Do I have to tame you?
You’re not lions.
And this little backyard outside my unit
is not a cage
so why don’t you behave?
I only watered you a few times during the week
and you burst out like a prison break.
You leave me no choice.
No, no, it’s too late to plead.
These shears will prune you back
to more modest dimensions.
Don’t worry. The bees will still come.
the yellow-shouldered honey-eaters and wattle birds
& I’ll still write poems about you.
All will be well.
But such profuseness ….
*pic courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
In the old days — I’m talking ’95 — I did drafts.
My notebooks don’t lie, Thirteen sometimes of the one poem
and it still turned out crap. There’s something to be said
for inspiration, how it comes light and easy like a breeze,
and if you catch it, you’re sailing.
There are protocols for almost everything you can think of:
how to behave on a first date, how to address royalty,
whether to fart in public or hold it in, the etiquette of blogging,
BUT WHAT are the protocols for bon-bon popping?
Over Xmas dinner the other night, we couldn’t decide when;
whether, as I thought, at the beginning of proceedings to start
the evening with a bang ; but my daughters were of the opinion
before the main meal but nonna shook her head, no, no, she proclaimed,
it must be after; we checked the box they came in, in the hope
that the protocols were printed there. Google was no help
nor the shop we bought them in. In the end they weren’t popped at all.
Oh well, we said. Let’s hope we can work it out by New Years’.
Start with the animals, Buddha once said.
So I do.
The cat wants to go out. It is badgering me to let it out in the balmy evening where all sorts of adventure await.
But I want it to stay inside, settle down like me.
It is so easy to be mean.
I open the door.
I must open my heart a little more as well.
My girl and I sometimes send unpleasant texts to each other. It is what couples who are not quite couples do.
I think the meanness in my texts should be let out too.
I open the door. It dithers.
I give it a swift kick up the backside and send it on its way.
I begin my text message anew.
I opened up a soft drink —
You know how it is —
One recently opened
but it had lost it’s fizz.
It had lost its zest.
It had lost its tang.
It had lost its bite
& it had lost its bang!
So hang onto your hat.
Enjoy life’s gee whiz.
You gotta be where it’s at.
Never lose your fizz.
*happy Xmas everyone
Mustafa who knew me well was a refugee too: he from Syria, me from the realm of common sense.
How would you like it cut? he asked.
Like yours, I said.
He didn’t chuckle. He didn’t comment on the outrageousness of my request.
Apart from the difference in hair color, there was also the disparity in volume though he admitted, even at 27, he was losing his hair.
He cut, he swooped, he shaved, he teased and cajoled but when finished he wrought a little miracle.
How did it look? Shaved at the sides , but on top what hair I had was swept to the other side of my head and held down by gel. It looked amazing.
Askew, I said, It looks amazingly askew.
Like your writing, he said.
Yes, like my writing.
I was in writing school again.
The teacher, Mr. Wiles, was tall and totemic.
He was disparaging a writer that was currently in the ascendant.
‘His prose is loose and lumpen’, he said. ‘It clumps along the hallway of sentences like Lurch in The Adams Family’
*pic courtesy of Wikipedia