What’s Feet Got to do with it?

Get yr feet off the table I was told.

Get yr feet off the pouf.

And I thought, what the ^%$#@ ?!?!

What does it even matter if I dangle my feet

from the chandeliers?

What’s feet got to do with it anyway?

But somehow they alwats march in.

I often start off on the wrong foot these days

Step on people’s dignity

Tread on their toes

Or worse put my foot in my mouth

A mean anatomical feat if ever there were one.

So now I keep my feet firmly on the ground

Close to each other

And far enough from my mouth as possible.

This seems to keep people happy.

 

Sparrow in the Library

I saw a sparrow hop across the carpet

in the library

toward the Express Collection Shelf.

I flicked my head

like an illusionist’s cape

& it was gone.

I went back to the article about Stevie Van Zandt

& his Summer of Sorcery Tour

& the sparrow

appeared again.

With another flick of my head

it reassembled

into a series of tan dots — & dashes.

Time to head off

to the optometrist again.

Miracles

It’s not the big ones

like walking on water

that interest me

But the little ones

like walking freely,

doing gym again

without medication,

being able to hear

stereophonically

without ear surgery,

able to love again

without the king’s men

struggling

to put me together;

the body’s palliative care unit

working in unison.

 

Pounce

 

You can’t swat it.

Spray it.

Shut it out.

Tell it to sit. Stay.

It’s in yr brain.

Waiting. Watching

Friends, fellow writers

That first flicker of success

The green frog of envy.

Beast

There was a man in our street who had an apparition in the middle of an afternoon.

 

He was driving on a country road where on a whim he took a detour. His wife was beside him. They drove down the avenues and streets and occasional crescents till they realised they were caught in an infinity loop. The man began to panic. It was like that time he was stuck in a lift. He could feel his heart fibrillating, his bladder wanting to burst, his vision blurring but he held this from his wife who would accuse him of weakness.

 

That’s when he saw it, the apparition. It came for him, lumbering down some labyrinth in his brain, a Minotaur bristly and bellowing, big as a tank, barging into him. His heart stopped.

 

His wife never knew what happened but she found her way out.

 

 

 

A Bird Flew into My Mouth

A bird flew in my mouth.

I gulped in horror.

If it were a mozzie,

A blowfly,

No worries

But a bird

A wattlebird at that.

It panicked in the echo chamber of my mouth.

I wrestled it with both hands

Trying to pry it loose.

Suddenly it plopped out like a fish.

It staggered in the air.

I staggered along the path.

A bird in the mouth is worth two in the bush.

My friend quipped.

So how was it? he asked.

Surreal, I clucked. Surreal

Hope is the Helium

I was down in the dumps when someone praised

A recent poem of mine.

I know we should be immune to Praise

And Criticism

But it’s hard not to be lifted

Like a hot air balloon

Above the petty doubts and grievances

That beset us all

And to bask in the warm sun of appreciation

Knowing that, yeh, we’re okay,

We’re going to get there

We are not alone.

Hope is the helium that keeps us aloft.

 

can you think of an occasion when praise made a difference in your life?

what is the helium that keeps you aloft?