Amber Folk

‘amber folk sipping gold sun through skin’ (line 5 of ‘to be considered before inviting everyone to the cookout’ by Rasheed Copeland)

Umpa Lumpa Zomie II flickr.com
‘Umpa lumpa zombie II’ image courtesy of flickr.com (creative commons)

 

Red, amber and green, and if you want the ultimate,

go for purple and think not in amber. Amber is a middling

goal, a goal parading as gold. To go for purple is to rise up

the ranks, to pass through the force fields, to be an

antigen, to pass through the brain barrier. To be purple

is to disturb the status quo, to cause collateral damage.

To be amber? To be amber is to smother one’s face with

thick-orange-yellow wallpaper paste. To be amber is to

be a slave to the purple. To be amber is to provide the

feast. To be red is to be the feast. Ignore the red (who

wants to bleed?), skim over the amber (nothing attractive

about umpa-lumpas!), skip through the green (but wolf down

some sprouts), and bathe yourself in a seas of purple presence.

Enjoy, and flourish. Because, to be purple is to be baked by a

hot sun and to be consumed by the fires of moorlands; to be

purple is to burn back to red. To be red is to be rained upon, to

bleed out and to swell. Red passes into green, and green?

 

Green starts again.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, February 2019

Inspiration taken from the poetry of Rasheed Copeland, as featured on Poem-A-Day.

 

Savvy Writing Tips – Grab a Word!

Stuck for something to write about? Grab a word – any word! Any word from anywhere! Grab it, attach it to screen or paper and go for it! Easy!

  1. Grab your word, e.g. take ‘stuck’, the first word in this post.
  2.  Take ownership of the word.
  3.  Water it and allow the word to grow!
  4.  Whilst waiting, take heed of this example:

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Stuck.

Stuck to this chair, in this office, in this place, I find it hard to focus. One wrong number, one wrong digit in this part code, and I could be ordering a £600,000 diamond, instead of a cut of cubic zirconia, its cheap-synthetic alternative.

One wrong touch of this keypad, and I could be  out of this chair and out of this job. It’s an option almost worthy of my consideration.

As my fingers hover and fly over the keys, a sparkle bounces off my wedding ring and catches my drifting thoughts. The sparkle tells me that it too is cheap, that it too is just a piece of cubic zirconia; a tiny cut of cubic zirconia, stuck fast into a band of stainless steel; low-quality stainless steel, not worthy of a place in my cutlery drawer, hamming itself up as an serious alternative to white-gold.

Cheapskate.

My husband is a cheapskate, and I’m stuck in a low-grade and low-paid cheapskate of a job. Time for a change.

time for change

One wrong touch of this keypad. My tip of my ring finger stops its hovering, refocuses on its target, and begins its descent …

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

And who’s the one who’s stuck now? I hear you ask. What happened to the rest of the story? Where is your middle and where is the ending?

Like I said …, I’ve watered the seed, coaxed up the seedling, and now? Now, I’m taking a step back. I’m giving the story some ‘me time’. I’m giving it some space in which to grow.

Okay, I admit it. I’m stuck.

Any ideas?

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, February 2019

 

P.S. Stuck for words? Try one of these:

trump wordall1578286_1280

Or, if a Trumped up wall of words seems insurmountable, stick to the singular! Stay focused. Stay ….

 

cool picture frame pixabay

All images included in this post are courtesy of Pixabay.com (creative commons licensed).

Embrace

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Reaching out to still-retreating goal, I pull it

back and yank it

in.

If I am a dozy-dreamer, I salute my

vision and embrace

it.

I create this

life.

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, February 2019

Inspiration taken from the phrase ‘still-retreating goal’, line 12, of  the poem ‘The Mortal Lease: II’, by Edith Wharton.

 

 

 

 

Trickling

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Pixabay.com

 

As film-hazed eyes give up,

quilted-thin mountains subside,

and book-filled volcanoes erupt,

spilling out pages of missed-words,

that vi for last-chance attention,

all imprint-hopes dashed and swept

away

by

a

trickle

tumbling

out of a

corner-lip,

and forming a hot-bubbling larva,

pooling on a pillow, patiently awaiting

for a rosy-pink snout to blast out a roar

to end all the over-think anxieties of

dayness.

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, February 2019

 

In celebration of Jay Cool’s facial palsy and corresponding dribbles of saliva, i.e. be proud of your own uniqueness and embrace it to the full!

Also inspired by the phrase ‘trickle of saliva’ in the poem ‘Love Songs’, by Mina Loy.

 

About this blog …

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A Salopian exile writes her way out of a dark and dingy sandstone cave … and ends up composing her best poems – accompanied by a pot of tea and a motley collection of portraits – whilst hogging a large table to herself, in a Prado Lounge Café.

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A Salopian Contender for Hippocrates Prize!

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Your favourite eccentric transforms her aches and pains into contenders for the Hippocrates Prize for Poetry and Medicine (somebody out there, peruse the other posts in ‘This Physical Thing’ category, i.e. take pity on the poor!).

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, February 2019

Investment

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To rise again is to stand up again, after
the beast has shoved you over.
And yet, you know – he’ll strike again;
a shovel, greedy for more coal, for
more fuel to keep him ticking.
You rise up again, after the second shove,
and the third, and the fourth and the fifth.
Up, and nearly up, and a little less up, until
you are only half-way up, and then,
you still rise – making it all the way up this time.
He’s ticking on and on and on;
you’re rising up, again and again and again, until
the ticking of the beast keeps you awake at
night. And then you know – it’s time.
Time to stand up. Time to back up. Time to invest
in earplugs.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, February 2019

Inspired by the poem ‘On Joy and Sorrow’, by Kahlil Gibran.

Image from Pixabay.com (creative commons)

Coastal Drift

 

coastal drift pixabay
Pixabay.com

 

Sucked out
of my cave, I
am forced to drift
on a coastal tour of
changing appearances
seagulls that metamorphose
into layers of rock that fracture;
flints that live on through
bleeding hearts that drip
and dry, becoming one with
the sand that drifts into a
child’s bucket and turns all
palatial. I run and run, on
and on, from one beach that
runs into another. I have
seaweed hair that streams
out behind me, held up by
the wind, kiting me over
sandstone cliffs, turning
me into a mortal goddess,
until, exhausted, I bleed and
drip into the sand, and a
blood-red grain of my
existence drifts
back home.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, February 2019

Inspired by the poem ‘Prayer Severing the Cycle’, by Donte Collins.

 

Manipulable

Major Oak (flickr.com)
‘Major Oak’ of Sherwood Forest from flickr.com (free to share & use commercially)

A thickness about my waist reminds me
now, of the enormous girth of an ancient oak tree,
almost
dead.

My arms feel leaden,
and I think of that same old oak tree – branches
propped
up
by
rods,
as my arms
descend into
playdough
rolls that –
twist and
thin
to a
p
o
i
n
t.

Manipulable.

I pick myself up and recreate my youth.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, February 2019

Laughter On Tap (Suffolk Punch Comedy Club’s official blog)

An eccentric, in mid-life crisis, ventures into The Brewery Tap (and assorted Portaloos) to blog about Suffolk Punch Comedy Club stand-ups …

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