Welcome to my regular Friday song/tune day, ladies and gentlemen, where I pick a piece of music that reflects my mood or the times, to share with you. But first, a poem about the Australian Federal election campaign.
The less I say I about the election campaign, the better. Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi, oi. oi. Three word slogan, “You’re gonna die.” That’s four, but who’s countin’? Stick that up your Pine Gap.
It’s excruciating, ladies and gentlemen, but at least we get to vote and afterwards, whinge about the result. Let’s listen to Flogging Molly performing The Worst Day Since Yesterday. Sing it with me.
Stay well, everyone, and sift your oats from your blarney.
To The Margins
Light rain veils the clouds, blanketing shadows,
Pushing them to the background, to the margins.
Autumn provides context to our marginal existence.
Stuck on the precipice,
Brightly coloured leaves hanging precariously
On the gallows of misspent time.
Time wasted, time lost to inaction, to
Indolence, graft and protectionism.
Protectionism, but not protection.
The latter is too high a price to pay.
Money does not grow on trees, invested
For those rainy days that wash farm to sea
And homes under high water mark until
Light rain veils the clouds, blanketing shadows.
Once, in an important work meeting with the senior execs, I opened my notepad and was confronted by a huge, black cockroach that had taken up residence between the pages of my notepad. We all saw it waving its monstrous antennae as it contemplated its next move. I made a hasty exit from the meeting, at which point the cockroach made its own dash for freedom. There may have been screaming. Did the bigwigs help with the dispatch? What do you think? I love my life.
Eyes agog. Cockroach! One extra makes a quorum. Best meeting ever.
True story, one which is best told on a weekend when nobody is reading.
I have never regretted being a pesticide-free household.
Welcome to my regular Friday song/tune day, ladies and gentlemen, where I pick a piece of music that reflects my mood or the times, to share with you. But first, a poem.
The vine grows tangled on bough – gnarly and proud. Pride, gnarly pride – whether of nations or race – wins not war, wins not peace, wins not submission.
Vines tangled on thorns of bloodied resistance, trapped in a fog of remembrance, the glory. Ignominious defender of empire
Lost. Dark and broken. Quells peace. Cruel tsar to none, hero to one. The vine grows tangled on bough. Wins not war, wins not peace, wins not submission.
Tangled vines lash all to the yoke of sorrow. Wins not war, wins not peace, wins not submission. The vine grows tangled on bough. Its rose blooms red.
Perhaps there is only one road for those devoid of imagination and courage? Maybe peace is something that requires practise? You know, fake it until you make it? Who knows? It seems that some of god’s apparent emissaries can give some pretty shitty advice. Shall we listen to Loreena McKennitt’s song, Dante’s Prayer, in the hope of something better?
Take care, everyone. Kind Regards. Tracy.
Lens-Artists Photo Challenge – Colourful Expressions, specifically a red rose for Anne as it is her favourite colour, plus NaPoWriMo #22challenge is to to write a poem that uses repetition. You can repeat a sound, a word, a phrase, or an image, or any combination of things.
Consuming Passions Long slender legs to her armpits; beautiful eyes flashed her carnal intent. He had been looking for her his whole life. Their eyes locked, bodies swaying together in lovers’ embrace. A question hung between them. He: “What do you want?” She: “To devour you.” And then he lost his head.
This poem was inspired by two mating praying mantises I photographed last week. Sometimes the female mantis, the smaller of the two, eats the head of the male mantis during copulation. The male is able to continue the deed without his head for a short time as apparently he has a separate mini-brain in his abdomen. Talk about being ruled by the little head! I confess that I had to look away.
Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge was to write a poem that anthropomorphises a kind of food, and ask yourself how the food feels about it.
Bon Appétit, everyone.
Kind Regards. Tracy.
NaPoWriMo #20 For information on the copulating appetites of praying mantises, here is an article from The Guardian.
I am reprising my poem about my little dog, Ama, for the NaPoWriMo prompt about dogs you have known, seen, or heard about. It is the best poem I’ve ever written (if I do say so myself) so I can’t offer any better. The poem is written in the style of bush poetry (ie. it’s long) and there’s a nod to Banjo Patterson’s iconic poem, The Man From Snowy River. In that poem, “the Man” rides his mountain pony down a steep hill after a herd of brumbies (wild horses). There is some controversy as to whether that poem was a true story. Unlike Mr Patterson’s poem, I can vouch that Ode to Ama is completely true. Enjoy. Read more
Welcome to my regular Friday song/tune day, ladies and gentlemen, where I pick a piece of music that reflects my mood or the times, to share with you. But first, a poem written for the National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) challenge, the optional prompt for which is to write a poem about something you have absolutely no interest in.
Eh? Bob*, what song should I pick for my Friday song day? Bob, what do I have absolutely no interest in? Listening. Suffering. Eh, sorry? What did you say?
Today, I’ve chosen L’Indifference, a musical piece written by Tony Murena and performed by Dan Newton’s Cafe Accordion Orchestra for my Friday Song Day. The Cafe Accordian Orchestra hails from Minnesotta. Indifference is not the exactly the same as having no interest in something, but it is close. Enjoy.
An image flickers like an old home movie across the screen.
A young girl stands by an open fridge door drinking thirstily from a large bottle of Passiona. A woman, her mother, appears in the background and chastises her daughter for drinking too much soft drink.Too much Passiona. Always Passiona.
"Drink water," the child's mother says.But the child doesn't stop.
Images flicker alternately between the child vomiting violently, and drinking from the bottle of Passiona, before vomiting again. The child becomes thinner and thinner.
Images of the wasting child flicker faster until she is nothing but a wisp of fetid Passiona air, translucent and ephemeral as she drifts in and out of consciousness.
When I was a small girl, I lived on a rural property on the outskirts of Sydney. Every week, the soft drink man would deliver a crate of syrupy, carbonated drinks to the property. They were supposed to be a treat, but I couldn’t get enough of them. My favourite was a passionfruit-flavoured fizzy called Passiona. In the 50 years since I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes, I have always craved carbonated fizzy drinks on those rare occasions when my blood glucose levels have been seriously high. It is worth noting that I became a Type 1 diabetic in the months after I recovered from a serious bout of the measles. Isn’t it fortunate that there are now vaccines to protect against many serious viruses that can trigger our immune systems to go into hyper drive and attack our own bodies?
The (optional) task for Day 14 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) is to write a poem/piece that takes the form of the opening scene of the movie of your life.
Halved How can love be so difficult and so simple all at once? Life is sickness and health. To be frank, love is both a comfort and a chore. Our troth, our trove, til just a fraction remains. Halved.
Dear readers, some of you may know that my True Love has been in hospital a couple of times recently. He has been discharged again with confusing and conflicting advice, and limited information on a new, very restrictive diet, until … surgery? It remains stressful, particularly in the light of increased demand for hospital services combined with significant staff shortages. Hence, the poem is rather maudlin. Not to worry, we shall persevere.
The (optional) task for Day 9 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) is to write a a nonet. A nonet has nine lines. The first line has nine syllables, the second has eight, and so on until you get to the last line, which has just one syllable.