I hope California’s Dreaming

Chelsea created another terrible poetry competition and I’m onboard again. Her theme this week concerns the turn of seasons. And haven’t we all felt a nasty change in the wind lately?

So far my poetry has been universally praised as being consistently dreadful but has fallen just short of the ‘inexcusably terrible’ benchmark that Chelsea sets. This is a further dive for the bottom of the barrel. I expect extra points deducted for the blatant theft of lyrics at the end.

It’s also an opportunity to give a little wave to all my Northern Hemisphere friends. Spring must seem a bit out of place up there at the moment but rest assured that whilst we might all be in isolation we are not isolated. We are in this together and the end of it will bring a new Spring for all of us. In the meantime I wish upon you nothing but beautiful dreams.


The mercury is falling

I hope it’s just a cold

Is it destiny that’s calling?

Or part of getting old?

Is it just a shiver?

Or might it be a curse?

That Autumn will deliver

Could Winter be much worse?

A month of isolation

Social distance getting broad

I’m here for the duration

Already getting bored

There’s bad news in the paper

The TV’s on the blink

I fear the isolator

Might turn this man to drink

My Mama and my Papa

They left here just in time

I cough. I sneeze. I splutter

Cut down in my prime

So all the sky is grey

And all the leaves are brown

There’s nothing left to say

There’s no one left in town


The Poet’s Lips

Possibly a little out of my usual space (comfort zone?) here, but in the interests of locking down I perhaps should take a few chances behind closed doors. I’m a daring risk taker when people aren’t around.

A poetry challenge from the good people pouring coffee at the Cafe caught my attention.

The very thought of ‘poet’s lips’ is a rather enchanting one, don’t you think?

One is only supposed to commit about 10-15 minutes to a submission. That’s my sort of attention span.

I don’t know much about poetry. I thought perhaps if I just put a couple of words on each line and mixed up the pattern a bit that it might create the illusion of modern sophistication. That, as I say, was a risk.


The poet’s heart

It beats in time

Rhythm. Rhyme.

Anger. Art

And wonder

Echoes of

Distant thunder

A message heard

The poet’s word

A subtle reflection


Of the unseen

A vaccine

For blindness

Sweet kindness

In each line

In each thought a shrine

A light. A spark

Shelter from the dark and such

A torch in the eclipse

A chance to touch

The poet’s lips


P.S. I actually tried to find some lips (not necessarily those belonging to poets)as an accompanying photo for this. But, in isolation, they all seemed to look a bit pornographic. Or is that just me?

An obituary. Not.

I don’t do a lot of challenges these days. Life itself has become far too challenging. But I stumbled across this one this morning via The Bag Lady and it appealed to me – most likely because it’s not about life and all those challenges.

Oh …. and the picture. You’re probably wondering what that’s about. I thought I might go out in drag. Why not?


There will be no obituary. It has been less than an instant, in the scheme of things. Nothing to talk about. Nothing to see here. Please move quietly along.

Will I linger somehow in the your memories? Yes? Perhaps just for another tiny piece of that instant, but no more. Memories will fade even more quickly than the light.

You might all gather around and exchange vague anecdotes together. And thus attempt to paint me a brighter colour in death than I had ever exhibited in life. Please don’t bother. Everything turns to grey eventually.

I’ll be dead.

I won’t care.

And not caring is something that I’ve come to look forward to.



A stark warning about heavy drinking

Or even light drinking, for that matter. At times like these it certainly tempting, and I’m not trying to discourage it. Dive in. I’m right behind you.

But here’s the thing. Turn off your computer first. Hide all iPads, phones and even pens or pencils. By all means discard all of your inhibitions and clothing. BUT. No matter how passionate or playful you might be feeling DO NOT PUBLISH ANYTHING.

Here on your own site is ok, I suppose. You can delete it in the morning along with any incriminating photos that may have been taken during the night as you are cleaning up all the empty bottles and discarded underwear. BUT DO NOT PUBLISH IT ANYWHERE WHERE IT TAKES ON A LIFE OF ITS OWN BEYOND YOUR CONTROL. Once you push the thing under with the ‘submit’ button you never know where it might come up for air.

You are already guessing that I did it. That’s true. And I have zero memory of doing so and certainly no idea why, of all things, I chose to use this thing (I cannot,with a straight face, refer to it as a poem).

But Here it is. They supplied the photo.

Who are these people? I feel indebted to them (thanks Spillwords! I genuinely love you) …. but I question their taste.

Anyway. You have been warned.

Mr Ed and Terrible Poetry

You can find a link to Chelsea’s terrible poetry competition Here

I really don’t know if I’ve got the idea right (write?) but I think I can claim with some confidence to be undeniably terrible.

I don’t know why I mixed up Shakespearean quotations with the theme song from Mr Ed. But I did.

Beware the Ides of March, my dear

With feelings foul for you I fear

Beware the frauds, the fools, the fakes

When light through yonder window breaks

The Ides they come and come what may

Compare thee to a summer’s day

Though no such day will yet prevent

The winter of our discontent

There will be blood, you may be sure

Cry havoc! Let slip the dogs of war!

And there within the maelstrom see

Lord! What fools these mortals be

Lend me your ears. Allay you’re fears

The rider of the storm, he nears

My kingdom for a bloody horse

For a horse is a horse. Of course. Of course.

Ship of Fools

I have not posted anything for some time. There is no particular reason for that other than the distinct possibility that I’ve run out of things to say. The well has gone dry, creatively speaking. I’m in a drought. It may just be a seasonal thing or a permanent climate change.

So I delved into my list of silly poems and dragged out this little (have you seen it before? You’d be unlikely to remember it, anyway) one which seems to reflect my current state of mind.

The world is full of fools but there is no fool like an old fool – left stranded in an increasingly incomprehensible ocean without a paddle ….


There are so many rules

On this ship of fools

That I’m thinking of taking a dive

We’re so fucking old

We don’t need to be told

That not one of us gets out alive

NYC Short Story Challenge

I’ve been a bit quiet lately. My family keeps throwing me into ambulances and dragging me off to hospitals. It’s only a matter of time before I find one of them standing over my bed, pillow in hand, whispering strange biblical quotations with just a glint of a tear in one eye.

Nevertheless I did manage to cobble together an entry to the NYC Short Story 2020 during the period immediately preceding my last confinement and therefore another potential source of shame and embarrassment when the judges take a knife to it.

The good news is that I expect to still be around for next year’s competition.

But, for this year, the requirement was for a 2500 word thriller featuring an addict and an investment. I don’t really do thrillers.

So …. only if you are bored …. here it is.

Down by the Tracks