He enters looking bedraggled, tired and worn out, his skin like vellum, blank and pale.
Lifting his eyes to catch their gaze he gives a slight nod to acknowledge their presence.
He scans the room as he would a poem seeking an indent that leads to a quiet corner.
A half-lit light casts a shadow on the flock wallpaper, ink stained.
He sits hidden from view, away from plagiaristic eyes. Head In hand
Scribbling while listening for a new word, a muse sings, emanating an un-heard
Beat that guides his rhythm while searching for that elusive vowel. On the floor
Is a scattering of pencil shavings and broken lead, frustration at the loss of an adjective.
The half rhyme squeezes like a tourniquet on the brain…
Frustration runs high as enjambment slips off the page and gathers in reflective pools.

The Lay Pastoral reads an Elegy to the passing of Sir Rondeau Redouble, he lead a very lonely life ascending and then diminishing becoming less Didactic, the Footle holds a Lanterne for the loss, while the Limerick found it quite humorous.

At the bar a Stanza of poets gather, disciples of Villanelle, and regale of their latest triumphs in Women’s Quarterly. Then silence falls as Suzette Prime performs her latest Burlesque she is in good Shape. The Epulaeryu’s compare their Diamante while eating their babba ghanoosh. At the pool table the movers and shakers decant opinions on the latest ‘form’ something to do with A,E,I,O,U…Acrostic looks it up and down looking puzzled, Blank verse remains silent,

They dissect, analyse the entrails, the faint hearted feel a little Grook. The atmosphere is tense. Verbs drift like dust in the light, causing confusion, they mop their brows with a tired senryu. The haiku’s have little to say on the matter…

A Quintain of intellectuals quietly sit, the Sicilian sipping slim line Monoku’s (no ice) hoping for a Couplet before the end of the night. On a stool sit’s the barfly spilling his Bio over the counter top exposing an Ode-ious life, metaphorically speaking. On stage the hottest group in town… Chant Royal and the Syllables… singing their latest Sestina it reached 39 in the hit parade, the notes drift across the room resting on the floor congealing into a poet-tree fountain…they feel at home as the last act MC McWhirtle enthrals with his latest Ballad…the barman Ric Tameter calls time, the evening is a Rap. The club is Epic…


© 27/3/2013

" My baby. We missed you. I'm so glad you're finally home", my mother said as she hugged me tightly.
Beth and Jane were next. Jane took hold of my carriage and wheeled my luggage outside.
" Your father is bringing the car around", she said with a faint smile.
For some reason it seemed like she was finding it difficult to look me in the eye.
I analyzed her face, it looked puffy and even though I had only been away for three months, she looked older to me. Something was different. I saw my dad's car round the corner and park the car in front of us. He came around and kissed me, "hi honey". "Hi Babba".
He proceeded to fill the trunk with my bags. The car ride home was quiet.
I had so much to tell them, but the mood wasn't right. This wasn't familiar. We were awkward.

Later that night, my mother came into my room. She sat down on my bed, shaking, her eyes biting back tears.
I could tell she was battling with herself. Then, I watched as her defenses slipped and she completely fell apart.
Seeing a character, who to me had become untouchable, bulletproof even, completely shatter before me was heart breaking.
It nearly tore me apart. My heartbeat quickened, I could feel the blood rushing, rising to my head, burning my insides as it climbed.
My shakes became one with hers. Her complexion went pale; I watched the color drain.
She looked at me with searching eyes. Eyes that said please forgive me, please understand, It's just something I have to do.
And suddenly, the realization hit me, CLICK and it all made sense; I knew.
My eyes must have shifted, pupils must have dilated, I must have faltered.
Because the only words she could seem to get out were "I'm sorry"."

Babba wants to collaborate
Challenge us
Or fill the time inside
This Ethernet space with poets
Online reading
Most mundane thoughts in
Print, scripted...
poor Babba endentured to shake
Our minds artistically
Challenging us to words
Chaperoned by still Life
Pictures.

“It’s okay to...”
(Looks like whiskey and a leather bound
Bible, presumably.
Not red wine, But an amber gold tincture  
In a glass chalice
Dominating the book
Standing over it, almost a shadow)

It’s okay to...
To drink while reading bibles?
What are they driving at?
True to the word—don’t speak
But with meaning, like life, getting
Tickets for speeding and lies.
Betting on drunk,
scriptures they imbibe.
It’s okay to...?