Creativity

My Go To Comfort Food

Daily writing prompt
What’s your go-to comfort food?
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What’s my go to comfort food?

Sorry, people. I do not have a ‘go to comfort food’. When I need that comforting feeling I do three things.

1. I fast. That is to say, I go without food. I feel more comfortable and comforted on an empty stomach, rather than a full one. I know that many people like to sit down and ‘stuff’ themselves, but, sorry, I am not one of those.

2. I rant. Especially if I need comforting for something that upsets me. Then I sit down at my desk, open my note book, and let the feelings flow out with the ink. I will use different color inks for different feelings – purple, green, antique copper (given to me by one of my best friends) – and different pens with different nibs. I have Extra Fine, Fine, Medium, Broad, and three types of italic nibs – fine, medium, broad. Yup – a ‘comfort rant’ is just as good as a ‘comfort food’, if not better.

3. I paint. I actually find painting under stress is easier and more comforting than the verbal rant. The rant focuses on the source of the problem, while the painting – choice of theme and color – allows me to escape into another world, the alternative universe of visual creativity.

I must admit that I try and avoid TV as an escape. I do follow the cricket, though. England versus Australia, in the Ashes, and the day’s play rained out. Well, the MCC members will be seeking the solace of their comforting prawn sandwiches, but I take my pen and rant about the folly of selecting out of form players, just returning from injury, and continuing with them in an act of faith and belief that confirms the joys of ‘jolly good fellows’ and ‘mock brotherhood’ – we few, we happy few, we band of brothers – Henry the Fifth – while blaming the inevitable defeat upon the weather, the windy old weather, the rainy old weather, not on the eleven lost cricketers unable to pull together.

Great rant, that one. Now I do feel hungry. I wonder what comfort food I might find in the fridge?

Dogs or Cats?

Daily writing prompt
Dogs or cats?
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Dogs or Cats?

Neither. Teddy Bears. Same reasons hold good for a cat as a dog.

1 Five reasons why a Teddy Bear is much better for you than a Kitty Cat.

            I know, I know: cat lovers will go wild. They think cats are such lovely cuddly things. And they believe strongly that nobody can resist a warm, loving, darling, purring bundle of fur. Well, I can resist cats. And I can give you five good, sound, solid, 25 carat reasons why Teddy Bears beat Kitty Cats any day of the week.

One

            Teddy Bears do not need to be fed on a regular basis. In fact, one piece of kibble will last a Teddy Bear for a very, very long time. And you can’t say the same for your cat. So, less expense, no need to feed, don’t have to put that fresh water down every day, no constant fawning attention when hungry or just plain greedy, don’t have to worry about treading on the cat’s tail … In fact, a Teddy Bear wins out every time.

Two

            “Don’t mention cleaning out the kitty litter. Promise?”

            “I promise. I won’t mention it.”

            “Word of honor?”

            “Word of honor. Fresh Walnut and all that.”

            “You just mentioned it.”

            “Mentioned what?”

            “The kitty litter.”

            “I didn’t.”

            “You did: you said ‘Fresh walnut.’”

            “So?”

            “So that’s what keeps the kitty litter from smelling.”

            “Does it smell much?”

            “Quite a bit. I hate cleaning it out.”

            “Why?”

“It’s so smelly, filthy, grainy, lumpy, stinking.”

“So, why do you do it, then? What you need is a nice, clean, environmentally friendly Teddy Bear. There’s no cleaning up after a Teddy Bear. Who’s ever heard of Teddy Bear Litter?”

            “You said you wouldn’t mention it.”

            “Mention what?”

            “Kitty litter.”

            “I didn’t, you did. I said ‘Teddy Bear Litter’.”

Three

            Teddy Bears don’t have off-spring. You don’t need to neuter them, and they don’t need taking to the vet. Nor do they sit and wait in family groups for their photos to be taken. What we have reproduced elsewhere is a fake photo placed there by the unscrupulous enemy for their own pro-cat propaganda purposes.

