I often remind myself
how much I love the first day of spring.
It appears unexpectedly
when the world seems cold
when my youthful soul yearns
for a blooming flower
in one fragrant moment.
The sun doesn’t have to shine.
The world doesn’t have to feel safe or stable.
Nothing has to be in order
or to make sense.
It is the first day of my favorite season
when I feel most grateful
to be a small part of a grand universe,
that gave me my first breath.
“Writing creates an intimacy with the world.” – the writer
Today I’ve arranged to breakfast with the sky
we haven’t been talking much lately and
so need some alone time together
in her lovely blue halls cushioned with fluffy cumuli
although blue is probably not her best colour
at breakfast, she’s more into yellow and rose.
Trouble is, she gets up so early and those of us who
don’t need to rise for work tend to sleep in …
I wonder if that’s why she’s been so distant to me?
“I write poetry because I have to, they come to me. I blog because it gets lonely sometimes.” – the writer
When young, I—like some others—was prone to foolhardy ventures.
The railroad-tracks, in our tiny town, ran behind our house. Knowing where the daily freight-train slowed in a curve, a buddy and I decided it would be fun to hitch-a-ride on boxcars—like a couple of authentic hobos—not really thinking things through.
This ‘slow-train’ was faster than we thought, nearly pulling our arms off when we grabbed-on—finally, climbing aboard.
Looking out an expansive open-door, train gaining speed, the ride was indeed thrilling—the panoramic countryside rolling easily by—until we remembered, the first stop was half-a-county away.
“I like writing about ‘incidents’ in life, leading to eventual ‘wisdom.'” – the writer
You hear a noise. It’s past midnight.
So what do you do?
You hop up, turn on a few lights, tramp down the passageway. open and close cupboards, bang doors, make a lot of noise.
Then you stop and listen.
There it is again.
Those bloody mice, you say, though you’ve seen no evidence of any.
It’s nothing, you decide, nothing. House noises.
You head back to the bedroom, turn off the lights.
Someone taps you on the shoulder.
John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story.
She brushed against me
in the cereal aisle
distracted by the corn flake bargains.
At the vegetable bins
she turned, and as our eyes met,
she waved at me
with a cucumber in her hand.
In the frozen food section, a cold canyon
between mounds of green vegetables
and a geologic stack of pizzas,
her warmth lingered a few beats
close by my side,
our cart handles touching.
Checking out, I wondered,
does she like me?
Or is this a courtesy call
from an old man’s imagination?
“I write to find common voices to sing with.” – the writer
“It’s a damn coyote,” the man exclaimed, looking out the window of his mansion. He yelled to his wife, “Ellen, call animal control. Hurry!”
Oblivious, the sleek animal trotted on. He knew he’d ranged too far from his den and into the Neighborhoods, but he was hunting for his mate and their pups. The rabbit he’d killed was his reward and he hurried to get home. The smell of humans frightened him. He trotted faster planning to never return.
Ellen ignored her shouting husband. Instead she watched the coyote lope away, envying it’s freedom, wished she could join him .
Jim Bates is fascinated by the interaction between humans and the natural world, and he hopes his writing reflects that interest.