Serious Poem – A Monday Quest

Frenzied poems, I pencil down, in quest to quash the angst of a Monday morning in Waitrose – flowered ceramics with words of stewed-up tea.   Copyright owned by Jay Cool, 7th October 2019   Seriousish Poem – Moreover Savvy Style – On The Flat Savvy Book – The Hidden Life of Trees

Serious Poem – Anxiety

Shuddering waves of washed-out goods needing some TLC – needing something. Something, or maybe someone to do something, to say something, to say that it’s okay, just to be the thing, the something, that is you. Copyright owned by Jay Cool, 6th October, 2019 Image by Norman Bosworth from Pixabay Silly Letter – Dear Mrs Moo…

Savvy Diary – The Torture

Just read a poem that arrived in my inbox, by Brandon Som. I struggled to follow many of the lines, as some were in languages other than English and, much to my shame, I am not even bilingual, let alone multilingual! Nonetheless, the following two lines stuck! Perhaps in the same way that a saw,…

Silly-Savvy Poem – Fully Flipped

A response to First Date by Glenn Thomas. Full of it. Full of freedom and full of fear. Fear of going forward for fear of fluffing it. Freedom. Fullness. Fear. Full. Flip! Copyright owned by Jay Cool, September, 2019 Image by Iva Balk from Pixabay   Do read, like and comment on further posts by…

Savvy Article – Womenostop

Pause. Just pause for a moment – either mid-sentence, or mid-life, and consider this question. Why is the beast that brings upon womankind symptoms such as: hot flushes, extreme anxiety, over-thinking and short-term forgetfulness labelled the menopause? It’s got nothing to do with ‘men’, or with ‘pauses’, other than that it gives ‘men’ an excuse…

Silly Poem – Mind

  I never mind them. Not much. And I don’t mind not minding them. Not at all. Why then, do they mind me not minding them? That, I mind!   And is that wrong? No, not to my mind.   As the only mind, to me, that I mind minding, is my mind.   So,…

54: One More Day

I’m still here. And, still to come, is one more day of the day job. To make thoughts of tomorrow more palatable, I imagine a look-after-themself-only type being situated on a Subbuteo pitch. A large forefinger and thumb descend from on high. Flick. FliCK. FLICK. FLICK. The ball bounces off the goal post, pinging back…

Edges

  The edges of me have holes in. Gaps in the fortifications, making it easier for you – to ping your view of me, into the spaces, thinking to make your mark, but I’ve played your table games before, in other places, with other players, and your view of me, pings back, at you –…

Hypocaust

In the middle, I stand, pushing down my insides, is to be whooshed over and over; whooshed by the waves, emanating up from the soles of one’s feet; tidal waves, quick and sudden; humongous waves that cross over one’s bowels,  stomach and heart, crushing them together into a bouncing ball, up and churning it   …

Apperception

  To sleep, or not to sleep? That is the problem. But to sleep, for the obedient wrongdoer, in the aftermath of a wrongdoing done, is not much of a muchness of a problem. A wrongdoing done to another, a deception, is not much of a problem to be borne, if one was ordered by…