POETIC LEANINGS

Often the verse precedes the image but occasionally vice versa. This one fell into the latter category and seemed such a funny photograph it just had to have an accompanying poem.

SLOPING PARTNERS

This is the tale of Edgar White

who, when he walked, sloped to the right.

He met a woman, Emma Greft,

who had a leaning to the left

so, happily symmetrical,

a courtship, geometrical,

developed and the couple soon

were married with confetti strewn.

They made their vows. The knot was tied

and, luckily, the aisle was wide.

THE ROAD LESS TRAVELLED

I've always enjoyed lighthearted verse but, like so many people, considered it a low form of poetry. Perhaps it is but, during this strange and joyless period in our history, I've found that writing verse of that type has improved my mood considerably. I'm not advocating rhyme as a cure for existential angst but it's certainly helped me. Here's the first of a season of what might well be described as 'ridiculous rhymes'. You'll find others on my Facebook page:- https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564

REX CANEM POETA

An obscure poet known as Rex

wrote poetry that was complex.

His sonnets and his villanelles

were all about obnoxious smells

or lamp-posts, pavements or of trees

and urination, if you please.

Lord Tennyson, Wordsworth or Keats,

none ever wrote of doggy-treats:

yes, daffodils and things like that

but none had ever chased a cat.

Rex sits and types, the poems mount:

at least a hundred at last count.

Indeed, it seems he had the gall

to write a poem about a ball

and how, each time he brought it back,

he was rewarded with a snack.

He’s written, now, a roundelay

about a bone, oh dear, let’s pray

that canine poetry’s a fad.

The fellow’s clearly barking mad.

BARKING MAD FOR CHRISTMAS

Barking Mad, Confessions of a Dog Sitter, is the title of a very amusing novel by my wife, who writes under the name Jane Mosse.

It's an excellent, 'feelgood' read and, at less than a tenner, would make the perfect 'stocking-filler' at the end of this unnerving year. If you're a fan of James Herriot and All Creatures Great And Small, this book will appeal.

Barking mad also seems like a suitable strap-line for the following piece of whimsy. It's been a while since I posted a Micro-Fiction piece so here's one that I hope will make you smile. 

FOR LIFE, NOT JUST FOR CHRISTMAS

Gordon was too macho to go to the doctor when the dog bit him on Christmas Eve. No doctor: no tetanus. Shit happens and the bite wasn’t serious. The dog itself didn’t seem particularly serious either: a big ungainly mutt with a daft expression, wearing the remnants of a suit and tie. The clothing puzzled Gordon. At home he bathed the wound with disinfectant. Neat puncture marks. Nothing to worry about.  

Worry set in a week later when the moon was full. Hair sprouted on Gordon’s hands; his teeth became fangs; a reckless hunger overwhelmed him. Stumbling outdoors in pyjamas, he bounded across L'Ancresse Common, driven by an instinct beyond his control.  

What’s happening to me? he howled. And howled and howled and howled. 

SEEKERS

In the spring 2014 Jane and I spent three months living in a small rented house in Italy. 

Situated in an unprepossessing village that had somehow managed to escape the notice of the multitudes of tourists that annually flock to Tuscany, the house was basic, clean and comfortable.

The long lazy days provided us with an opportunity to immerse ourselves in a way of life which was totally different from that of Guernsey.     

We were the only English-speakers in the area but were made to feel welcome and soon slipped into the languid rhythm of life in a hot southern climate.

At night the garden was lit by fireflies and an open door would attract moths. One such moth is the subject of this poem.

 

LA FALENA

A moth came in at the screen door

attracted by light as moths are.

It flickered like a small dark fan,

here and there: I could not ignore

its plight and trapped it in a jar,

released it outside. Foolish man:

moths will return, against the odds,

seeking out light as we do gods.

EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE

I read this poem at an open-air venue beside beautiful Lake Orta in Italy a decade ago when Jane and I attended the Poetry On The Lake Festival, a prestigious annual event attended by leading figures from the world of contemporary poetry. It's proved an enduring favourite.

SUITCASES

Crouching in attic gloom, 
where skylight beams illuminate their pool of silver dust, 
old leather suitcases doze like alligators 
dreaming their prehistoric dreams.

They sleep soundly having eaten up my father’s life ...

the photographs, the hearing-aid and collar studs,
the safety-razor with its rusted blade, 
the letters 
and the wallet with the ticket stubs ...
  
yet I am so afraid 
that when I kneel beneath the skylight 
to prise apart those sagging, alligator jaws,
the life that I will find compressed within 
will be too small 
to match my memories of him.