Trick or Treat?

This she knew was going to be the most difficult mail she had ever attempted.

Relationships can at times go pear shaped?

In order to merge their businesses, two wealthy people are not as such forced into an unwanted arranged relationship, but needs must.

He, a recently divorced (not divulged) millionaire seeking a worthwhile heir to his billions and extensive business interests, says he is flush not overly wealthy.

They match on Tinder. Arrange to meet, both unchaperoned.

His arrival, very low key. He had booked the table for two and organised hotel room reservations.

He was handsome; she was ecstatically happy, that was until dinner was served, he slipped off his jacket and she saw the slogan on his t-shirt. (Welcome to hell)

Don’t look so shocked he said, I have the other costume parts in the room – this was supposed to ease she thought.

The virtual romance had went very well, much better than either party would have expected.

Reality, would be a totally different ball game.

It was the 31st of October when Jennifer stopped the clocks; she still needed more time. That wasn’t to be.

Time was at a premium; he was most insistent, far removed from his screen presence.

Drink and drugs, the order of the day as a do not disturb sign was hung on the hotel room door.

Suddenly her world plunged into darkness – she had but one thought.

Her long time lost male companion whom she should have called during the past 5 years but didn’t.

Nervously she dialed the number, he answered to the sound of heavy breathing.

Rob its Jenny she sobbed.

She had unexpectedly entered a dimension in which her actions were to have enormous consequences.

She had committed a murder.

What’s that noise?

What was that noise at the front door; animals growling, loud voices.

Nowhere to hide, she was like a blind woman who fell in love with a scent of death.

How could she escape?

Through the sliding doors she stepped out on the balcony, tapped the packet of Gauloises cigarettes.

Slowly dragged on the cigarette; for that short moment she was calm.

What made her think murder he asked?

She barely remembered striking him she told her long lost ex.

He had arrived in the company of a fellow officer and two sniffer dogs.

Murder now that was stretching it, in her opinion.

There were far too many male chauvinist pigs in the world for her liking.

Room 69 at the Metro hotel, turned out not to be the tasty number she was hoping for!!!

© Chris Black. October 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

#Fiction #amwriting

 

 

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Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Cassius Marcellus Collidge

Humoring the Goddess

Cassius Marcellus Coolidge (September 18, 1844 – January 13, 1934) was a drugstore owner, painter, bank owner, and inventor.

But Coolidge (who at times signed his work Kash” or Kash Koolidge) became well known as the creator of the dogs-playing-poker genre of painting, a subject which grew out of the 19th-century tradition of visual humor.

His knack for crafting playfully surreal images culminated in his magnum opus, the absurdist canine series for which he’s best remembered today.

According to the advertising firm Brown & Bigelow, then primarily a producer of advertising calendars, Coolidge began his relationship with the firm in 1903.

From the mid-1900s to the mid-1910s, Coolidge created a series of sixteen oil paintings for them, all of which featured anthropomorphic dogs, including nine paintings of Dogs Playing Poker,] a motif that Coolidge is credited with inventing.

His work was purchased by cigar companies, who made copies of…

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With a song in her heart.

Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye.

The song echoed throughout the house on Ambassador Street as she put the finishing touches to the suitcase packing.

The last of her essentials, the remainder of the cases lined up in the hallway.

While the parents were in the kitchen with tears streaming down their faces, trying valiantly to eat the slices of now cold toast she had made for them earlier.

She was their only daughter, their only child. She had been preparing this trip to New Zealand for the past twelve months.

She kept telling them, it is only a plane ride away. The innocence of youth?

She kept repeating to them “Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye, Cheerio, Here I go on my way, Not a tear, But a cheer, Make it gay, Give me a smile I can keep all the while, In my heart while I’m away.

As she passed through those doors of no return “destination freedom” her only thought – she called back to them

Till we meet again you and I, Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye.

(c) Chris Black. October 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

Italics – Song lyrics from Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye made famous by Gracie Fields.

#Fiction #SpokenWord #amwriting #soundcloud

Hear a spoken word version @

Even the moon shone brightly.

