The Doldrums

The Doldrums

Like Coleridge’s ‘The Ancient Mariner’ I’m doing time

in the doldrums at the moment. Becalmed. Beset by the mozzies

of impotence and despair. No breeze of inspiration. Where is she,

the Muse? Not a whiff. I am doing penance for the long days of wine

and roses. Who knew they would not last? I am tearing my hair out,

in desperation. It’s a tough gig when the tank is empty, the well is dry.

A first world problem. Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

My editor says you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel when you write

poems about NOT writing poems. What’s a poor boy to do?

The Menace of Mandarins

The Menace of Mandarins.

Not innocent as they look.

The only bone I ever broke

in my body

was when I dug my index finger

into the sepal

of a stubborn mandarin.

Something snapped, shifted.

My finger flopped.

I stopped.

Marilyn ate one till the pith

got caught in her throat.

She almost choked.

• pic wiki commons

No no ! My Poems are Nothing like That

No, No ! I exclaim. My poems are Nothing like That.

I was reading a Frederick Seidel poem where he described

his poems

as being like dogs

that stand on their hind legs and bark

for attention.

No, no, I exclaimed, my poems are nothing like that.

My poems are gentler, more suave

more quietly welcoming

than that.

I once wrote my poems are preceded

by a welcome mat.

But now I’m not so sure.

My poems have crept up on me,

have become more brash,

‘commandingly loud’

as one of my followers noted.

Maybe it’s time to tone it down a little,

write in a lesser key

but I don’t want people to fall asleep,

*pic by pinterest

Three Cornered Jack

I hadn’t seen one of these for ages

but it lodged somehow in the sole of my slipper

and put a sharp spring in my step;

exquisitely crafted in the devil’s workshop

for maximum menace

it took me back to Lucindale where

I did my country service

and went on long bush walks with my son

The Poem that Became a Parable

The Poem that Became a Parable

Pastor Solomon was talking about metamorphosis, the process by which we become new men and women through Jesus but all I could think of was another talk I had on the same topic with a caterpillar during the last days of Covid.

Reckon You Could Handle That?

I almost tread on this fuzzy little chap on the sidewalk, out for a stroll, soaking up the mid-winter sun.

How’s it hanging? he asks.

Oh , you know; not bad.

He looks up. You out of lockdown yet?

Almost, I say, one day to go but we’re allowed to walk. How about you?

I’m about to enter the biggest lockdown of all, he says in a tone half way between excitement and trepidation.

Wow! I say. Really?

Yes, he says, metamorphosis. You heard of it?

Why, yes. It sounds magical.

Up to 14 days, he says. No food. No visitations. Reckon you could handle it?

If I could turn into something light, winged and beautiful, like a butterfly, I’d give it a go, I said.

Pastor Solomon smiled as he read it.

“This is terrific, “ he said. “It’s what we’ve been talking about. It’s a great metaphor. Maybe even a parable.”

That caterpillar would be a butterfly by now, one of those fluttering around the honeysuckle hedge. I wonder if he remembers.

A Quick,Truncated Story

A Quick Truncated Story,

He just walked in

the room hot,

stifling,

flicked on the overhead fan,

high,

stood,

right beneath it

to catch the breeze

stretched both arms

up, up

flamboyantly

to take off his T shirt

when a blade …

.

Forensic

Forensic,

Only under the forensic glare

of the fluorescents

in the Men’s washroom mirror

did I notice

the unshaven chin,

the grey smudges on the right sleeve

of my otherwise immaculate white T ,

things I had not noticed

in my own bathroom mirror;

but it was too late,

I was on the road now;

I only hoped that when

I walked out into the world,

the place where

I was going,

people wouldn’t look at me

with forensic eyes

*pic courtesy of pinterest

Excoriating a Cake

Excoriating a Cake.

I overheard a customer the other day

excoriating a cake in a cafe.

Having taken a bite, he stood up addressing the mud cake thus:

‘You vile, disgusting, desiccated, drop kick of a cake”

It was like Jesus

tearing strips off the fig tree

for not bearing fruit.

But then he turned on the staff:

“And you have the temerity to charge me for this piece of shit!!

Whoever it was made you,” he said,

turning again to the cake,

“should be horse whipped in the public square.”

By the time security turned up

the man had taken off, shooting one last withering gaze

at the chastened chocolate cake.

Better

I know how it’s going to go.

Ben’s going to come up to me and say,

You been speaking in tongues, John?

The Holy Spirit been speaking through you?

And I’ll say, Not lately, Ben

but something better.

Better?

Yes, Jesus came to me in the middle of the day

and drove the demons out.

Exorcism?

Don’t be so dramatic, I say

but, yes, something like that.

Somehow the things that were goading me

weren’t goading me anymore.

They just dissipated, vanished.

I knew a deep and lasting peace.

I wrote a poem about it.

Do you want to read it?

Do I have to?

Yes!

So Ben reads it. It’s only a short poem.

So it was good? he says.

Not good, Ben. Better.

One Night

One Night

You drive yourself to Emergency.

Show them yr droopy eye.

They know what it means.

Specialists swarm over you like bees,

prodding with questions and instruments:

Hannah looks after me, checking on my memory, my awareness.

You know the questions: where are you, what day is it,

what’s yr name, birthdate?

Yr kids phone. Can’t talk. Will phone later, you say.

But then, o then, the MRI, that medieval torture chamber,

the moment of truth.

They shove you inside it. The nurse knows you’re edgy, holds yr hand,

Hang on, she says.

She makes it sound like a carnival ride.

The racket, the claustrophobia, that cage they clamp on yr head.

Is this Guantanamo?

Hang on, you want to say, I’ll tell you everything.

7 minutes later I’m pulled out.

20 % she tells me, have trouble with MRI’s.

Some bail,

My ex won’t have one. Nor will my sister.

Then the wait, not knowing if your life is about to change.

You wait, chat, read, drift off.

As the evening slides into the quiet time the report comes in.

No stroke. No evidence of stroke, You are good to go.

Hannah hugs me. I hug her back.

I know this always happens but you feel the love.

Walk down the dark and lonely street to the car,

Do a jig when you get home.

Phone the girls, the ex.

• pic courtesy of Wiki Commons