poetsday

The minutiae of Life & the two minute poem

our opinions are blowing away

are cleaners doing a better job?
we're asked. it's been three
months since the last survey.
i place a flamboyant tick in the box
marked YES. (it's not for me to say)
my neighbour, i note, for ease, does likewise
and feeling warmed by these exertions
puts on the oscillating fan and i muse
as our opinions are blowing away


inspired by the haiku but needing a less restricting form, I'm endeavouring to compose, over time, some two minute poems on the minutiae of ordinary life. two minutes refers to the approximate time taken from conception to completion.

artwords prompt

chequers & smokes (ink on paper/digital colouring)


The chequers players

In blue heat biding time, no place to go
I'm wandering down south serangoon road,
Indian quarter, chromium blue on
turmeric walls, cinnabar sparks of white
shirted crowds, making moves, crouching across
buttons on rude chequered boards, criss-crossing
ivory tokens and saffron pawns
on a confinement of squares, the choking
cigarettes concentrated murmers
and stares, cut the intensity with
a keen cleaving blade. one mishap
and victory is around the corner
losing itself in a fog of grey smoke.


(Artwords prompt: monochrome)

one deep breath prompt

what do we call this
infusion of words and thought?
issa cuppa tea!


one deep breath prompt: coffee & tea

tom soup prompt

no belief in the LDR

i do not believe in mr. chin
who lives in the fierce lion city
with his family on the balmy outskirts
of singapore, number ten-sixty-two
jurong road. a palm fringed avenue
among the bananas and mango groves.
i do not believe in the red tricycle
upended in the yard and his slender wife
passing him his briefcase while he tousels
the jet bangs of their issues before
taking the expressway to work where he counts
and reckons, the facts and the tally
i do not believe the cab is yellow.

i do not believe in mr. chin
i do not think i have ever met him
nor him me. we haven't passed unknowingly
in the street. he never turned and smiled
as i apologised; we did not brush shoulders.
nor do i believe i've ever thanked him when
he took my arm and, asking is this yours?
returned my wallet. i do not believe i dropped it.

i do not believe in mr. chin. he is there
but we have never met. he is elsewhere
he is not of my world nor i of his but
if at some time our paths cross again
things may be different. but for now
i do not believe in mr. chin.

i believe in mrs. meacher, as she tends her garden
i see from my window her wonderous place
as she caresses the vibrant heads with gentle
grace, the ginger tom rubbing its face to and fro
without a hint of intolerance, the way she lets him go
i hear her from my garden as she sings, not for me
she doesn't understand favourites, and chooses no one
i believe mrs. meacher lives at number nine
and i believe this: it's next door to mine.


this is no.3 in a trilogy of poems about my personal relationships with god. i wrote these a few days after experiencing an odd feeling while driving home, i could not say it wasn't a damascene moment or enlightenment, but i doubt this very much.

for those not familiar with personals problem pages, LDR is shorthand for long distance relationship

sunday scribbling prompt

Who else could I be?

i am GOD, yes, well, i could be He
there's time, i'm sure, it's not blasphemy
already i'm aware what's in everybody's
prayers (that one was a no-brainer really)
now if i could just get the handle on
omnipresence i'll be there. and here.
though, i fear, miracles may take a little
longer, the quickness of hand, and the sleight
of eye. oh damn, truth! that anathema.
however, i'll endeavour never to lie.

tom soup prompt

signs

this morning i had the distinct impression
god was trying to tell me something
as i set off for work, turning to my car
i was startled by a grey, folded bird
low and laborious, banking without grace
dangerously between two blunt gables

and now, as i sit waiting for boot-up
i'm shown a long squadron of canada geese
beating wings in close wedge formation
past my window. it's like he's saying
''look what i can do!'', and i'm thinking, yes,
very clever - now go tidy your room!


most things I try of the creative kind I do so because look like immense fun: photography, sketching, doodles, haiku and haigu, photo montage and writing essays. there are a lot of things that I haven't tried that look fun too, mostly the work I see on other sites kept by creative and expressive people. I hope to get my house in order one day so that I'm free to indulge in these other things.

But I haven't the foggiest notion why I should want to try poetry. It's not like I enjoy it, it's not in my innate nature, it's unfamiliar, alien, inscutable, unecessarily obscure most of the time. However, there are times when I feel I have to give it a go because it's the only way to express the point. I think it has something to do with truth but I can't be sure. The verse above is about two incidents and one reaction which occured this morning.

God hates me because I haven't got a hole, so he's scheming; ''I'll show him up with his puerile verse for the fool he is!'' He does that, you know? Sometimes.

one deep breath prompt

1

behind bales of straw
rabbits shelter from the sun
buzzards arc overhead

2

a curving grass track
by the meandering stream
still gets me to town



one deep breath prompt: the scenic route

I don't think I'm often accused of not taking the scenic route. There are some who, once you arrive on their doorstep, ask how long it took you and by which roads did you come? I have to tell them I haven't a clue! It's as if there's some competition going on and they're waiting to enter your name onto a league table they've pinned to the back of the kitchen door.

haiku never seem to fail me in their theraputic effect, to me they're sort of sculpting in words, like wood carving or working in stone, whereas most poetry is more like working in clay - does that make any sense?

the above are two recent observations (last month I think) on a roundabout walk into town.

one deep breath prompt

1

basking on the edge
a frog returns to the pond
the sleepy cat stirs

2

the sounds of mowers
bees gathering sweet nectar
a grasshopper chirps

3

neglected garden
white trumpet flowers invade
nature crossing borders

4

a painted lady
dancing on the cotswold breeze
african beauty


one deep breath prompt: the garden

I love gardens but I can't seem to keep up with the gardening bit. Gardens are places in which to muse not work. I was once employed as a gardener but got sacked on my first day for lying down on the job - my excuse that it enabled me to see the weeds better fell on deaf ears. Okay, it was only a summer job and for a relative so I didn't mind too much.