The Forest

I like them too.

I thought I was a basket case

But there’s this thirteen year old

I read about

Who takes anti-depressants

Anti-psychotic drugs,

Two drugs for attention deficit disorder

& she takes what I take too.

Christ,

I know growing up is tough

But I didn’t know it could be

Tough as this.

I could take other drugs,

Ones that she takes

But the doc reckons I’ve got this far

Without them

I can go the rest of the way.

I just hope that little thirteen year old kid

Makes it out of the forest okay.

*photo courtesy of Ulle

Like Pictures on a Wall

I like to read the crazed calligraphy of car tyres

on roads, the angry black swathes of rubber

on bitumen from burn-outs and donuts. What are we

to make of such marks, the road their canvas?

Do we elevate it to ‘outsider art’; Do we call them,

‘hoons’ or ‘street artists’? Do they love the smell

of burnt rubber in the morning as they furiously apply

the high octane brush of machismo? Do they,

I wonder, gloat over their works in the days & weeks

that follow, as if they were pictures hanging on a wall ?





  • pic courtesy of pixabay by Jan-Mollander

Hey! That’s Not a Word

I was streaking ahead and then she put down that word. It was on a ‘double word’ score.

Hey! That’s NOT a word! I said.

Yes, it is. I was just reading about it in ‘Body and Soul’ [ a supplement in our Sunday newspaper].

And she bent across and showed me.

What does it mean?

It’s something we used to do as schoolgirls, she chuckled. And she told me.

I was flabbergasted. The secret life of schoolgirls, I thought. Wonder of wonders.

Okay, I said. There are 4000 new words in our language each year so why couldn’t that be one of them?

Beach Balls, Rabbits & Heads

rabbit

You haven’t got your head up your arse

Or in the clouds any more, he said,

But firmly secured where it should be.

Atop my shoulders? I suggested.

But my big brother was right.

I was a dreamy kid but when the hormones kicked in— boy!!

My head was every which way but loose.

It was like a beach ball bobbing along

On choppy waves,

A dog chasing after every rabbit which crossed

its path.

I’m still a bit like that but the hormones

Are quieter now

& if I don’t watch it I still find myself

Head up the arse or in the clouds,

A head’s gotta go somewhere.