Time For Some Recycling

I haven’t been inspired by any of the poetry sites for weeks.  I blame me, not them; though I am working on a poem caused by Big Tent.  It won’t be displayed here because it’s about South Africa, but you can always pop over to my other blog to read it.

We Write Poems has gone all romantic for Valentine’s Day.  Yes, I know that’s so last Monday, but Post Your Poems Day is Wednesday, so what’s a site to do?

I haven’t written anything new, of course (were you not paying attention?); but I have some old ones that my new readers won’t have seen:

 

21^st Century Marriage

Two minds with but one
single thought: can I have a
fling and not get caught?

 

Another 21^st Century Marriage 

Anniversary
Four: such a bore.  One more chore
and I’m out the door.

 

The Housewife’s Aphrodisiac

You want me trembling
with desire for you? Offer
to wash the dishes.

 

Valentine’s Day for the Unhappily Married  

Cupid fired the arrow,
But it’s us who got life.

 

Unaccustomed As I Am 

I don’t write love poems
but if I did
I’d say you were
the remote to my telly
the fart to my smelly
the shake to my belly
the mud to my welly
the peanut butter to my jelly
the catessen to my deli
the phant to my ele
the circus to my Nellie
the copter to my heli
the é to my mele
the Brazil to my Pelé

I don’t write love poems
but if I did
I’d raid a dictionary for you
include you in my felony
and hope that no-one thesaurus

 

 

 

 

 

Merry Christmas Eve

Apologies for the intermittent nature of my posts this week; you know what it’s like in the run-up to Christmas: shopping, visits out, glasses of wine to drink, visits to us, glasses of wine to drink, turkey defrost calcualtions to maik, glashes of wine to drink, visits to the ductor, washes of gline, preshunts to exshange, clashes of wane to dunk, whine….

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The Hub made apple and meat pies yesterday.  Um, let me rephrase that: the Hub made two apple pies and two meat pies and one apple & mango pie, and fifteen large sausage rolls with proper sausages (it should have been sixteen but I stole a sausage when he wasn’t looking).  The Hub was in bed for six o’clock.  He over-estimated his energy level and the time it would take to bake.  Never mind: the CFS might do for him but at least we’ll eat well.

We will have one of the meat pies for tonight’s dinner.  We didn’t have it last night because I had prepared chicken stoup in my slow cooker.  Chicken stoup is what I call it because I’m not certain if it was stew or soup.  Whatever: it tasted good; who cares what it looked like?

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You will notice the absence of photos on my blog today: I was going to post a picture of the Incredible Bearded Baby but the computer had a hissy fit and refused to play with me.  When the Hub wakes up, I’ll kick him downstairs to come and sort it out.

The prompt for this week’s We Write Poems was to say what you want.  I want to have some serious writing time, but that’s not happening this week, so here’s a senryu I got as a result of two spare minutes in the bathroom:

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What I Want

I want my husband
to be well again.  I want
him to play football

with his children.  I
want our lives back: say what you
want, I don’t aim low.

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But that was too grim so I had fun instead:

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You Can’t Always Get What You Want

Beauty Queen: I want world peace

Megalomaniac: I want the world, piece by piece

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I had planned to write a load more (Old-Fashioned Pudding: I want pease) but I had baking to supervise (i.e. clean up after) so I’ll come back to it in the New Year.

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If you want to know in seventeen syllables who will rule the world after a nuclear holocaust, go to my other blog.

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Sorry if this post is somewhat downbeat for the season, but today is the tenth anniversary of my darling Dad’s death.  He was 64 and lung cancer brought on by lifelong smoking killed him.

He was a funny man, always joking.  I miss him.  I would post a photo if this stupid computer wasn’t sulking.

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That’s enough gloom for today.  Our plans are: a lot of cleaning (me, delegating to Spud); a lot of cooking (turkey & gammon are sizzling in the oven right now); a visit to the cemetery followed by a walk (me, husband, dogs, youngest son); a lot of nail-biting (me: will Tory Boy’s train get through in time?); and a glash or tree of Bick’s Fuzz.

Merry Christmas to you all, or any other holiday you might be celebrating.

Thank you for making my blogging year a successful one!

 

We Love Senryu

The prompt for We Write Poems this week was various kinds of love.  I didn’t write all of these senryu in response to that prompt, but it’s my favourite form (you might say I love it) and I have enough about love that I can share with you.  There’s also a short poem I wrote as a teenager in love on my South Africa – A Love/Hate Story blog.

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Talking Point

My son discovered
he loves Shakespeare: now we have
something in common.

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Christmas Eve With Dad

He lived and loved, laughed,
then sighed.  He held my hand.  He
held my hand.  He died.

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A Note For My Mum

An old woman passes me,
smelling of fags and
booze.  I grieve, for she’s not you.

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Friendship

Geese guard a stricken
comrade until it dies or
flies again – how neece.

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Adult Yearner

Married man longs for
someone. It can never be.
She is his wishtress.

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Unconditional Love

I expected to
feel it for my children, but
not for my pet dogs.

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Empty Nest

Forlorn housewife. Heart
heavy like wet washing on
the line. Mothers’ fate.

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Not-So-Modern Marriage 

Selfish man: your wife
will fetch carry clean feed love
you: stupid woman.

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Two Beautiful Things 

A bloody baby
and his brother, screaming their
way into my heart.

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We Write Poems: ‘Collections’

From An Exasperated Wife

My husband collects
this, that and the other;

I think, why bother?
I’d put it all in the bin.

There’s no doubt
I’d like the lot cleared out.

Perhaps I’ll start with him.

Six-Word Memoirs

This was a fun exercise, found here (via Vivinfrance; thanks Viv). Take the same headings as mine and write a six-word memoir for each one. You can be as honest or as vague as you like.

Best Advice Given Or Gotten:

Don’t put it down, but away.

Milestone Birthdays:

Eighteen: my parents set me free.
Forty: my age set me free.

Holiday Traditions:

Tree up together; tree down: mother.
Everybody’s home; everybody eats; everybody laughs.

A Memorable Meal:

The Spur: Christmas Dinner. Steak sucks.

Siblings:

Two brothers; one older; one younger.

Cheating Death:

Eldest Child: Pool. Slip. Alert friend.
Youngest Child: biltong: slap: sore back.

The Trip That Changed My Life:

First flight to South Africa. Sigh.

What A Child Taught Me:

We’re polite to strangers, not family.

Revenge Is Sweet:

But it belongs to the Lord.

The Worst Mistake I’ve Ever Made:

Paid ten cents: saw modern art.

Met Very Young:

My husband; our marriage matured us.

Growing Old Together:

We’re grey, cuddly and in love.

My Life Overall:

Has been happier than many another.