Too Close For Comfort

I had just unzipped at the left urinal when he took the one next to me, even though the one on the right was vacant.

We were shoulder to shoulder. We were that close.

He had bright orange hair like Mick Hucknall from Simply Red.

I hummed a few bars of “If You Don’t Know Me By Now’ just in case but there was nothing.

Hi, I’m Charlie, he offered.

Umm, I’m John. We don’t have to shake hands do we?

No, of course not, he said. You come here often.

Only to pee, I said. How about you?

Yes, much the same.

Then we both entered the zone, quietly exuding, self satisfied sighs.

We must stop meeting like this, I said wryly.

Then he zipped up and went to the basin and when he had gone I did the same.

This does not happen to me often. In fact, it was the first time which is why I’m writing about it.

Weird, huh ?

• pic courtesy of pinterest

One Trick Pony

 
Don’t be a one trick pony,my editor says.

All great artists evolve:Shakespeare, Picasso, the Beatles.

What about the lesser ones? I ask.What about me?

Them too, he says.

Find your niche, exhaust it, then push outwards again.

Or inward? I suggest.

Yes, that too.

Don’t tread in the same water twice, he adds,sounding suspiciously Buddhist.

I get it. I really do.

The writer I was in the nineties,when I gave it a serious whirl,

is different to the writer I was in the early two thousands

or from 2010.

Did you know I was a children’s poet?

I had over 150 poems and six short stories about an axolotl
published in magazines world wide.

I can’t do that now.

The writer I was in the eighties would not recognize the writer I am now.

But I still like to show off my work.

I’m a bit of a show pony

but I’m NOT a one-trick pony
 
 

The Bossy Bossy Poem

 

 You bouff your way
 
onto the page
 
while I’m working
 
on something else
 
like the cat
 
that barges through
 
the front door
 
while you try to squeeze through
 
with yr bag of groceries

Something in the Air

I don’t like the look of them

these runaways

the way they huddle darkly

in alleys,

in vacant lots amongst

the runtish grass

with their hangdog faces

and surly looks

they’re up to something

but if you edge closer to eavesdrop

they clam up

look at you with bloodshot

insolent eyes

what have they been drinking

smoking?

perhaps they are planning

a revolution

against their colonial masters

the supermarkets.

The Catastrophist

You better watch yourself.
 
You’re becoming a catastrophist.
 
That bbq pack in the backseat, for instance,
is not going to wreck the suspension.
Cars were designed to carry weight.
 
And , no, no one’s going to break in and steal it
when you duck in for a coffee and cake.
 
And as for that brandy and dry offered just before dinner
it’s not going to play havoc with your digestive system
if you have it before your standard glass of red.
 
It’s a cold day. Loosen up for f*&&^% ‘s sake.
You’re driving everyone batty.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

The Umbrella Song

I love to sing a capella

In the rain ‘neath my umbrella

To dance like Gene Kelly did

In the puddles like a kid

I like to make a lot of noise

I love the sound of my own voice

And I’m as rich as Rockefeller

in the rain ‘neath my umbrella.

Well, Are You?

The grin-faced pistachios look up at me from the bowl.

Are you looking at me? I say. You looking at me?

But the dumb pistachios just keep on grinning.

You’re nuts, I say. Nuts !

Good to Go

If you go to bed at 8.30

and spring awake

at 4.30 in the morning

with two poems

slogging it out

in yr head,

you’re good to go

you’ve had your 8 hours

Rags

  *

Reckless rags

ripped

by storm;

ragamuffin clouds

lounging about

like homeless people;

dark, moody

noses sniffling

with drizzle;

a hard, cold

night.

You Don’t Get Asked That Too Often

She wants to hear some of my poems.

You don’t get asked that too often.

So I choose the bright ones, the buoyant ones,

the ones with a lot of bounce.

She loves ‘The Wrong Saint’

the one about getting lost on our way back from the winery

and praying to St. Francis, instead of St. Christopher,

the patron saint of travellers.

No wonder we were getting lost.

We were praying to the wrong guy.

She loves Quilton too, that one I posted,

an early Covid poem,, Quilton Loves Your Bum’

with all its jackanapery.

I used to read to her as a child,

little stories I made up,

and now I’m reading to her again,

my little story poems,

at the age of 18.

my grand-daughter, Grace.

And she still loves what I write.

Can I stop now, I ask,

a little exhausted.

It’s good to have a fan.