Ishga Maninga! It's that old Bus of Poetry!

Wonderful Weaver set the bus in motion this week with her task HERE

If you have not yet been over and done , then get over and do.
Poetry! Try it, you may like it!
It's not marmite and marzipan, it isn't pins and needles,it isn't a waste of time but when it is, it's a glorious one.
It's a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea on a foggy November morning, it's holding hands and skipping, it's two bottles of red wine with a friend,it's a lemon mousse after a sunday roast, it's different, it's odd, it's an uncaged bird, it's seeing things with your heart as well as your eyes, it's the part of you you don't understand, it's what you thought you had forgotten, it's not just a poem written in 5 mins, it's everything that has ever happened to you up till the second before you write.
Exercise yer brain or exorcise your soul. Write a poem today.

I wanted to write about a woman I once saw in a big park in the north of England. (This is true and I have witnesses.) It was summer and the park was crowded.Up ahead of us mingled among the strolling hordes were a family. The mother was large walked slightly oddly and was dressed vividly in loud colours. There was something out of kilter with her in general but her gait in particular. Drawn like magnets we sped up and strained to see more. There was something about her legs. Did she have two? Were they the same colour. As we got closer we still couldn't quite believe it.She had two legs alright, but one of them was from an ornate dining table. A proper fughin table leg, thick heavy mahogany or teak and Edwardian looking all shaped and carved with rings and bulges and square bits.

But I couldn't get me poetry head round that and so was at a loss.Not drinking doesn't exactly oil the poetry metabolism either.

Luckily I walked into the garden yesterday(somewhat gratefully on me two flesh and bone type legs) and saw two flies on a snail- and there was my poem. Or should I say here is my poem.

Fireflies

Despite failing sense

I came across them

Broad sunlight upon their backs

Feeding, fighting, flirting,

A greenbottle and bluebottle,

Flies on the hard and soft carcass

Of yesterdays snail.

They were ugly. but so beautiful,

Their colours bright as fire

A reflection of midday heat

And it meant something

It meant everything

It meant nothing

It was all you wanted it to be

It was life.