The stock of the rifle is hand-selected walnut.
I dust a beautiful porcelain lady.
My Nikon needs to be taken out of its case
like a coal black memory.
I pick up a quartz crystal,
put it to my eye
don't know why.
I drive out at night
with no aim or destination.
I go to the Oriental grocery emporium.
Cooking into the unknown
is my space travel.
These things I do are tramlines,
These things I do are rituals
for the safe-side of my mind.
Categories:
tramlines, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Ever since lockdown and the barbers were all closed,
There was only one solution that my wife duly proposed
‘Let’s go buy some clippers so that I can cut your hair’
She said, with a smile, and a persuasive stare.
Ever since that day we have this ritual, of sorts
I fire up the clippers, awaiting my hair to be cut short,
And with precision and attention, she duly proceeds
To cut my hair, which more often than not, she succeeds.
On the dreaded day, I encountered a distraction
As I fired up the clippers and handed over the contraption.
I heard the first shear before she worryingly shouted
‘You hair seems long’ she said, as if somehow she doubted!
The amount of hair extracted, upon examination
Seemed way to much, without an explanation
But upon close inspection, something wasn’t right
It was the absence of the clipper, that my hair had to fight!
I now had two tramlines, positively bald
Which my wife found amusing, as her close friends she called
And I was left with the only option, available to me,
To always wear a hat, so that the public couldn’t see!!
Funny Memories Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Natasha L Scragg
Date - 25th January 2022
Categories:
tramlines, funny,
Form: Rhyme
The stock of the rifle is hand-selected walnut.
I polish it with a soft cloth and occasionally
use linseed oil.
I dust a porcelain lady
twice a week. She does not need my attention,
but I give it.
My Nikon needs to be taken out of its case,
otherwise it may turn into a
a blank memory.
At least once a fortnight.
I pick up a quartz crystal and sigh;
the sigh does not mean anything
unless you think ‘sighs’ mean anything.
When the black dog returns,
I drive out at night
with no aim or destination.
The 'dog'
(my camouflaged depression),
must be driven somewhere,
and left on the side of a highway.
These things I do are tramlines,
a navigability that gets me back
to a place where I can write
with no bull attached -
no one likes a fake sun.
These inconsequential acts
are rituals, observances that maintain
the safe-side of my mind
while words eat words
in the dark.
Categories:
tramlines, poetry,
Form: Free verse
The stock of the rifle is hand-selected walnut.
I polish it with a soft cloth and occasionally
use linseed oil.
I dust a porcelain lady
twice a week. She does not need my attention,
but I give it.
My Nikon needs to be taken out of its case,
otherwise it may turn into a blind
coal-black memory.
I pick up a quartz crystal and sigh,
At least once a fortnight.
The sigh does not mean anything
unless you think ‘sighs’ mean anything.
When the black dog returns,
I drive out at night
with no aim or destination.
The 'dog' must be driven somewhere,
and left on the edge of a highway.
I go to the Oriental grocery emporium
each month to therapy-browse.
Sometimes I buy a paste or a sauce
not having a clue how to use them.
Cooking into the unknown
is my space travel.
These things I do are tramlines,
a navigability that gets me back
to a place where I can write a poem
with no black dogs attached -
no one likes a failing sun.
These things I do are rituals
for the safe-side of my mind.
~~
(‘Black-dog’ is a euphemism for depression).
Categories:
tramlines, poetry,
Form: Free verse
A slum outside Paris
A cardboard city thrives a place where no one has
to pay the rent and electricity are purloined.
is it impossible for middle -class folk to understand
but the Roma thrive despite living by a city dump
where you dump your trash wash your hand and are
happy to live in a block of flats and house the rules.
Now they want to get rid of this illegal city that cost
nothing to run and need not tramlines. But they are
not like us do not share our values, no they are not
like us the do not deplete the world`s resources and
when the last car has stopped the Gypsies will as they
always have done crossing the landscape with their children
women and dogs carried pulled donkeys on ancient carts.
And the man with a wristwatch and finery will offer
them riches for a lift to better times.
Categories:
tramlines, absence, abuse, addiction, adventure,
Form: Blank verse