A Poem a Day Rip-Offs

Image courtesy of Pixabay.com At night, I dive into whirlpools, slip-sliding and twizzling round and down, round and down, on pillow-seat into the depths and the coils of my mattress springs. At night, I spring into life, into my real existence, into my mortal world. If my mother were to meet me here, would she know me? At night, my toes grow deep into myself, into my roots. By day, I am nothing. Copyright owned by Jay Cool, November 2018 Inspired by  'Self-Portrait as Semiramis' , by Mary Kim Arnold.

'Glass' image courtesy of Pixabay.com Look into me and rejoice! I am like nothing you have ever fathomed - as sharp as a slosh of vodka, infused with a wonky frown. And there, from my core, gaze the bubbles of fizz; eyeballs that squint through the haze, as they hey-nonny-nonny out the depths of my tummy flying fast into bullet-shot loon. Copyright owned by none other than Jay Cool, November 2018 Inspired by an unfathomable reading of  'Simon the Good' , by Joelle McSweeney, topped off with a glass of Tesco's own 'Grand Vin de Bordeaux'.

Expiration is not my desire. 'Autumn Tree' by Jay Cool To don an orange wig is not to wear a portent, or to be tree laden with oranges midst autumn leaves of speckled brown, muted tan or luminous yellow; a sign of the seasons, confused, muddled and merging into one. For years and years, I have grown wild, have come close to splitting the stitches that bind me to the wishes of others, of people not my own, of people not myself. There is bewilderment as you read the thoughts of an eccentric, as I reach out and grow my tendrils around and beyond my crumpled purple hats, so that my fringe is tentacled to the electrifying clouds of rainstorms. How hard it is to carry scores of the critical corrections of cowboy bosses on my back, and still to stay compact, within the seams that contained my compulsion to crackle on. Nonetheless, there is a place above the rainstorms, where my crusty poetry lives and grows, a place still inhabitable by the parts of myself t

'Books' image courtesy of Pixabay.com You need to start thinking , my good husband said. You must make a plan; you must think ahead! All of those books that you know you possess The kids will not want them - they'll just make a mess! I realise he's right, and I do start to think. How many years, before my brain starts to stink? I've lived more than forty. Can I double it? Sure! There's still time to Google for bookshops galore! You need to start thinking, I helpfully said. You must make a plan; you must think ahead! All of those casings and computer parts. The kids will not want them, so please have a heart! He knows I am right, but he still fails to think. How many years, before his brain starts to stink? He's lived more than fifty; wants a card from the queen. And with skips up for hire, my face starts to beam So I've made up my mind; have had time to think. Connectors and cables; when thrown out, will clink! All of those no

'Poppy on East Hill, Sudbury' by Jay Cool Poppy is a blood-red word, No pulse, now lost No heartbeat, hampered Called out for World War's cost. Yet poppies, red and proud, Sit high atop Linen suits in crowds Giving life to men's non-stop Legs that march to beat of drum As sockets swing Arms, punching right, fist and thumb For them, no wars, impending Today, I wear my poppy Proud, and Uncles, great Remember. Copyright owned by Jay Cool, Sunday 11th November, 2018 Inspired by  'On Receiving the First News of the War' by Issac Rosenberg, 1890-1918. Composed in remembrance of my many Great-Great Uncles, from Myddle, Shropshire and Wolverhampton & Birmingham, in the West Midlands, who gave their lives in the First World War. Roll of Honour, St Peter's Church, Myddle

'Hand' image courtesy of Pixabay.com Let me go to the window Where the rainfall sloshes from joint Of broken pipe Down eggshell-cracked rendering Of outer wall Let me feel a little life Where my teardrops slip-slide from whites Of bloodshot sight Down eggshell-cracked rendering Of outer skin Give me a lover O you gods that sit and give The old new wonders. Give me passion, lust and steam. Don't shut me in. Let me out through the window To join in with the dream-shapes of fortune. So that I might use my wit and my cunning To break the long loneliness. Copyright owned by Jay Cool, November 2018 Inspired by  'At a Window' by Carl Sandberg, as featured on  Poem-A-Day .