The Poems I Have Not Written.
I am outside late at night
writing poems
about the poems
I have not written
the ones I’ve shied away from
because of embarrassment
or timidity
or , worst of all, for fear
that I might offend
and find
somewhat alarmingly
that the poems I have not written
Far outnumber those I have
Maybe: An Enigma.
Maybe if I had played my cards
a little closer to my chest,
you wouldn’t then have known
that I had played my best;
now I have to wait
for your tom foolery
to decide what to do
with the rest of me
*pic courtesy of wikipedia
*pic courtesy of pinterest
Something the photographer said about animals.
We are much more unpredictable to them
than they are to us.
We could shoot them, pet them,
kick them up the butt, out the door.
Perhaps that’s why this rescue cat eyes me
suspiciously,
sleeps with one eye open
flinches when another male approaches.
Today I have the mark of the beast upon me.
It came up overnight,
It cannot be hidden except by a mask
But when I take it off, to eat, to explain a matter,
to simply breather easier, friends,
people recoil at the angry red rash
that runs from the tip of my nose to upper lip,
like birds before a predator.
I cannot shave so look doubly abhorrent.
I am only grateful for covid where a face mask
can be worn without question.
It is my close companion, my Linus blanket.
A fog comes down between you and the world.
Words have to scramble through.
A dog’s breakfast of sounds.
Turning the volume up on the TV only increases the blur.
Why does one sense desert you when others
are intact?
Every now and then yr ears pop
and the world of sounds : leaf blowers.
crows caw, the Harley revving up
across the road, the postman’s whistle,
comes rushing at you with all its
clarity and clangor.
My mind is a scold.
It calls me sloth,
a lassitudinous layabout.
Is that even a word, I say?
Get off the couch, it says. It’s early afternoon
Attend to your blog.
Your Yorkshire mate puts up three posts
to your one.
Write that poem about airing the sheets.
How they purr like cats as they are stroked
by the sun.
Re-read that article :
‘Should Leopards Be Paid For Their Spots’.
Phone your daughters.
Go see your sister.
Give people their worth.
Go to gym.
Release your inner Thor.
Okay, okay, I grumble
but, in truth, I’m happier
and have loads more energy
when I’m buzzing around
like a gingery bee.
How does that work?
I hope old Schooner’s all right.
He looked a little cranky last time.
He knew something was coming down the pike.
Birds know. They have a crystal ball.
They foresee earthquakes, tsunamis.
He must have foreseen the sale of the pub
& the old drive-thru that housed his Taj Mahal
of a cage where he held court. Customers
would stop by for a chat and when they were done
he would rasp in his Tom Waits voice, See Ya!
I liked his magisterial presence. I hope he’s okay
wherever he is. Each Friday at the pub I raise a glass
To old Schooner. Here’s to you! I say. Stay cocky, dude.
See Ya!
Three nights of frazzled sleep
crammed into four hours on the couch
mellowed by malbec, merlot, mataro
an afternoon of tasting platters & wine samplings
at Penny’s Hill where black-faced sheep slumbered
under the oak; now you slumber so gently:
sweet Lethe has taken your troubles over the border;
you will awaken and forget
I had my big guns ready.
The script already rehearsed in my head.
There were some epithets to let fly.
Rebuttals for any diffidence.
I was asking my mercurial mate a favour
one he might bridle at
though I had both barrels loaded
‘after all I’d done for you….’
the rifle was cocked and ready.
I was Chuck Norris, Vin Diesel, Dirty Harry
rolled into one.
When I got him on the phone
and asked, he rolled over like a cat.
I was a little disappointed.
John Malone 