the Wordsworth of Weeds

20200117_131440

I read somewhere that weeds are the rodents of the plant world,

that they are sneakily aggressive, opportunistic, fiercely feral,

that they should be weeded out. I have heard this language before;

little good comes from it. Where are the Wordsworths of Weeds?

Plath comes closest, celebrating mushrooms. I like the strange,

tangled beauty of weeds, their punk swagger, their dogged persistence.

They too one day might inherit the earth.

 

In Which I Take the Goldfish to Task

20200513_085907

I go out the front to get something from the car when  a voice pipes up from the fishpond.

Hey! Where are the f*&*ing fish flakes?

It’s Goldie in her usual peremptory tone.

Mind the language, I say.

You taught us to alliterate, she snaps. You gotta love the ‘lit, you said.

I know, I say.

I got three ‘f”s out of that, she says.

You did well. It was just a little inappropriate, I say.

F**&&& the inappropriateness, she says. So where are the flakes?

Coming , I say.

That’s the trouble with having a literate family. They answer back.

While on the Subject of Udders

Cattle_feeding_on_pastures_at_Keernaun_-_panoramio

We were driving past cows full of paddocks when my friend

asked me whether I thought bulls considered cow udders

‘sexy’? I said I hadn’t given it much thought but added,

you don’t  see many pinups of naked cows on the sides

of barns or bulls wanking off to them thoughtfully

on sunny afternoons; unsatisfied we pulled over

and did a Google Search, typing in ‘do bulls …’ to which

suggestions came up, such as ‘do bulls hate red?’, ‘do bulls moo?’ ,

‘do they have horns?’ and then the big one: ‘do bulls find

cow udders sexy?’ to which Google replied, ‘no, it’s a human thing’.

and that was that till Denzel Curry’s cover of ‘Bulls on Parade’

came over the radio, and my friend started all over again

 

* pic courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

A Very Heavy Ten Minutes

800px-Metallica_London_2008-09-15_Kirk_and_James

between

1.10 and 1.20

on Saturday afternoons

he pumps out

Polaris

Parkway Drive

Bring Me The Horizon

from his tiny unit

by which time

whatever he’s got

in his system

he’s got out

or whatever he hasn’t

he’s got in

 

  • pic of Metallica onstage in London courtesy of Wikimedia Commons:

Tricky

toadstool

You’re tricky, she says, which is sort of ironic ‘coz she’s tricky too; and my best buddy can be very tricky and we’ve come to blows on more than one occasion over our mutual trickiness which is even more tricky seeing he’s in a wheelchair though he gives as much as he gets and tonight we’re over a friend’s place for a fuck-you covid meal and although there are a few tricky moments we manage to get on over pizzas, two bottles of red, Bailey’s Irish Cream and a few espressos which just goes to show what a resilient species we humans are

One Perfectly Round Ear

kseniia-ilinykh-vOFHVaETjlA-unsplash

Locked between his headphones

the scraggly haired beachcomber

scours the beach with his detector

its one perfectly round ear

listening to talk-back from the sand

music to his ears :

dollar coins , gold ear rings

or bottle tops , tin cans —

relics of summers empire .

On and on he goes

in his hand a miniature spade

and a blue bucket of hope

 

  • pic by senila ilinykn from Unsplash

The Alchemist: for those interested in origins

484px-Van_Bentum_Explosion_in_the_Alchemist%u2019s_Laboratory_FA_2000.001.285

I wasn’t thinking straight.

I wanted an image.

A wonky shopping cart.

Perfect.

But the poem grew too dark, too heavy

with baggage

way too personal.

I wanted to fictionalize it,

lighten it up.

Then I thought of the pathway

through linear park

with its crazed markings,

the one I had taken a picture of

a year before

the one with the man with the trapezoid head

at its centre.

All  I needed was a poem.

He could write it.

It had to be light but still true

to the original concept

of muzzy thoughts.

It went through ten drafts over eight hours

but I got there

& I was amazed how the mind can transmute

dull matter

into material that almost leaps

off the page.

 

* picture courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

I Know a Little about Eagerness

person-beside-black-leather-heavy-bag-980437

Hey! when are we going to gym?

my muscle shirt calls out to me from the bag in the corner

where my gym shorts and sneakers also reside.

I know a little about eagerness, I reply.

I’m eager to finish ‘The Alps’, that short story by Colin Barrett which is why I’m at the laptop at six in the morning.

I’m eager to see the next episode of ‘Lego Masters’ — only 14 hours to go.

I can’t wait to get back to the pub with my mates

or go to the cinema again to see the live action Mulan, the new James Bond

so yes, I know a little about eagerness, I say.

Okay, okay, my gym clothes say, we didn’t want a sermon. A date would have done.

I get that, I say. Weeks, maybe a month. Can you guys hang on? I’m just as eager to get back as you: the punching bag, the weights, the lat pull down….

Okay, they say, shoulders a little slumped. Can you drive us past the gym, just to have a look ?

I can do that, I say, just soon as I finish this poem.

 

* the prompt for this was eswini’s ‘The Museum of Unnecessary Things’ on WordPress

Four Morning Poems

cc99d2a41b42a94a6250cd008fcbf22a

1

It is good to see the sun shining in the morning:

a friendly face peering through the window

2

I lean my magazine against a pyramid of book

and savour over my bowl of berries the latest words

from John Yau:

the mountain is watching you, she says

nudging me obliquely as the sun turns red

3

I like to hop up in the morning like the easter bunny

& see who has written to me overnight

& unwrap their little gift of words

4

I like to put up posts first thing, my messages in a bottle

roaming the vast oceans of the internet to see who

will pick up and read