Just sex. A call from an ex.

I tried to respond to a challenge earlier today From the godogs . It didn’t really work. I failed.

This is a kind of mashed up version of my effort.


Her call unexpected

Her voice like a song

Her words unsuspected

Her right to be wrong

The truth undetected

Has it been that long?

I am weak. Disrespected

But I’m playing along

Her hair, so familiar

Defying the wind

Her eyes hiding secrets

Lying within

Her skin still electric

Soft white still her hips

But she tastes of the memories

Still fresh on her lips


Conversations with a Sunflower

I should preface today’s rambling with an assurance that any romantic suggestions that I make (or have made in the past) are not intended to land anywhere. They are just thrown out into the ether to wither and die.

Mrs Richmond, of course, has been bombarded with this sort of rubbish for years and has read or (worse) had to listen to it more times than any human should be expected to endure. And now she’s locked up in this house with me after decades of regular separation. The poor girl’s thoughts are wavering between suicidal and homicidal, but with a clearly stated preference for the latter.

I should also mention that these are not really today’s ramblings at all, but lifted, instead, from a brief conversation with a sunflower yesterday.

Isolation, it seems, is making me even lazier.

So first I just said hello to the Sunflower (Kate, to her friends), as we hadn’t spoken for a while, and I enquired as to her wellbeing during this troubling times. I said,

“Hey, Kate
How are you going?
Not throwing
The baby out
With the bathwater ?
I think we oughta
I’m still here
Don’t you know?
And feeling you near
Without fear
Of a future
Which would always be
When you and me
Would hold tight
Together in sorrow
But together still
For every tomorrow

She responded with news that she was, in fact, doing fine and was, as is usual for her, looking for silver linings (or words to that effect) and that I might be best advised to look on the brighter side. “Look above,” she told me. This may have been a religious reference, but I doubt it.

So I did. Look above. But it didn’t help, a fact that I felt compelled to report back to her by saying,

“I look above
It’s dark and bleak
The stars they see me
Small and meek
I cannot fight
I cannot speak
I am human
Scared. And weak”

Realising that she may have triggered my paranoia she immediately assumed a more calming tone (the Sunflower goes under the name of Calm Kate, as well) suggesting now that I should ‘just drift like a feather’.

But I was too far gone. I couldn’t drift, or float or anything like that. I was anchored to the spot, still staring, as instructed, into the heavens….. and I saw someone up there …

“Look above? Look above??
When they look down on me?
I can’t even find
Quiet places to pee
These people. They’re watching
They won’t let me be
I’m trapped. Isolation
I’ve gone off my tree
There’s stuff that is happening
I look East. I look West
It don’t look too good

In a further attempt to put my mind at ease she assured me that I was not seeing things. It turns out, according to Kate, that there really were people up there in helicopters and the like, monitoring my every movement.

And she may have been right because this morning, I tell you no lie, the police did actually ring me ‘just to see how I was getting along’. That is not the sort of question that they have asked me in the past.


Witches (not) in Britches

Another attempt at Chelsea’s terrible poetry contest where, thus far, I have been judged previously as ‘absolutely dreadful’, ‘without redeeming features’ and ‘unrepeatable’ but not quite bad enough.

“Let’s Topic on a humorous end to a useful object,” Chelsea suggests

Here we go again ….


The witch she mixes potion

Bats’ wings and eye of newt

Tears of angels, toes of frogs

Old wine and rotting fruit

She casts her spell, she leaves her smell

She takes off with a slop

“She’ll not get far with that,” I say,

“It’s not a broomstick, it’s a mop.”


In the Forest

I am a recidivist thief. I borrowed an idea from Cheryl based on a challenge from Rachel and then (my greatest sin) stole words from Spike.

Have I no shame?


It is dark in the forest

When the fire burns out

There are noises in the trees

There are monsters all about

There’s a shaking in my knees

There’s a tingling on my skin

There’s a hole in my ear

Where the fear sneaks in


O. Obsessive? Compulsive?

Of course I am. What’s wrong with being obsessive? It just shows dedication (combined with mental illness) …. and to be compulsive is just to follow one’s instincts. Yes, your honour. Guilty as charged.

Laziness (L is for laziness, but I will Lie about that in a minute) is more difficult to defend. But, in my case, I would argue again, that it is instinctual.

Anyway …. with that in mind ….I might have suggested somewhere else that, with regard to this A to Z thing, I might just focus on the vowels. I have failed to deliver in that respect (L should have been for Liar) and suddenly, as of today, there’s only U to go (I owe U one). But as the second last vowel passed by I leaped upon the Ms Mathews bandwagon again. Maybe I’m obsessed with her ….

O. An obsession

I’m fishing. For her.

She’s not my possession

But I’m wishing she were

A pursuit. Not aggression.

She’s cute. Can’t you see?

But I make no impression

She’s not looking at me

Yet I speak. My confession

I’m weak at the knees

A humble expression

Of love

If you please.

N is for Nothing

Or maybe it’s for nonsense. Because that’s all I seem capable of typing these days. And there’s lots of it rattling around in my isolated head.

Fandango points out that ‘nothing ventured’ means ‘nothing gained’. I therefore entitle my contribution for today ….

‘Nothing Ventured – My life thus far’

N is for nothing

That’s going on here

There’s nobody near me

My calendar’s clear

I’ve nearly found nowhere

I’ll get there one day

But there’s nothing that’s happening there