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

Detection

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?

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.

***

https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2020/03/24/obituary/

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.

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.