walking sticks and wheelchairs. Maybe they just look older than me. I wonder how many feel older than me ….

Anyway, by means of bookmarking the event I dragged out part of a poem I wrote for Our own golden girl a little while ago working under the assumption that she would not object.


Golden years of fading fun
I’m old, I’m told. The setting sun
Is swallowing the final light
I’m cold. I’ve lost the final fight
Forever bold, I bid adieu
Somehow already missing you
A hand to touch. Your heart to keep
Hold me as I go to sleep


Beware of stuff that rhymes


I was reading another piece from Stella in which she describes (eloquently) her unrequited love for a poet. I thought it appropriate (though maybe it wasn’t) to deliver her a response by way of a warning.

This is what it looked like.


Beware the man with velvet tongue

Resist the love song that he’s sung

Ignore his deftly crafted lies

Repel his lips. Avoid his eyes

Look instead into his soul

Into the void. The deep black hole

He waits. He preys upon the meek

He hungers. Feeds upon the weak


Beware the poet, weary friend

Defy the trickster with the pen

Don’t touch his words,  don’t read his mind

It is a mask he hides behind

Don’t let the juggler near your heart

Don’t give the sorcerer a start

Don’t let the fraudster near your bed

Find a novelist instead



Life in the rear view mirror

I wrote something last night in response to something much better from Stella but decided to give it a little life of its own for no better reason than to show you kind people that I am still here (or that some of me is) and to acknowledge the reality that one day I won’t be.

At an intersection

On the highway

My reflection

In the mirror

Not unfamiliar


To something weird

I feared

In my dreams

But could not understand

Because nothing is planned

Or foretold

Of getting old

This consequence

Of being born

Suddenly torn

Between turning the page

Acting my age

Or pretending

It’s not ending

And driving on

Through red lights

And dark nights

To find at last

My own past

Coming back

To greet me

Waiting for the Call

June 20, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about having to wait. Who is waiting and what for? Think about how the wait impacts the character or the story. Go where the prompt leads!

(It doesn’t lead far, in my case. But how far can one be led in 99 words?)

She waited.

It had been three hours since she had hurriedly torn a sheet of paper from her dairy and scribbled her number upon it. And when, reaching out awkwardly and thrusting it into his hand, she had felt an electricity passing between them, as though they were exchanging atoms.

And now she imagined him sitting in a café somewhere carefully examining each digit as though it were part of a secret code. She pictured him carefully transferring that code to his phone and pausing to allow himself a moment to dream of a future.

For which she waited.

Written for:

John Safron

I was reading a few things from Linda’s one liner Wednesday and wondering if I could come up with something clever that someone had said recently to contribute. I couldn’t.

But I was reminded of something I heard John Safron say (John is an Australian documentary maker) about a time that he was covering some extremist gatherings that were happening in Melbourne.

He was seated in a cafe across the road from parliament (those of you from Australia probably know exactly the spot I mean) having a coffee. The waitress was rearranging the tables in preparation for the lunchtime rush and he asked her,

“When does the race war start?”

She looked up from her work, thought about the question for a moment, and answered casually,

“Oh, sometime around midday, I guess.”

For anybody interested, here’s a short piece that he wrote about it.

Fear and Loathing in Suburban Melbourne

Apparently I am not all that good looking.

I saw something from supernaturalsnark suggesting that you don’t have to look like someone you find very attractive to be incredibly attractive yourself. I may be slightly overstating what she said, in fact. But that’s not the point.

I am wondering how much you need to look like someone your lover finds incredibly attractive to look very attractive yourself. Not very much, I am hoping.

Because it was only last night, as I was watching the cricket, that the current Mrs Richmond leaned over my shoulder and said, “you know …. I could really do that guy”. She wasn’t talking about one of the players. She was talking about the commentator.

His name is Brendon Julian. He’s seems a nice enough sort of chap.

He used to be a cricketer, but he’s not anymore. I used to be a cricketer. I’m not anymore, either. He really wasn’t all that good. Neither was I.

So far, then … there’s nothing in it. He and I are virtually identical.

All right. I admit it. Statistically speaking he was better than me. Quite a bit better, perhaps.

But I don’t think Mrs Richmond cares much about cricket. I think she was thinking of something else.

Should I be concerned?

Girls like girls

This topic popped into my feed from braveandreckless so I jotted a few heartfelt thoughts down in response.

As always, there is a risk that my contribution may come across as trite, but may I assure you all that it is, in no way, intended as disrespectful.

I will stop short of suggesting my effort is suitable for serious publication other than right here …. but I would encourage others to shoot something off to Christine at the Cafe in order to properly celebrate the reality of liberation and joy.

Girls like girls

just look at them talk

Girls like girls

just look at them walk

Girls like girls

so, Girl … go and get her

Girls like girls

‘cause they smell so much better

Girls are prettier

don’t you know?

Girls are superior

from head to toe

Girls are cleverer

just like your mother

So it’s no surprise

that girls like each other

Girls like girls

It’s a matter of taste

Girls like girls

and they’ve no time to waste

Girls are good company

Boys are such bores

Girls sometimes argue

But girls don’t start wars

Girls like girls

as someone to wed

Girls like girls

‘cause they’re better in bed

Girls like girls

I don’t want to be rude

But girls like girls

‘cause they look better nude