Those were the days when being a signalman was a career choice, Graham.

Comment is about CHIM CHIMINEY (blog)

Original item by John Coopey

Once upon a time it was a job all dads did themselves. The rods were handed down through the generations like Trigger’s Broom!

Comment is about CHIM CHIMINEY (blog)

Original item by John Coopey

Now in all Quality High Streets!
Welcome to the UK 2025.

Comment is about Introductory Matter (blog)

Original item by branwell kent

Carbon Removal Technician, I shouldn't wonder, Stephen.

Comment is about CHIM CHIMINEY (blog)

Original item by John Coopey

Not being a football fan, I jokingly complain in the pub: "all that fuss over a bag of wind"!

Gary Lineker, famous for his skill in kicking said bags of wind, has now upset the bags of wind / lies at the BBC known as "Auntie".

What qualities does a football player such as him posess which qualify him to give an honest, principled and accurate opinion on the current genocide in Gaza?

..................................................💗He's human!💗.................................................

Comment is about Haiku for 2025 [No.16. What Genocide?] (blog)

Original item by Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh

'your poem inspired me to type this comment:'


Takes you to another place.

Bear withness to the mysterious humamind.

Painthings, poetick pixars.

Noetic nodes to blind.

Comment is about Farewell to the Presence (blog)

Original item by Rolph David

Suburban erotica of the best kind, Nigel.

Comment is about The Heat is On (blog)

Original item by Nigel Astell

Thanks for your likes
Red Brick Keshner
Reggie's Ghost
Uilleam
Holden
Hugh
Stephen A
Manish
John Coopey
and
Aisha.

Comment is about The Heat is On (blog)

Original item by Nigel Astell

Well done, John. We had a chimney sweep who calls himself an 'entrepreneur artistique'. I expecting he's got sidelines, which probably don't include levitating with an umbrella.

Comment is about CHIM CHIMINEY (blog)

Original item by John Coopey

Thank you, Uilleam and RBK. Nigel Farage once said, gloatingly, "you're not laughing now, are you?". On that basis, it's important to keep laughing!
And thanks to everyone who liked this poem.

Comment is about Giggle (blog)

Original item by Stephen Gospage

Rolph, your poem 'Farewell to the Presence' highlights the imagery of silence and loss in a deeply profound and consistent way. Your poem offers a strong sensory experience that truly made me feel the emptiness. Thank you, Rolph, for sharing that piece.

Comment is about Farewell to the Presence (blog)

Original item by Rolph David

Thanks Uilleam
Thanks Reggie's Ghost
The heat is on even for poetry!

Comment is about The Heat is On (blog)

Original item by Nigel Astell

It seems I got off lightly, Rolph. (Don’t tell anybody, Uilleam, but I made up the story!)

Comment is about CHIM CHIMINEY (blog)

Original item by John Coopey

The cutting down of olive trees - part of the ethnic cleansing operation euphemistically known as "mowing the lawn".
The architects of this monstrosity never wanted peace; that's why Netanyahu helped finance Hamas.
"Handing an olive branch" never was and never will be in his vocabulary.

Comment is about Insane. (blog)

Original item by Holden Moncrieff

Ha ha, yes theyre pesky characters!

Comment is about The Extra Terrestrial Poets (blog)

Original item by Rick Varden

I too, have been having trouble with those aliens; the beer's not too bad; it's when they get on the top shelf that things get scary - they've got a thing about Glenfiddich, I think they're going to start a colony there!
😧

Comment is about The Extra Terrestrial Poets (blog)

Original item by Rick Varden

He blacked your carpet? Did he not put down salvage sheets?😕

Comment is about CHIM CHIMINEY (blog)

Original item by John Coopey

Thanks for your likes:

Tom Doolan
hugh
Aisha Suleman
Yanma Hidayah
Naomi

Arrogance and Ignorance in equal measure.
Ignorant = "he knows nowt,"
in Lancashire usage, = "He has no manners".

Comment is about Speyk Lanky Twang! [ Fascists Eawt! English not Spoken Here!] (blog)

Original item by Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh

Hi John,
Great poem, but eventy pounds almost sounds like a bargain when I recently paid 168 euros just for the heating and chimney sweeping here in Germany.
Regards,
Rolph

Comment is about CHIM CHIMINEY (blog)

Original item by John Coopey

Oh the lunacy!
It's hardly rained for several months, yet grass verges, lawns and parks are being mown down to their roots...for what? The boys must play with their toys, I suppose.

Comment is about The Heat is On (blog)

Original item by Nigel Astell

Some people might be offended, but hey...it could be a bloke.

