Monday's Poetry Bus Poem

This week's Poetry Bus is being driven by poet Barbara Smith.

Barbara gave us the first line: 'I got down on my knees and smelt the new linoleum,' and bus passengers were asked to take it from there, continuing with the theme of nice long lines.

The thing was, this line kept making me want to write a story - something about a houseproud wife kept under the thumb of her controlling husband, who focuses all her energies on maintaining the spotless cleanliness of her house and is finally tipped over the edge one day when her husband tells her the mashed potatoes are too salty and throws the plate, potatoes and all, against her pristine almond white wall. 

But this is The Poetry Bus and Poems are what's called for!

I eventually came up with this.

Virgin territory

I get down on my knees and smell the new linoleum.

Outside the day shakes off the dawn and settles in.

There is coffee in the pot. The cat sits by the door.

Beyond the kitchen window the mountains stretch and spread.

The table is set: mugs, plates, bread, and bowls of air.

Later today people will come, to eat and drink and talk.

Children will run back and forth across the grass outside.

The floor will breathe, take in the dirt, listen to what’s being said.

Totally random poem for totalfeckineejit’s poetry bus

Which this week is being driven by Padhraig Nolan.

Aaaaarghhhh - missed the Poetry Bus again

Another great prompt, this week from The Watercats, and still no poem.
Maybe it's because I'm not feeling very rock'n roll, (too old, a little too fat, stiff back), or maybe it's because I've never been much of a drugtaker (apart from alcohol, of course - oh, ok, and the odd xanax or two;).
As for trying to actually upload an audio file of myself reading the poem I couldn't write,. . . . . well . . .that part of it was never going to happen. (No microphone, no speakers, complete inability to master anything remotely technical).
Well done to Watercats for the great prompt, and next week, come hell or high water, I intend to be on that bus!

The poetry bus is heading to Argent’s

A big thanks to everyone who jumped on this week’s poetry bus, and to the brilliant totalfeckineejit for letting me drive. I love the bus - it's a totalfeckinbrilliant invention!

Now for the official Passing of the Keys Ceremony – Argent at Delusions of Adequacy over to you!

Last calll for the Poetry Bus - Check out the links in the post below!!!

The poetry bus is gathering speed - more links in this morning, all on the post below.

Despite some technical problems (like my feckin apostrophe key not working) its not too late to hop on board - The brakes are fine . . . .  I swear!

And as a special thank you to all bus passengers who jumped aboard, a special, luxurious selection of chocolate biscuits will be served at this morning's tea break (hey! my apostophe's back!)

The Poetry Bus, The Poetry Bus, The Poetry Bus will be leaving shortly

Don't miss the Bus - Full instructions are listed in the post below:

A note to all Poetry Bus passengers: Tea and biscuits will be served halfway through the journey, when we'll be stopping off at the lay-by near the Rock of Cashel (and yes, chocolate digestives are available, Poetikat).

The driver would also like to inform passengers that the small odour problem has been addressed. 

Big thanks to Totalfeckineejit for letting me drive the legendary bus and welcome to the two passengers already on board:

Rachel Fox over at More about the song -

And Jeanne Iris over at Revolutionary Revelry

More passengers: 

Swiss is here

And following close behind here's Evaliin - welcome aboard guys

The bus is now open for business again Poetikat

And a big welcome aboard to last week's bus driver Niamh over at Various.

Peter Goulding's gone gothic over at The Stammering Poet

And Titus the dog tells a haunting story.

It's all about rugby over at NanU's

Enchanted Oak finds beauty in the precious


And totalfeckineejit  is seeing fireflies

Welcome aboard to karen who's treating passengers to one she done earlier (For anyone who's tried this link and found it didn't work TRY IT AGAIN - please :)

And finally, better late than never Dominic Rivron 

No - there s one more (feckin apostrophe key s gone again) Domestic Oubliette has made it by the skin of her teeth!

Wait up - heres another last minute passenger- its Argent!


Below is my own attempt (at something - I'm not sure what!)

The third eye

There is a place
between sanity
and madness.
My friend went there
when her third eye opened
and the next day she rang
from the supermarket
to say
how she saw God
in the check-out girl’s face.

I’ve only
visited once,
years ago,
at dinner,
when my husband
and his parents
and his grandmother
were replaced
by four elongated
silver shapes

who carried me
to the table
because I couldn’t walk
while spears
of silver
shot through their limbs.
And I thought then
that this was the truth.
That I just hadn’t seen it
before.

Jump on this week’s poetry bus for your very own spiritual journey . . . .

Yesterday upon the stair I met
a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today.
I wish to God he’d go away.

Okay.
Pull up a chair. It’s dark outside. I’ve just thrown another log on the fire (it may not be very seasonal, but stay with me on this, okay?). There’s a smell of wood-smoke. Someone takes off their shoes to warm their feet.
We’re drinking tea – nothing fancy, just Barry’s Gold Blend. Someone passes round the biscuits (Mcvities digestives). It’s the sort of night where being indoors in front of a fire is the best place in the world to be.
For a moment all that can be heard is the sound of satisfied munching. Then someone says, ‘has anyone got a story?’ And someone mumbles something about being too busy eating biscuits to tell stories. And then someone else clears their throat and says, well . . . My father used to tell a story when we were small. . …

He worked late nights as a sub-editor, see? And anyway, one night, after missing the last bus out of town, he got a taxi.
About ten miles out of town on a steep tree-covered hill, the taxi-driver told him a story.
He’d been travelling back towards the city after a late fare and he was struggling to stay awake when something loomed up on the road just inches ahead of him. It was a man, leading a donkey. To his horror, before he could fully register what was happening, the taxi-driver had driven over the exact spot where the man and donkey stood. But when he got out of the car there was nothing there . . .

The room shifts and spins and everything feels a little funny and someone says ‘I wish I hadn’t eaten those digestives’ and then suddenly we’re not sitting in a room anymore. Instead we’re sitting on a bus, and in the driver’s seat is a figure cloaked in white.

Over the tannoy a deep, musical voice says: ‘This week’s poetry bus will bring you back to a time when you believed that reality could bend and shift,
I don’t want stories about death, the voice continues.
I don’t want stories about horrible ghoosties and scary creatures.
I want proof, the voice rumbles. I want proof of higher life. I want uplifting stories of helpful spirits. I want stories of joyful moments of synchronicity that couldn’t have happened without the intervention of some higher power.
I want joy, I want tears, I want laughter, I want truth. I want moments or stories where the real world grazed the spirit one.
At the very least, I want a poem.

(and will whoever has removed their shoes please put them on again. A bus is a small, confined space. Show some appreciation for your fellow passengers, please.)

Ps: Have a look at this if you're still feeling a bit short on inspiration: (Yay - after many, many tries it actually works. Thanks Argent!)