It's no big deal.

A remarkable coincidence. In about the middle of 2011, I read a new poem, Jezza, at Poetry Night in Bellingen, about 700 metres away from my place. I said to those assembled that I don't know if this poem is any good, nor if it's crap. I don't know if I'll like it tomorrow, or next year. But I like it tonight.
I've pondered this matter, and still don't know of any poet, good or bad, who can say otherwise. Milton and Shakespeare might have said it. Thus I equate with Poets Laureate.
 Which is another coincidence, given my sobriquet of 'Poet Lorikeet of Bellingen', one which I treasure.As I walked home in the dark aalone, some 700 metres from dangerous bush and alleyway hideouts, I was surrounded by youths at some considerable risk to my life, as is mentioned at About Pip in the Almanac. I fear I was nearly murdered yet again, but for cool thinking.Well, the same goes for this poem. I like it today. I don't know if it's any good. But it's stet. It stands. Computer damage regardless.Or 'irregardless', as is in my Australian Slang dictionary in progress. This poem, for what it's worth, is a gift to Misty, the multitude she loves so much, and the many who love her so much. Best I can buy. I hope you like it a bit too. Love, Pip

 

Misty

Don't look at me.
I'm as lonesome as a kitten up a tree.
My name is Misty. I am but three. My eyes are swollen. I cannot see.

Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people.

Don't you know I'm so hopelessly lost? And in love?
And that's why I'm following you?
On my own. Wandering through this wonderland alone?
I could look at her beautiful hair all my life.
I wanted her for my wife.
Now I'm Misty. I am but three.
So we'll see.

First she loved me, I didn't know,
Then I loved her, but said I would let it go.
Shouldn't have gone. I was so hopelessly lost, it took time for that wonder to dawn.
I'm misty.
For Misty. I'm a poet. I hope she knows it. I hope I don't blow it.
I'm Misty just holding her hand.

(Soulful saxophone break.)

Everyone knows I'm Misty.
I'm Misty blue.
Too much in love.
Six degrees of separation.
From Misty.

I'm Misty just holding your hand.
You understand. You understand.

Virtue. Don't let anyone hurt you.
And we both watch it. Love.
Like the constellations up above,
I’m so happy for your love.
And the mateship.
Like a ship on the great Pacific waters,
And our beautiful daughters,
The love that we feel for the two.
I’m Misty, just worshipping you.

Don’t look at me.
You might say that I’m hopelessly crazed.
But I’m happy
Being misty,
All of my days.

I’m misty. For Misty.
I am so happy for Misty.

(And here goes ... nothing.
I have, as of February 1, 2012, a verse in my head
To go here. Full of love and best wishes
For beloved Misty, and her love.
Unfortunately,
This poem will grow and change
In a time of its own choosing.
But I thought that, at least for a while
I'll keep this large fragment here, because I'm full of goodwill
To that wonderful woman,
and also to her very good man.
I don't pretend to be a wonderful poet,
Not at all.
But I really like doing it, and
I can only improve.
God bless you.)

Peace.
And the blessings, they will never, ever cease.

(Click some pics, please. Gods bless.)

Poetry index                       Next

Pip

His name's Pip.

That's his name, same forwards and backwards. Don't wear it out.

They've gone, mate. Shes gone. He's gone.
You were too late.
Pip.

Oh, Pip, you're such an idiot, but so happy.
You think that others will listen to you.
An idiot, four square.
Oh, Pip. You are all about love, and some think it's a rort.
Give it a rest, sport.

Pip, even though you  are gregarious, you love your solitude.

Pip.

You say you will never die of thirst, nor starve to death it Bellingen.
Even if you live in a box.

Oh, Pip.

I love you, too, Pip.
But we'd better talk things over.
Maybe, when we both get sobre.
You'll understand I'm only a man
Doing the best that he can.
But it's not likely to happen,
Like the sound of a one hand clapping.

Oh, Pip.

You weep, mate. Quite often. Too much,
Pip.
A crybaby. Get over it. Pip.
Sometimes your poetry's OK, Pip.
Sometimes, it's rubbish.

Love you, mate.
It's not all in the garden, mate.
Pip.
God bless you, Pip.

I shall go.
I shall go now.
But one day, I will be gone for good.
If you survive me, and love me,
Please see that the bubbler at the public toilets in Church Street, Bellingen,
Is maintained well, and called 'Pip's Bubbler'. Thank you.

God bless you.
Pip pip, Pip.
 

Pushing the barriers. Planting seeds. Faith in the future, outta the now. Doing the ritual dance in the sun. Raising the spirit of peace and love.

 Make love, not war. I know you've heard it before. It’s nothin’. Just something I learned over in England.

Pip

I'm sorry, I'll read that again.

Wikipedia and David Brown's prodigious Daily Bleed are both excellent resources that aid my research.
I frequently make use of their generously liberal 'fair use', 'copyleft' and 'anti-copyright' policies, with much gratitude.
© My own copyright policy is also liberal, but as this is my livelihood, conditions apply.

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