Anyway, I like the overall feel of this.

Comment is about The Heat is On (blog)

Original item by Nigel Astell

Can't wait until he chortles and guffaws🕊️🙏🏻

Comment is about Giggle (blog)

Original item by Stephen Gospage

A very enviable trait we see in others - confidence and completely at ease in their skin 🌷🕊️🙏🏻

Comment is about Dauntless (blog)

Original item by Mike McPeek

Thank you for the likes on this folks.

David RL Moore

Comment is about A longing (blog)

Original item by David RL Moore

Thank you, Tom, Holden and Stephen for both reading and the flowers. 😀

Comment is about Year of The Dragon (blog)

Original item by Frances Macaulay Forde

Wow, just noticed so many flowers - thank you all. 😮

Comment is about Elephant's Walk (blog)

Original item by Frances Macaulay Forde

Thank you all for the flowers... much appreciated. 😊

Comment is about Mr Bojangles (blog)

Original item by Frances Macaulay Forde

Thanks, Stephen, "many a true word..." etc; but there's no cure for stupidity...unless of course, one is willing to learn!
Until then, the order of the day is: "I'm all right Jack!"

Comment is about Giggle (blog)

Original item by Stephen Gospage

Pardon.

It wasn't as intentional as it was neglectful of the hidden formatting...

"What seems to be your trouble, my child.”

“It’s Irving Loon,” she said, sitting on the bed and playing with the empty highball glass she had brought in with her, ignoring the irony, “he was so happy back in Ontario. At ricing time, you see, all the families are together, everyone happy, Togetherness in Ojibwa land. Blasts, brawls, sex orgies, community sings, puberty rituals. All kinds of wonderful local color to fill up notebook after notebook with. And Irving Loon, ten feet tall with fists like rocks and enough to make even a jaded heart like mine uneasy.” Then, surprisingly—and, for Siegel, embarrassingly—she began reeling off a list of the affairs she had had in all the underdeveloped areas she had visited for the State Dept.; several pages of unofficial statistics which sounded a little like the Catalogue aria from Don Giovanni.

It seemed she had this habit of picking up male specimens wherever she went and bringing them back with her and dropping them after a few weeks. Her exes either assimilated in with The Group or found a niche in some other group or dropped out of sight completely and forever. But Irving Loon, she insisted, was different. He had this brooding James Dean quality about him.

“He’s been standing in the same corner all evening,” she said. “He hasn’t spoken a word for two days. I feel”—and her eyes gazed over Siegel’s shoulder, out into God knows where—“that it’s not only nostalgia for the wilderness, but almost as if somehow out there, in the hinterlands, with nothing but snow and forests and a few beaver and moose, he has come close to something which city dwellers never find all their lives, may never even be aware exists, and it’s this that he misses, that the city kills or hides from him.” I’ll be damned, thought Siegel. This broad is serious. “And this is just what I can’t tell Paul,” she sighed. “He makes fun of Irving, calIs him ignorant. But it’s a divine melancholia and it’s what I love about him.”

Good grief, that was it.

Melancholia. Just by accident she had used that word, the psychologist’s term, instead of “melancholy.” Little Professor Mitchell, perched like a sparrow on his desk in anthropology lecture, hands in his coat pockets, a permanently sarcastic smile twisting one side of his mouth, talking about psychopathy among the Ojibwa Indians. Of course. The old memory bank was still functioning after all. “You must remember that this group lives forever at the brink of starvation,” Mitchell said in that deprecating, apologetic tone which implied that for him all cultures were equally mad; it was only the form that differed, never the content. “It has been said that the Ojibwa ethos is saturated with anxiety,” and simultaneously 50 pens copied the sentence verbatim.

“The Ojibwa are trained, from childhood, to starve; the male child’s entire upbringing is dedicated to a single goal: that of becoming a great hunter. Emphasis is on isolation, self-sufficiency. There is no sentimentality among the Ojibwa. It is an austere and bleak existence they lead, always one step away from death. Before he can attain to the state of manhood a boy must experience a vision, after starving himself for several days. Often after seeing this vision he feels he has acquired a supernatural companion, and there is a tendency to identify. Out in the wilderness, with nothing but a handful of beaver, deer, moose and bear between him and starvation, for the Ojibwa hunter, feeling as he does at bay, feeling a concentration of obscure cosmic forces against him and him alone, cynical terrorists, savage and amoral deities”—this time a smile in self-reproach—“which are bent on his destruction, the identification may become complete. When such paranoid tendencies are further intensified bv the highly competitive life of the summer villages at ricing and berry-picking time, or by the curse, perhaps, of a shaman with some personal grudge, the Ojibwa becomes highly susceptible to the well-known Windigo psychosis.”

