Overshooting the Mark

I was driving towards my destination

a place I had never been

when I missed a number of turnoffs.

I had overshot the mark.

It made me wonder how often in life

I had overshot the mark

& missed some vital turnoffs

where, for instance. I could have become

a famous novelist like David Foster Wallace

& worn a red bandana

or rakish rock star like Keith Richards

or, god forbid,a prominent politician.

Or even married someone else!

What if you didn’t marry grandma?

my granddaughter once asked,

would I have still been born?

Most of us overshoot the mark.

It may be a good thing.

Danny Kaye, that Court Jester, once famously said,

we always land where we were meant to be.

Maybe it’s true.

I could have done worse.

Does Anyone Know Where the %$^# They Are?

I was in McLaren Vale, the heart of the wine growing region, trying to find a well-known winery called Fox Creek.

I didn’t have a GPS in the car but I checked on Google Maps before I left so I had a pretty good idea. Pretty good, as anyone can tell you, is not good enough.

I knew it came off Almond Grove Road. Locals would know where that was.

I asked some passers by. Some said it was a little north, another somewhat east, a third said ‘straight ahead’, the honest ones shrugged their shoulders. Dunno, they said. I stopped and asked a guy in the coffee shop. He was adamant it was the next road to the left. It wasn’t.

Honestly, does anyone know where the ^%$&* they are???

* do you know where you are?

ps: I wrote this while I was exasperated

Am I the Only One who Does This?

( this was just published on ‘The Drabble’: thought you’d like a read too 🙂 ]

I’ve been clearing up the house

sweeping up the crumbs.

It’s a monthly ritual.

Am I mad? or just dumb?.

I clear away the cobwebs

sweep up the dust

collect and bin the rubbish.

Somebody must.

They won’t wash themselves,

mum used to say.

The sink’s full of them

so I put them away.

Make the place spotless

so it shines & it hums.

& I better get a move on

before the cleaner comes.

Put a Moat Around it

I have a mote in my left eye

not the metaphoric one that Jesus

spoke of

but an actual one of grit.

I have amoat in my head too

which is metaphoric.

It cuts me off from needy people

which is kinda funny

coz I’m needy too.

Some people are overly guarded.

Too many moats to cross.

Australia has a moat,

a helluva big one

called the Pacific Ocean

on one side

& the Indian on the other

the one that boat people crossed

to get to Australia.

One family from Vietnam

lived across the road from us

for years.

I wrote about the man, the grandfather

in my first book.

[I’ll post it tomorrow]

A moat as big as the ocean

is hazardous.

Not everyone made it back then.

The Earth is surrounded

by a moat too

the vast star-studded ocean

of space.

I could go on but this poem

is starting to drift.

so I’m going to put a moat around it

and close it off.

* photo by juvnsky-enton-maksimor on Unsplash

I Once Played Godot

I once played Godot in a high school play.

It was my big moment. My first step to stage stardom.

After all, I’d be playing the main character, the one the play’s named after.

-Where are my lines? I say.

-You have none, I am told.

I grow suspicious.

I once played a tree in a Xmas play.

-No Lines?

-You wait in the wings. You’ll get the hang of it.

It sounded dubious but I hadn’t been picked for anything all year.

-I’ll give it a go, I say.

          On the night I am a little nervous. I peep at the audience, the anticipation on their faces. I hope I perform well.

          The curtain goes up.

          I keep waiting for my cue to come in.

          The play keeps going and going.

          By intermission I still haven’t been called.

          -When do I go on?

          -You don’t. You’re the guy they’re waiting for.

          -Then why don’t I go on?

          -If you did, there wouldn’t be a play.

It seemed a pretty flimsy premise to hang a play on, but who was I to argue? My big moment would have to wait.

Do Mirrors Go Rogue

mirrors never lie : sideshow mirrors only distort the truth

you can look a mirror in the eye but it won’t blink first

ceiling mirrors are up themselves

wall mirrors have hang ups

mirrors continually surprise us in the act of being ourselves

mirrors both give and receive   simultaneously

during the day when everyone’s out do mirrors contemplate their navel

do they get tired of looking at the same faces

does familiarity breed contempt

can mirrors go rogue like Hal, the computer in 2001

are one-way mirrors guilty of duplicity

do cracked mirrors have an image problem

do mirrors ever take a good hard look at themselves.

pic courtesy of wiki media

Sexy Titles

…. and now for something lighter: Can you come up with other cheeky titles to add to this list of Imaginary Books? or even, if you’re up for it [excuse the pun] write a paragraph or two ?

It Must Mean Something

I was driving to the clinic about my disintegrating blood

thinking about the riots in Washington,

the four deaths,

when Barry McGuire came on the radio, singing his anthem, from the sixties

‘Eve of Destruction’. You know it?

And I thought:

it must mean something, a message maybe but could something

written that far back, sixty years,

speak to the present?

Barry thought so, his voice just as urgent,

just as polemic

as it was then.

Sure, the finger on the nuclear button seemed shrill,

a little hysterical — it’d be more measured now, wouldn’t it? —

but the hate in Red China and the riots in Selma, Alabama,

seemed less so.

He was really getting worked up.

I thought his passion would pulverize the speakers.

I was getting a little scared, feel my blood fretting.

Just as I pulled in the car park,

the song came to an end.

God knows what apocalyptic anthem

would confront me on the way home.

pic courtesy of Wiki Commons

Burger Art

at Barry’s Burgers

at Semaphore

on the esplanade

they’ve put up art work

on the walls

to keep customers amused

while waiting:

drawings

fresh, inventive, zesty,

a little wacky

like Barry’s burgers

themselves

Up Late

Did men really walk on that?

It looks too pale and flimsy

at nine in the morning

a ghost of itself

that clouds could pass through

not strong enough to bear

the weight of history

something the night

had left behind

& forgotten