Herding Of Cats

This lot appeared from somewhere in my mind where odd thoughts occur. I think that Dylan Thomas may have been a bit of a prompt. All I can say to make the piece more acceptable, if you want to soldier through it, is to read it out aloud. Words spoken with force, carry more of the intensity of the emotion behind the word. Don't worry about finding words that you have never seen or heard before. It's the sound and resonance of that sound that I am after. If you say "crackle" out aloud, you'll get a feeling of what I have tried to achieve with some words here below. Good luck.




HERDING OF CATS



Herding cats into the football stadium,
half empty
with gangs of Social Workers
who skreated and breated,
their animated throat-burning,
blood-curdling skrines
at that herd,
as they sploshingly began
hurling, water-filled, pink balloons at the cats,
Was not a good idea.

Squadroons of ill-tempered manx-tailed muggies,
brasted on olde hemp wine, and fired up with a passion
best kept for tin roofs
threw one another
at the rapidly blanching Sociatumpalists,
who tripped in their hundreds,
backing up the crumbling, cronkeeted terraces
of the Stadium.
Seasoned Ticket holders
fared worst,
whitened to the digital equivalent
of minus 3.

Hosepipes were deployed
to no avail.
Poltroons of muggies
scoffed at the audacity,
scorned the mendacity,
of broadcasts by tannoys,
supplied by Walmart.
Sneering through fur,
at a voice electronically enhanced,
while panicking Socios
realised with aplumb
the hosepipes were useless
with no water switched on.

Cats 4 Social Workists 0
Herds can be powered,
managed and armied,
by elitists in scabbie cabals,
but no-one told the muggies.

This tale was told across the shimmering amber embers of a pine fuelled carbon burner, by an actor of renown, who hasn’t looked back since he played the dumping end of a pantomime horse.

Regard it as a flight of fantasy or paws for digression.

PS
By the way, there is a hosepipe ban in the south east of this country because of a drought order. There is a dramatic drop in water levels because of very low rainfall.




I have no idea from whence this piece came, except to say that I've been readin' political-commentator-stuff, of late. Welcome to the other side. Who needs a pendulum when you've got Bipolar.? Why don't dictionaries open at the page you want? It's very frustrating. Especially looking for yer pendulums.

# 12

J is doing a Home Visit tomorrow. I have much to tell her. I managed to damage my previously repaired right knee, yesterday evening. The doctor in A&E had not heard of the meds I'm on for my Depression. So, looking on the bright side of life (cue a song) she learned of yet another piece of medical armoury to add to her accumulation of knowledge. SH is back under control. J must be told tomorrow. Oh but it does give a sense of euphoria and relief. It can become addictive. I am aware. ME is aware, not just me. The Objective Surveillance has been stepped up.

I want to begin a slowly growing programme of that which interests me. Photography for one. Drawing and painting for two, and returning to my 'pointilism' in crayon and pencil. Thirdly, can I direct my creative writing into a structured timescale on a daily basis? Some writers begin their day at 6.00 in the morning and work through until lunch time, while taking breakfast and tea at their desk.

I'm not altogether (pun intended) sure that my Bipolar will allow me to be so disciplined. (Have you noticed how close the words 'disciple' and disciplined' are? And what about Alphabet? Who has noticed the Alpha Beta Omega connection? I only realised this one yesterday, while sitting on the throne in my monk's cell) I've had to get used to the idea that the words which appear on my page cannot be forced out into the open. They flower and bloom in their own sweet time, and I am merely the medium they use. If this sounds mad, look at the name of my blog! I am not someone important and I am not like those poor souls who believe they are someone important from the pages of history, like Napoleon etc.

I'm an ordinary bloke who has a mental illness. I've been to the Edge of the Abyss and contemplated letting go. Perhaps the intense and tremendously powerful feelings experienced on the Edge, have kick-started a part of my mind that would have lain dormant? I really don't know.

Whatever happened, the result is that for the moment, I have several ideas for poems, which I am keeping up-to-date, by adding any pertinent, passing thoughts, to my Voice Recorder. The thoughts are now noted and not lost within seconds of appearing in my mind. J gave me the idea to do this and it's a good one. Dylan Thomas carried scraps of paper to write down words and phrases, as and when they came to him. I'm using the Voice Recorder in the same way. But I'm no Dylan Thomas. (or Napoleon)

Once I have a few recordings, I sit at this PC and get the thoughts down onto a screen page. This is usually about 2 days recordings and to be honest, I wonder what the hell I meant when I dictated some of them. However, they meant something at the time, so they get typed as well as the other stuff. It has become a voyage of discovery for me. I'd forgotten a lot of what I'd dictated. It's surprising how much there is. But that's down to my useless memory. At least I'm not losing stuff like I have done for years.

The simple act of writing this blog enables me to focus on what is important in my mind as I prepare the words, and the order in which they are to appear before you. It is proving to be a useful part of my therapy. I considered writing 'recovery' instead of 'therapy,' but Bipolar could be with me on a permanent basis.

This Rag

This Rag

Attractively patterned
A delight to be seen
This rag worn when new
With pastel and sheen

A skin to be worn
A statement declaring
An adornment so chosen
Collected for wearing

Worn on the sleeve
To parties and do’s
Admired and remarked on
This one you did choose

Is hardly a patch?
Of what it has been
Colours now faded
And jaded if seen

Peppered with pinpricks
Frayed through and through
Worthless to me
Of no use to you

Spun through Life’s cycles
Stretched on the line
A rag that now flags
And flaps out of time

Cleans up and wipes up
And no longer shares
With not enough left
To soak up the tears

Wipes clean those dishes
Shines up those lights
Yet hiding and covering
Its crimson delight

Kept for its uses
But not for itself
A Rag out of sinc
Its heart on the shelf.


This poem appears in my other Blog. The poem is something of a hybrid for my condition. It stands in this blog too. I have posted it in the D'Stillery Lounge as well.