Siegel knew about the Windigo, all right. He remembered being scared out of his wits once at camp by the fireside yarn image of a mile-high skeleton made of ice, roaring and crashing through the Canadian wilderness, grabbing up humans by the handful and feeding on their flesh. But he had outgrown the nightmares of boyhood enough to chuckle at the professor’s description of a half-famished hunter, already slightly warped, identifying with the Windigo and turning into a frenzied cannibal himelf, foraging around the boondocks for more food after he had gorged himself on the bodies of his immediate family. “Get the picture,” he had told Grossmann that night, over mugs of Würtzburger. “Altered perception. Simultaneously, all over God knows how many square miles, hundreds, thousands of these Indians are looking at each other out of the corner of their eye and not seeing wives or husbands or little children at all. What they see is big fat juicy beavers. And these Indians are hungry, Grossmann. I mean, my gawd. A big mass psychosis. As far as the eye can reach”—he gestured dramatically—“Beavers. Succulent, juicy, fat.”

“How yummy,” Grossmann had commented wryly. Sure, it was amusing, in a twisted sort of way. And it gave anthropologists something to write about and people at parties something to talk about. Fascinating, this Windigo psychosis. And oddly enough its first stages were marked by a profound melancholia. That was what had made him remember, a juxtaposition of words, an accident. He wondered why Irving Loon had not been talking for two days. He wondered if Debby Considine knew about this area of the Ojibwa personality.

“And Paul just won’t understand,” she was saying. “Of course it was a bitchy thing to complain to the police but I’d lie awake nights, thinking of him crouched up in that tree, like some evil spirit, waiting for me. I suppose I’ve always been a little afraid of something like that, something unfamiliar, something I couldn’t manipulate. Oh yes,” she admitted to his raised eyebrows, “I’ve manipulated them all right. I didn’t want to, Siegel, God knows I didn’t. But I can’t help it.” Siegel felt like saying, “Use a little less mascara or something,” but was brought up short by an awareness which had been at the back of his mind since Lupescu had left: a half-developed impression about the role Lupescu had occupied for this group; and it occurred to him that his double would never have said anything like that. You might give absolution or penance, but no practical advice. Tucked snugly in some rectory of the mind, Cleanth Siegel, S.J., looked on with approval. “Changing the subject for a moment,” Siegel said, “do you know, has Irving told you anything about the Windigo?”

“It’s funny you should mention that,” she said, “it’s a nature god or something, that they worship. I’m not on the anthropology end of things or I could tell you more about it. But the last time Irving was talking—he speaks English so well—he said once ’Windigo, Windigo, stay by me.’ It’s this poetic, religious quality in him that’s so touching.” And right about here Siegel began to feel really uneasy, to hear this tiny exasperating dissonance. Poetic? Religious? Ha, ha."

Comment is about life is absurd, indeed (blog)

Original item by Landi Cruz

Good morning Graham,

Thank you for your reading and the comment.

I'm not sure which form gives me more satisfaction, the rhyme or prose.

The pitfall with rhyme for me seems to be the temptation to use the easy path, take a word that is so obvious that the reader has completed the line before they have read it. That type of error leads to disappointment.

As with most writing, life experience counts for quite a bit...that and a good imagination coupled with an amount of empathy and compassion might get us some of the way.

Thanks again,

David RL Moore

PS. It seems unusual these days to not find many similar poems on this subject/of this tone written by men, why is that I wonder?

Comment is about A longing (blog)

Original item by David RL Moore

Thanks for extra likes: Naomi, Stephen G & John C. 👍

Comment is about How Long Is Forever (blog)

Original item by Tom Doolan

Thank you for stopping by Marla - cheers!

Comment is about Every Hack Has Their Rose (blog)

Original item by Mike McPeek

I assume the format is intentional. Sorry Landi, I found it difficult to read so packed up after a couple of lines.

Comment is about life is absurd, indeed (blog)

Original item by Landi Cruz

Thank you Stephen. Hope all good with you x

Comment is about Red Squirrel (blog)

Original item by julie callaghan

Rolph,
Thanks so much for your comment. It is so gratifying to hear that this piece reaches you.
Marla

Comment is about The Ghost Smiles (blog)

Original item by Marla Joy

The blank canvas is scary, even when you have something in mind. Thanks for this, Rolph.

Comment is about First Sentence (blog)

Original item by Rolph David

Thanks, Julie. Good to hear from you.

