A couple of poems for B

The Quirk at work

The quirk at work,
can be a delicious thing,
you find it under tables
or sitting on a comfy chair,
quite unaware of its charm,
but don’t be alarmed.

It swings from the leg lamps,
gives the cat, cross-eyed cramps
watching it flit to and fro,
and it might just catch
you out mister, you well know.

Yes, the quirk is at work,
see how subtlety it lurks,
and when you least expect it,
it says the one thing you
thought it wouldn’t over tea,
“Kiss me!”

~

Bekki

If you should dive off
into another moment,
it would be a sky fall
worth sharing,
no care about the landing
place it reached.

Although a beach
would be a cool move,
with waves of acknowledgement,
or a stretch of summer grass,
half in leaf shade, half bright
with the quirk remaining
from your smile.

And that would be enough
to realize you’ve found,
a soft place to touch down,
wearing favourite name jeans
never feeling worn blue.

~

Say it as it is

“I am lonely.”

Three little words,
and four syllables.

Three words
and four syllables
negate them,
you, miss, are not
alone.

You are noticed.

A Red Amirable escaped

I don’t read poetry
if it adds little
but pretentious thoughts.
A swallow’s winter migration
is lessened described in words
if the direction can be seen;
instinct recognised
by a nod.

The bloom of an orchid
is better in the touch,
hand coaxing the scent,
than in an attempt to rewrite.
It’s a raw experience
in the “now” to live it;
there’s no reason
to reshape this as an art-
form flower.

Our conversations remain
more memorable
than dictionary stanzas,
they’re always a few pages
backdated;
phrases that won’t
be pinned down
as a collector’s prize butterflies.

The heavens return one day

My dreams are small,
white dwarf fragments
of what might have been;
collapsed stars viewed under
an understanding
of not requiring
to know exact locations
any more than intuitive designs.

Fate doesn’t notice them,
and passes them quietly by,
one by one, by one,
or so it sometimes feels.

Preferring to teach
by astronomical example,
that not every constellation
can be recalled or re-lit.

It is known however,
they’re still burning
somehow, somewhere,
those immeasurably
personal, pilot flames of suns.

What shakes?

When elders least expect,
down come the oranges
and the memory squashes;
time droops by the wayside.

On the other orchard side,
apples fall, aim for Newtons,
but “boink” only children’s heads
who care not for effects
of life’s unseen gravity.

I’ll wear it once in the dark, if it snows

“It’s a woolly
pom pom hat,
and that’s that!”,
she says.

Oh, no. Never.

Even the words
‘pom pom‘ make me
shudder,
like no knitted other.

I say,
“There are those
that can wear
such an patently
absurd winter hat,
and those well,
who look in it,
a haggard, old elf
like myself.”

She says,
“Put it on anyways,
I can always
pull it half down
to conceal your frowns.”

Somehow,
that wasn’t quite the
pom pom ending
I was intending,
even if I’m just a man
of snow
and she, but only five
you know.

An intake of hot air

Shadowing O over hills,
and daisy stem dales,
looping betwixt clouds
as free as it damn rubbery pleases,
flies the big, beautiful balloon,
and a bright, quirky sphere it is.

It follows steaming trains
without getting quite popped
simply just for the drop
of condensed air meeting gas,
and faces pressed to glass
in small wonder, fingers
of disbelief all up pointing.

Aloft over cities flies it too,
tall chimneys salute its passes,
and stack up proudly to see
freedom mooned up up in the sky;
heads lifted from pavements
of open-mouthed masses.

Unincumbered orb that it is,
only when it just wishes
will it descend to earth in town,
and then to drop its written tag down,
which is nothing if not concise.

“You’ve read of me, mate,
now please, don’t let me defl……”

Tell me something

I saw this and quite liked it, so now you’re seeing it too!

Halfway down the stairs

Halfway down the stairs
is a stair where I sit.
There isn’t any other stair quite like it.
I’m not at the bottom,
I’m not at the top;
so this is the stair where I always stop.

Halfway up the stairs
isn’t up, and isn’t down.
It isn’t in the nursery, it isn’t in the town;
and all sorts of funny thoughts
run round my head;
“It isn’t really anywhere! It’s somewhere else instead!”

A A Milne.

~

The Muppets sang these verses in the eighties, I believe it was Robin who
sat upon the stairs and mused about the often passed-by qualities of the
middle step, (he was a nephew of Kermit or something, think a pint-sized
Kermit) but little remembrance seems to go the author who was A A Milne,
or perhaps it’s just a little bit forgotten. He of “Winnie the Pooh” fame, and
the classic childrens’ book, “Now we are six” (initially published in 1927),
which I recall reading as a kid in the late sixties, and in a glass bookcase of
my mom’s. Not that I read it in the glass bookcase,  the books in there,
were too many, and too crowded leaving no real elbow space.

The music was written way back when too, especially for the poem,
complimenting it perfectly. I thought it might be a nice idea to combine the
two as they were originally.

I also like to think of this poem as being not just about exploring unusual
thoughts that the middle step may bring, but also in terms of sitting in that
particularly midway place (to not look too far up, or too far down
metaphorically), to give yourself a breather from problems that life may
throw your way. Not as a long term solution, but as a short term one when
things feel too stressful. As a short term, ‘I need to give myself a break here‘
mechanism.

Often, sitting there helps. Plus, there’s the fact that people tend to miss
the middle step as they run up and down the stairs, leaving it with the best
bit of choice carpet!

And for the Muppet fans out there, which admittedly I am one too,
here’s Robin, who it could be said is halfway to being ol’ Kermit.

~

Ps – Erm, I also found this too on You Tube, it’s of Ricky Gervais (he’s an
english comic) messing around with the song, it gives it another dimension,
a sort of Twilight-Zone-creepiness-meets-A A Milne-dimension.
Enjoy! I think!

The lighthouse keepers

We came across it
unexpectedly,
the lighthouse stood timeless,
so solid, so still,
stood and almost watched
as the light turned,
from dusk to silent night.

It had been a long, hazy day
whilst visiting friends,
you know the kind of occasion,
we’d chatted and eaten,
laughed at each other’s points of view,
disagreed on almost all else,
but agreeing to walk
to the other island side,
taking a route off the usual way.

And there it shone from stone,
a golden light glowing
in the fading chill of salty air.
Silent, but powerful,
bright and all wonderment,
not quite an all seeing eye,
yet somehow just for us,
our friendship unspoken,
a keeper’s trailing light ablaze.

Jiggerty jog

I wake up in the morning,
jiggerty jog, jig jiggerty jog,
to my breakfast, again.

I don’t wish to jiggerty jog,
but my feet do the talking,
pirouette as toast pops up,
as for a coffee, well,
they have to side-leap;
I can’t quite get used to that
fluidity of movement.

God damn it! Here comes a -
flouncy twirl and a curtsy!

Thank you.

I would take off these pumps,
yet they’re on pretty firm,
you really don’t know
how they stubbornly pinch
to stay on tight.

My advice; never, ever
try ballet shoes on for a bet,
it takes things much too far
for personal comfort,
especially the unexpected,
very involuntary splits.