Gone west

A saloon door flaps back and forth,
flap- backflap- flap- backflap- flap,
it’s a windy day, tooooo darn pickin’ windy.
Out flies a knife, wedges the wood good.

There’s only so much flap a flap can take
thinks Sabreshot Mat from behind the door,
and dang I throw knives pretty well
this close.

There’s ol’ RealityG across the table,
just don’t tell him his ryhmes can be crimes,
gets a little touchy on the subject,
he’s wanted for poetic license
in fifteen states and counting.

SurefireShir is on the loose I’ve heard,
and could well be near,
someones reciting Dr Zeus to her horse.
“This horse will stay tied up,
tied up this horse will stay, good boy!”
Yes sir, that’s her.

Rapidfire’s in the cellar still firing those pistols,
he can’t help it, it’s a nervous twitch,
breathes – shoots, breathes – shoots,
he killed three people getting off his horse,
it’s murder at the bar when he’s around,
literally.

Out pings the knife, in walks Surefire,
followed by Miss Ophelia, she corrects grammar
with a sixshooter, apostrophes this bar’s sign,
a silver flick of a trigger,
now, that’s a hole lot better.

Doc Willowdown enters also,
a man of not a few words, but many many.
So many we had to forcibly tie him down
and gag him for his own good,
he still writes passing well though.

We’re all here to meet, drink, chew the fat,
all aces at the table, and who knows later,
there may be a few more folks around like Sugar,
and old, sweet wild west jests to welcome.

Yeehaw!

~

Okay, a little background on this one which was written
off the cuff after reading this poem, and mentions
various poets I know in a wild west setting. and no doubt
needs some explaining! RealityG is RG aka
RGarfied, SabreShotMat is myself aka Sabresun, Rapidfire
is poet named Jim, Surefire is OhShir, Miss Ophelia is
Ophelia28, DocWillowdown is Willowdown, Sugar is Sharon
aka Sugamuser – all good poets! Please click on their links
to read something by them.

References.

RGarfield’s writing signature was, “At times, my rhymes
are crimes!”, it seemed appropriate that he should be “wanted”.
Rapidfire has a signature pic that continually fires guns.
OhShir at the time did a poem in the style of Dr Zeus.
Willowdown just loves writing epic length poetry.
Ophelia28 is an English teacher, and very much a grammar
perfectionist.

Just a bit of fun of which OhShir started it all
with All them clowns Sometimes, it’s good to let your
creativity loose, and just see what happens.

Inspiration

Strains of tea

The morning clouds fell
out of the sky onto my as yet
unformed face,
clots of anchored steam,
an emptying kettle.

So vaporised into the day,
unpacked, dropped into a mug
a usual formed drink.

A strange brew,
handled casually, drank
in semi thoughtless gulps,
as eyes adjusted to light
and familiar tastes.

No wonder tea is trapped in bags,
needs the release
to bring its qualities;

I headed out, feeling just the same.

RG’s mission

Today, a friend died.

I’m still a bit in shock
every time I observe
the countdown ticking
of the human clock,
and think on life’s mortality,
its multi-colored hues,
of creative lines he signed,
a lot of them still on my mind.

How “At times
my rhymes are crimes!”,
he admitted to that,
oh, many many times,
and at others, they took the mick,
with self effacing humour;
a tongue in cheek,
muchly proclaimed poet-a-hol-ic.

Today, a friend died
and death became so final,
one moment he was here for all,
and then he wasn’t for sure,
but a word from his muse
so very uplifty, so exactle wise,
there are other forms of skies
in which to be alive.

I feel he’s not finally missing,
just on a new poetic mission;
gone not fishin’, no

but RG in’.

~

“After a long battle with several medical issues, RGarfield
left us on June 23, 2009. It is my hope he slipped away peacefully
and is finally “healed.” This poetry site was his passion. Thank you
for sharing in his vision and for not forgetting him.” – Bev (his wife)

RG was RGarfield, a friend and poet (real name, Sandy).
This poem contains some of the things that he used to say like
“exactle” and “uplifty”, and also his writing signatures that he once
used “At times, my rhymes are crimes!” and “poet-a-hol-ic”. I feel
he was very much a teacher at heart. A great, creative spirit and a
lovely man.

Goodbye, Sandy.

~

A short poem of his that I’ve always liked.

Meet me at the tree of life

“Meet me at the ‘Tree of life”
‘Twas all that note had said
No signature, no name

For me it was not puzzling
Because we had named it that
So many years ago

It stands central in the garden
And all paths lead to it
And all dreams

RG

~

Hooks

Within, we must have rough edges;
places where we can hang memory.