Four

            Teddy Bears are very obedient. If you tell a Teddy Bear to “sit” or to “stay”. He does so. Immediately. And he stays where you put him. There’s no clash of wills and egos, no conflict at all. Teddy Bears are easily trained and very obedient. Also, they don’t want to go out in the garden and wander beneath the bushes to shriek and whine when the moon is full. Now, if you have cats and you want them to sit and stay still, you must give them something to watch or to play with. Chipmunks and garden birds aren’t cheap, you know, and they are less trainable than cats. How long do you think it takes to train a chipmunk to just sit there quietly to entertain your cat? Especially when it’s being hissed at and the cat is bouncing the window with anguish? Also, Teddy Bears don’t climb on furniture, nor do they break ornaments, nor sink their claws into your hair as you pass beneath them, nor do they drop on you, unexpectedly, from great heights.

Five

            Fifth and final: when there’s a moth, a fly, or a mosquito on the ceiling at night, you can’t train your kitty cat to fly into the air and snatch it off the ceiling. But as for Teddy: grab him by one leg, preferably the back one; give him his commands “Ready, Teddy, Go!” and hurl him skywards. With a little practice, he’ll nail that nocturnal buzzing monster every time.

            No: all things considered — and I promise I won’t mention that little box the cat sits in — there’s nothing better than a Teddy Bear. Wise, silent, friendly, cuddly, obedient, friendly (did I say that?), needs no training, always there when needed, waits patiently for you when you’re away, never stalks off with tail in air, never gets out and hides in the garden where you can’t find him, adorable, cuddly (did I say that already?)

Give me a Teddy Bear anytime.

 

Past Times

Past Times

When I was young, I used to watch
my fox terrier chasing his tail,
running round and round in circles,
never quite catching it,
but never giving up his high hopes
 of catching that little rag-tag of a bobtail
that dangles there behind.
 
Round about and out and in and out
all day that silly dog did spin,
spinning in prose and then in rhyme,
until I lost all track of time.

Comment: I loved a part of one of my prompts, so I turned it into a personal poem. The second stanza is based on a poem by Thackeray. I learned it in my youth. Learning poetry and remembering it, another past time from past times. I also love playing on words. Imitatio is one of the rhetorical devices used traditionally by poets. To imitate, is to express one’s admiration of another person’s work. It should not be confused with plagiary / plagiarism, which is something entirely different. Anyone who has followed my writing, on this blog and elsewhere, will know that I echo the words of other poets and that I do so deliberately, to praise them and acknowledge their creativity and their continuing influence upon my own poetic world.

Today’s Cartoon – A Time Apart – by my friend Moo who is very generous with his art..

Which activities make you lose track of time?

Daily writing prompt
Which activities make you lose track of time?
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Which activities make you lose track of time?

I guess it depends on how you define activities. Sleeping certainly makes me lose track of time. But sleeping is not an activity, you say. So I say, what about sleep walking? A track to walk on, and sometimes sleep walkers lose track of themselves, and hands of the clock lost in the dark ahead of them, on they go, tick-tock, little clockwork soldiers marching until someone or something wakes them up. Where am I? They ask. And what time is it?

Watching my fox terrier chasing his tail as he runs round and round in circles, never quite catching it, but never giving up his high hopes of catching that little rat-tail of a tail that dangles there behind. And round about and out and in all day that silly dog did spin, spinning in prose and spinning in rhyme, until I lost all track of time.

Same thing happens with that little electric railway that ran on a single loop around the kitchen table. Diddle-da-diddly-da, just like a real train, except no smoke, no puff the magic dragon, no sense of a schedule or arriving and departing on time, when circular time is meaningless, as are the numbers on the sundial when the sun isn’t shining, or the hands on the clock when the numbers are missing, and you don’t know whether you are looking in time’s mirror or are standing on your head in the Antipodes and all the while the clock hands are marching round and round, tick-tock, and there is no track by which time can be tracked. And the runaway hands went round the track and the ghost train hooted whoo-hooo, as it vanished into the timeless tunnel of darkest night, and then exited. like Rip Van Winkle, the engine driver with a huge beard, and the carriages all covered with cobwebs and skeletons peeping out of the compartments and sitting beside some of the travellers as they snore on their seats.

And wow, the activity, if it be an activity, of walking my fingers over the keys has just made me lose track of the last ten minutes. And now it is time for me to drive to hospital, have a needle stuck in my arm, and allow a nurse to draw my blood. And the moment from the first sight of the needle to the moment it is withdrawn from the end is e-n-d-l-e-s-s and takes an eternity.

Interesting Times

Daily writing prompt
List 10 things you know to be absolutely certain.
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Interesting Times

“May you live in interesting times.” This phrase, be it a blessing or a curse, it has been called both, is rapidly becoming a cliché. So, are we living in ‘interesting times’? Good question, and I have no answer to it, not one that I would publish anyway.