Granny would often times say

Keep smiling where there’s fog it will clear.

Home, lost in the surrounds of country silence

All the times there were stories to tell.

 

Webs of intrigue weaved

Socks and cardigans darned

Yarns galore spun

Songs sung, card games played.

 

Out of tune accordions ‘murdered’

Of course there would be the whistler.

Late night ghost stories would be told

As moths hovered over the Tilly lamp

Playing chicken with the flame

Not all survived.

 

The goose wing was diligently used by granny

To dust down the hob, pots and kettles.

To us younger ones some house visitors looked anciently old.

Some use a private language

Elders though know a lot about the world

Way above our heads.

 

Yet we hung onto every word

For tomorrow they might not be among us.

Granny’s touch, gentler than gentle could be

We’d come to her with an idea

She would never say farewell to an idea

Always praising imagination.

 

We waited while she passed.

© Chris Black. October 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

#Poetry #SpokenWord #amwriting #soundcloud

Hear the spoken word version @

https://soundcloud.com/the-poets-poet-1

 

 

Nothing moves except the hand.

IMG_20181025_100951

Rousing Mr. Parker.

Once the lid is lifted

Daylight is announced

Creating an atmosphere, making an impression.

 

The word Meister dons his thinking cap

Another day in the Man Shed begins

The feel of Vellum

Coaxing words.

 

Eyes set on the target

Encouraging pen to write.

Soft feel on writing hand

Adds further to his repertoire.

 

Each character when laid side by side

Build a sequence of words

They in turn become multiple lines

Progress, at times slow to begin with.

 

Then, like the train gathering a head of steam

Once he continues stoking

Light at the end of the tunnel looms large.

 

He has weaved a wordy piece

A patchwork of words

A poem for the day.

© Chris Black. October 2018 Hear a spoken word version @ https://soundcloud.com/the-poets-poet-1

~The Poet’s Poet~        #Poetry #SpokenWord #soundcloud #amwriting

Music -Piano Sonata No. 17 in D Minor Beethoven -Andres Schiff.

 

 

Cross Current.

Of a late spring evening

Skeleton, with its hardened crew

Their destination charted

Headed off into the setting sun.

 

The sea, calm, like a brush painting.

 

Checking their strategy again and again

All aware of the words of *Saul Bellow and **Herbert Hoover

 

*“It is sometimes necessary to repeat what we all know.

All mapmakers should place the Mississippi in the same location, and avoid originality.

 

**Be patient and calm – for no one can catch a fish in anger.

 

With the taste of salty sea spray in their mouths

The call of family and friends ringing in their ears

“Tight lines and full nets”

 

The call of aweigh sounded.

 

Side by side throughout the night they worked tirelessly

Beneath the brim of a full moon.

 

As dawn broke with smog rolling in

Rain falling with a fierce gentleness

A south-westerly blowing it horizontally

They were homeward bound, alive with lobster pots.

 

Sea in its cruellest form, performs evil deeds.

 

Boat crashing against the rocks

 

Lives lost. Sea mocks.

 

Dockside they huddled.

Washing over the small village

On the wind could be heard

Mumbled prayers, faint cries to an angry sea –

Give us back our husbands

Give back our brothers

Give us back our sons.

© Chris Black. October 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

#Poetry #amwriting

Ploughing a lone furrow.

Sitting in the midst of desolation

Surrounded by alphabet, yet no creation.

 

Trying to not allow frustration dominate

Seeking guidance, words, a poem to create.

 

It has been many moons since he hit such a wall

Unable now to write even on recall.

 

There was a time he could rattle off a rhyme

Yet as of now there is neither rhyme nor prose.

 

Every writers nightmare, not being able to share

The written word or the feeling of inadequacy.

 

Why tolerate such feelings? There is nothing to be gained

Write then about not being able to write, unchain your thoughts.

 

It matters not the form – break away from the norm

Mop up those perspiration droplets.

 

Consider the above – look, admire those couplets.

(c) Chris Black. October 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

#Poetry #amwriting #couplets