Comment is about Red Squirrel (blog)

Original item by julie callaghan

Good night from Indonesia, Rolph.
Thank you for taking the time to read and leave such a thoughtful note. I’m grateful you could hear them.
Wishing you a gentle day ahead,
Yanma

Comment is about Forgotten Melody (blog)

Original item by Yanma Hidayah

@Marla, thank you so much.
At first, the image of sharing moments with someone as a string of melodies popped into my mind. While writing, I kept thinking about how those early moments with someone can feel like unfinished musical phrases—beautiful, yet fragile. The heart of the piece lies in the conflict:
“There’s nothing I can do
when my heart wants him to stay,
but my mind doesn’t want to.”
To me, these lines capture the very first stage of a relationship, when we’re still weighing: is this a fling or something real, lust or love? It feels like holding a rough demo of a song; we sense its potential, yet we’re afraid to play it in full.

Note: The line “’Cause missing him / made me hate myself” is hyperbolic—an emotional layer meant to heighten the tension, not a literal confession of self‑loathing.

Comment is about Forgotten Melody (blog)

Original item by Yanma Hidayah

I meant to tag it with a title that might give a little hint about my thoughts on it. That's all corrected now...

Pynchon's black humor is a definite draw for me but the comedy merely provides a backdrop for these short story characters to live out their existential crises upon. The juxtaposition of the flakey and sexually precocious State Dept. official with the Ojibwan is genius to me.

Thanks for asking )

"One idiot is one idiot. Two idiots are two idiots. Ten thousand idiots are a political party."

- Franz Kafka

Comment is about life is absurd, indeed (blog)

Original item by Landi Cruz

Thank you so much, Rolph, for your kindness and your beautiful analysis; I'm really glad the poem resonated with you! 💗

Comment is about Insane. (blog)

Original item by Holden Moncrieff

A mournful yet quite enchanting poem. You do rhyme very well David. I can never get the hang of it myself. Well done.

Comment is about A longing (blog)

Original item by David RL Moore

Thanks kindly @Rolph David 🌹🕊️🙏🏻 indeed, the attempt to remain fresh and unapologetic aims at relevance and authenticity, an openness as well - to accept both and even several other points of view and maintain ones integrity and self of unique individuality. You are most appreciated in pointing these out.

Thanks @David RL Moore 🌹🕊️🙏🏻 whatever our choice of "poison" is, 'complete and total surrender' appears to be the only way for productivity. I applaud you succinct astuteness.

Comment is about so, i’m not yer cuppa tea (blog)

Original item by Red Brick Keshner

We went to Brownsea a few weeks ago and only spotted a couple high up in the trees. These are in Aberfeldy, Scotland. We are also lucky to have some fairly close to home at Shap.

Comment is about Red Squirrel (blog)

Original item by julie callaghan

I’ve only ever seen them on Brownsea Island.

Comment is about Red Squirrel (blog)

Original item by julie callaghan

Thankyou Rolph. We visited Auschwitz last October. Profound, disturbing, harrowing.
Lest we forget.
Redbrick, Stephen A, StephenG, Tom, Aisha, Nigel and David.

Comment is about HAIME (blog)

Original item by John Coopey

A productive relationship with the intoxicant demands that the conduit surrender unto it completely.

Very well formulated and put.

David

Comment is about so, i’m not yer cuppa tea (blog)

Original item by Red Brick Keshner

That's an unusual passage of Pynchon to post.

I have to wonder, apart from the hypnotic nature of his writing, what was your motivation/intention when posting this?

David

Comment is about life is absurd, indeed (blog)

Original item by Landi Cruz

Good morning Red,
I love the fearless energy in this poem! You flip the usual “cup of tea” phrase on its head and own the fierceness of being the “bottle of rum.” There’s something so refreshing about that unapologetic embrace of authenticity — refusing to be softened or tamed. Your words feel like a call to be true to ourselves, no matter the cost. Bold, raw, and memorable. Fantastic!
Regards,
Rolph

Comment is about so, i’m not yer cuppa tea (blog)

Original item by Red Brick Keshner

Good morning John,
Your poem carries a heavy, painful weight, and your words honour that suffering with stark simplicity. The quiet dignity of Haime’s final act — the whispered Kaddish, the desperate hope to cheat fate — is gut-wrenching. The name Haime itself, echoing the Hebrew Chaim (חַיִּים), meaning “life,” adds a profound layer of tragic irony and hope. Paired with that image, it’s a powerful reminder of unimaginable cruelty and the resilience of memory. Thank you for sharing something so solemn and profound.
Regards,
Rolph

Comment is about HAIME (blog)

Original item by John Coopey