Wiggly, woggly, Harry Harris Set out to walk to Moscow. Wiggly, wobbly, giggly goggly. He got no further than the terrace. None of which did dampen his spirits. Harry Harris never serious. Wiggly, woggly Harry Harris.
This time we are to take on some narrative nonsense. I can recall how great my brother was at this kind of narrative when we were kids. Just trying to get him serious for a family photograph was almost impossible. So I guess I’ll dedicate this one to him. It took me a little while to get here but glad Harry Harris got to be.
An elite couple dancing on the beach. Raindrops cannot dampen spirits. Nor show they a care to butler and maid whose umbrellas attempt to shield them. Selfishly the waltz continued.
Little maid, as I muse so like my mother. Did you get a chill?
Benita H. Kape (c) 11.1.2022
Notes: This poem is based on a famous Scottish painting by Jack Vettriano named “The Singing Butler.” Self taught Jack Vettriano faced much snobbery.
Their beaks pushing through orange skin and juicy segments.
They did not expect a miracle.
But they made the most of it.
.
One sip and each a returnee.
Then another flew in.
Each bird ate in abundance and sang his happy clements
To the street: atypical,
None of them ready to quit.
.
They made of it a jubilee;
Their ample afternoon hui.
While we watched; marvelling at such different refreshments.
To your stories allegorical
The Tui’s adaption and wit.
.
Honey-eaters: what the Puriri?
Will Tui now be queuing
For their new-found, sweet dripping citrus indulgence?
Two voice boxes sing the oracle.
In an orange tree three Tui sit.
.
Benita H. Kape (c) 5.1.2022
Tui – a New Zealand song bird. These birds amazingly have two voice boxes; very melodious.
Hui – Maori word for meeting
Puriri – a sweet flowering New Zealand native tree
The did not expect a miracle. Line from “Black Rook in Rainy Weather” by Sylvia Plath.
We are so used to seeing Tui, honey-eaters, in our sweet flowering natives. It was a surprise to find them in an orange tree having a feast. Glorious singing birds.
“Rimas Dissolutas” French Literature.
I followed the example given of Sylvia Plath’s “Black Rook in Rainy Weather.”
Quote: “A poem that rhymes and doesn’t rhyme. For instance, each stanza contains no end rhymes but each line in each stanza rhymes with the corresponding line in the next stanza – sometimes employing an envoi at the end.
Here’s how the end rhymes would work in a Rimas Dissolutas with five line stanzas.
I’ve completed on arrangements and now there’s a hold up. Nothing happens in some quarters when it is a public holiday. Celebrations are on hold for me. The banks are closed. Even on-line nothing happens. What I wanted, taking its time to activate. It’s as simple as not having entered my mobile number to my bank profile.
I’m not of fan of the ubiquitous mobile phone. Simple as that. Now I must wait for a vague and distant activation.
Then the celebrations will begin. The corks waiting to pop.
Aganpanthus and Jasmine had overtaken the front fence line. Then one day, a woman offered to help rid me of these pests. And she worked very hard at it. But suddenly she encroached into my space every bit as much had the plants. I never knew when she would be in my yard or stooped out there on the footpath. From ten am until nigh on dark she worked. She worked so very slowly and I paid her well. To me it was a business arrangement. And then the job was done and still she flustered around the yard encroaching now into areas where not previously arranged. In the house! Could she help here, could she help there?
A long way from London but still I had thoughts of Elliot! “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?”
Move across the kitchen to the back door. Ooops, the cat under my feet. She’d open the door if she could. She has this habit of when it comes time she wishes to go outdoors she doesn’t actually scratch, she paws at the door in a little knock, knock sound. (I know, she’s clever.)
Now she is nosing at the security door. How many times a day do I open it just for her? But a Kitty Latch Door! No, we have strays who have seen what a good wicket this little cat is on.
Down a couple of steps, cat not sure and tries to herd me in the opposite direction. Round the side of the house we go: walk the metaled metres down the path. Past hibiscus, roses and Japanese anemones. All I see of cat is a tail among the day lilies.
Past the orange tree, then the lemon tree and then push aside the jasmine I’ve been meaning to cut back: how can the post-person even see our lovely ceramic street number screwed on the post under the box? But he seems to. (Been known to put mail in that’s not for me. I re-direct.)
I lift the tight closed flap of the letter box. Today’s mail in hand I stop to smell the roses; wave to my neighbour out for a stroll. Mail deliveries cut back to three times a week. (That was gonna happen Covid or no.)
And this is the part I love; when cat comes galloping around the corner, comes to an abrupt halt — and waits for me to take the steps. Holding back the security door I turn to her saying, “Coming?” And just like that we are back in our warm kitchen.
Benita H. Kape (c) 30.4.2021
Note: I couldn’t seem to get started on this prompt and really contemplated doing a haiku or tanka. They weren’t working for me.
Notes: “And now for our final (still optional!) prompt. Today’s prompt is based on a prompt written by Jacqueline Saphra, and featured in this group of prompts published back in 2015 by The Poetry Society of the U.K. This prompt challenges you to write a poem in the form of a series of directions describing how a person should get to a particular place. It could be a real place, like your local park, or an imaginary or unreal place, like “the bottom of your heart,” or “where missing socks go.” Fill your poem with sensory details, and make them as wild or intimate as you like. “
On the Loss of a Poet who said:
benitakape 