Reibus

I'm not a huge christmas fan, but I loved to write a poem about my aneurysm at christmas time. (Clement Clarke Moore wrote originally about Santa.) 'Twas the night before Christmas, all aside from the aneurysm Not a creature was stirring and no one had rheumatism. The stockings were hung - although most didn't exist (In hopes that trees would be added on, but mostly were missed). The children were nestled, all snug in their beds, While visions of Santa danced round in their heads. With me in my nightie, alone with no kids, I'd just settled my aneurysm for a long nap without skids, When out on the lawn there arose such a noise - I sprang from my bed to see who had the voice. Away to the window I flew like a bird, I tore open the curtains, all outside looked blurred. The moon on the breast of the hottest of lawn Looked rather duller and very, very forlorn, When what to my wondering eyes did appear, But an awesome PT with no tiny rein-deer, With no littl

I had the very good fortune recently to attend a Gunnas Writing Masterclass with Catherine Deveny. Catherine's irreverant and humorous presentation makes this a must-do day for new and existing writers alike. During the day we had timed writing periods, and for the last one of these sessions we selected picture and word cards, not unlike QWC's "Morning Glory" sessions and wrote for 10 minutes. I happened to draw the words "Alice in Wonderland" and a picture of two entertainers in an old-fashioned balancing act with two bicycles. This is my "10 minute fiction", which also was published on Catherine's website for a short while. Once upon a time in Wonderland, Alice was sitting quietly under her favourite tree, reading her book, when she looked up and saw the Mad Hatter bouncing down the road towards her. "Whatever is the matter?" she called out. "The circus," he shouted. "The circus is here and I'm going to be

The old lady rocks her chair in place, myriad lines etched into her face She’s not long for this life, she’s done her time – she remembers long ago when in her prime Young and pretty, so full of life, met a young man, became his wife But fairy tales aren’t real, they’re all in the mind – from then on her life was not very kind Four children and sags on her body to show the pain and the stresses that no man could know And her husband, once her valiant prince, grew tired of her, left – hasn’t been seen since Always a struggle to feed her brood, but she battled on whatever her mood Clothing them, loving them, reading them books, ignoring the neighbours’ judgmental looks As she let another man into her door, work of kind, so they wouldn’t be poor She knew of the whispers, she knew what they said, ignored it, let it go over her head I’m not a whore, she said to herself, as she hid a few dollars at the back of the shelf As her babes grew and flew

18 January 2014 - I attended a writer's workshop, and took the bus into town. From the time I got to my local bus terminal, on the bus, walking through the halls to the library, and waiting in the library foyer, I felt invisible. No-one made eye contact, and I thought of the many times this same thing has happened. That inspired this poem. Do you feel alone in a crowd? Do you feel unwelcome? Invisible, although you know You're nothing less than human. But no-one looks you in the eye, It's like they just don't see you. You don't create an impact, You don't engage their view. It doesn't matter what you wear Or how outrageous your shoes, Their attention focuses elsewhere, You're not a vista they choose. They pass you by, engaged in thought Few of them ever smile. They're wrapped up in their troubled world, Never going the extra mile. Perhaps one day their world will crash And then they'll wander too, Looking for that twinkling e