As to listing 10 things that I know to be absolutely certain, I can’t. And that may be the first thing I am certain about. The other thing about which I have a certain amount of certainty is uncertainty itself. I am certain that yes, we are indeed living in times of uncertainty. Well, most of us are anyway. The other thing that I am fairly certain about, well, 100% certain about really, is that death will come to us all, sooner or later, don’t know where, don’t know when, don’t know how.

So, perhaps I can manage to achieve three certainties – 1. The certainty of death, to quote Dylan Thomas, ‘for all poor creatures born to die’. 2. The certainty of uncertainty itself, to quote Stéphane Mallarmé, in my own translation, ‘a roll of the dice will never eliminate chance’. 3. The certainty that I cannot find seven more things about which I am certain.

That said, I am not all that certain about what I have just written

Situations

Situations

I am sitting at my desk, typing to you.
Many thoughts are running through my head.

I am checking the weather regularly –
high winds and rain are due soon.

Clare has just walked past the window.
She waved at me, but didn’t ask for any help.

The washing is almost dry and needs folding.
 We need to tie down the umbrella and porch chairs.

The cat has just walked across my keyboard.
I correct her footprints. They have typed false words.
 
Now she has discovered the dried blood on the floor.
It soaked into the boards when I cut my arm last night.

I meant to clean it up this morning, but I forgot.
I can hear her tongue rasping as she licks it up.  

Real People

Real People

They lie there, lifeless, in their little black coffins.
They refuse to pick up their beds and walk.
Powerful as you are, you are powerless now.
You are unable to grace them with the gift of life.

Listless, disappointed, you turn away. Don’t look,
but now, while you are not watching them, they move.
A gesture here, a wink of the eye, a tiny smile,
a broken tooth, a scar from a dog bite, and they come alive.

Now they stand before you, dressed in the clothes
you wove for them, from their own words.
When you listened, they spoke. They didn’t want
to be forced into falsehoods, forged from your fake words.

True to their own natures, they now walk and talk,
naturally, in the words you heard when you let them speak.

Bone Fire Night

Bone Fire Night

Sometimes the sun’s too bright
and we are best, at night, by moonlight,
when shadows flicker and we seize,
in the shimmering half-light,
half-truths glowing in the dark.

In the full light of day, these ideas
take forms, flesh themselves out,
grow skin and bone, flesh and blood,
their skeletal beings standing,
fully-clothed, beside us.

They take on match-stick bodies,
twisted, pipe-cleaner shapes,
or stick their stakes into the ground,
hold out their arms, and turn into
scarecrows that scare away the truth

Do they bring us release from our
darkest yearnings, or are they those
self-same cravings, hankering after
their day of glory, that precious moment
when they stand upright in the sun?

With the advent of bone fire night,
we stack them into wheelbarrows,
place them on the gathering pile
of outmoded thoughts and ideas,
light a match, and watch them burn.

A Game of Chance

A Game of Chance

You make me think of the road not walked,
the path untaken, the bay around the headland
where we never swam, the cliffs on the Gower
that we never had the time to climb.

Who knows which path is right or wrong
when we throw the dice and stake our future
on a single moment of time when, thinking done,
we come to a decision and take that first step.

The more I know, the more I realize that I know
so little and am surrounded by a world
not only unknown, but totally unknowable,
and me with my life dangling from a frail thread.

Sometimes, I dig deep into bottled sunshine,
But find no answers there, just the same questions
swirling round the glass, and the glass filled with
the same uncertainties and lack of knowledge.

I really don’t know where to go, or how to get there.
And then I remember that, if I don’t know where to go,
any path I take will lead me there. That is when I shuffle
the cards, breathe deep, and give the dice a throw.

Hanwell

Hanwell

Here, in Hanwell Woods,
a seemingly abandoned chapel,
paint peeling, and two stark crosses
marked on barred doors.

The new copper spire gleams
as sunlight casts leaf shadows,
sending them dancing under trees.

Neither sight nor sound of bells
this sunny afternoon,
just the mosquitoes’ whine,
the black flies’ zip and buzz.

Across intervals of silence,
a far-off chain saw rips wood.
Trees and branches topple then fall.
Trails set free from winter’s debris.

The wind herds clouds instead of sheep.
Giant footprints drift shallow
across the shadowed land.