For memory gives hope to future,
and without future there is no joy.

Some memories help us emulate
those things we wish to copy.

Some memories help us regulate
those things we must control.

Some memories terrify us
but give opportunity for receiving.

Some memories bring happiness
out of retirement and back to life.

Some memories aren’t even our own.

RG

*

Possessive Tense

Hey YOU!
You with your hand on that dictionary..
I don’t mean to be quite contrary..
BUT
those words are mine.
I have been working with them for years
and now, when they are just learning to behave,
you come along and think you can use them
without so much as a by-your-leave.
Well… I never saw so much gall
I just won’t have it, you hear,
I just won’t have it

Now you run along and go knit or paint or play tennis
or .. or. something!

The NERVE of some people!
Thinking they can steal MY words.

RG

Some Wimbledon haiku

No more, “Rain stops play”
One roof to cover them all
Lords Of The Racquets

(about the new retractable roof over centre court)

This year a Brit wins?
Never hurry a Murray”
Indeed, mint prospect!

(“Murray Mints, Murray Mints too good to hurry mints”
- Old tv comercial jangle)

Acrobatics launch youth
Becker returns winning drop shot
“Cannot be serious!?!”

(Ah, those were the days…)

Kaftan fashion sneeze
or is it Sgt Pepper?
Federer, let it be

(Wimbledon haiku on Federer’s new outfit)

www.com

Wimbledom freezes
play stopped because of bad net
baseline is now offline

-

Courts begin lush green
until the day completes play
chalk dust vs grass

Serve up green and fresh
salad days of Wimbledon
grown from finest seeds

When shadows play long
only fault is the light
not brilliance of players

Never seen, but in retrospect

It could be said that islands
are not originally there by choice,
but broken away, fragments
of a previous whole, moments
that didn’t hold on,
yet the reasoning isn’t always
obvious.

A hand that didn’t grasp,
but pushed, pulled
until there was no
mutual understanding
of taking or giving in.

Later, a touch,
of a footprint in the sand,
joining it into the perfect fit,
and seeing it’s there
with a focus of its own.

In a once upon a time,
the dividing line
the sun left behind
as it dipped away,
was indistinguishable
from the sea pulling down
upon a feint wave.

Until the tide brought it ashore,
bottled up as a memory.

Dog – Cat

Friends will be friends.

Little magnetic box

A thousand pulses
lay within
its sealed secrets,
the what, the why,
the decisive when,
those how-on-earth-evers
of how it was ever again
to be so open.

Unique little box that it is.

Prise the lid and breathe in
a field of musk sweet,
rolling into a sky freshened blue
as the first sea you ever felt
windpress against your face,
the first crinkle of a trod pebble
or shell that had to be picked,
held between the fingers
and dusted of sand.
And you might just notice
when the lid’s firmly shut tight,
when the grains are inside,
that’s its only its surface
decoration.

Unique little box that it is.

If shaken, waterfalls hiss
and after, come caverning down
without a reverberating sound,
seep underground in deep thought
drip by drip by drip.

And yet, you throw the box
against the wall, to you
it’s ordinary,  no treasure at all.

Old wrappers

A wary morning,
the street yawned
and belched wind,
it wasn’t using mouthwash,
more concerned with picking paint
off redundant park benches,
couldn’t resist lifting a scab.

One of those routine walks
past cheery Muck Donald’s;
half disfigured burgers
weren’t feeling so special,
one pleaded pitifully
call emergency,
we have a road accident!

Bubblegum pads
touched every lead footstep;
an uncivil war no doubt
had blown up last night.

A wrinkled Snickers bar jogged past,
told me it was once a marathon
contender in the 70’s,
sad peanut git,
since then it had changed,
gone soft some ten years later.

Its worried partner “Rolo”
sidestepped me,
hurried
to avoid eye contact,
it was the last one.

I ate it, sweetened my day
a bit.

Black railings

Black railings

and racks of us,
we meet like this every day,
there’s Raleigh 70’s Racer,
a model with balding tyres,
Chipper and Chopper,
never mention their condition
as it’s called ‘receding’
on bikes of a certain age.

Gentiles with wicker baskets,
smelling of salad and bread,
remind us of home speed,
and a paper delivery welcome.

And young upstarts,
all pumped up, ready,
as colourful as the quench
of their drinks containers.
Some have missing spokes;
we like to hear
of their Evel escapades.

While owners do as they must,
we lean in casually, wait,
their feet dismounting pedals
to walk into the city.

In warm afternoons, exchanges
link off to the countryside,
where chains unnecessary,
freewheeling is unrestrained
as black railings turned
freestyle blackberry hedges.