Who let the cat out?
Sleep did.
Sleep lifted the lid.
Let it roam
the alleys and backstreets
of the mind
rummaging through
memory’s bin;
Look what the cat
dragged in —-
half-buried scraps,
dead rats,
old what ifs.
Who let the cat out?
Sleep did.
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
Where does the sky start?
The sea begin?
Somewhere round the bend.
Somewhere round the bend
we can all be friends,
all colours and creeds blend
Somewhere somewhere
somewhere around the bend
we can be together again
what was broken, will mend
Somewhere round the bend
the animals will be our friends
all plunder will end
somewhere somewhere
round the bend
What if I had a different biology,
say a trans or a woman?
would I still be me?
Would I feel the same?
Have similar attitudes?
Would I be a better person
if I were in different shoes?
No one saw it coming. Least of all me. I was happily ensconced in a book when it EXPLODED. Such was its force that it blew the toupee off the man in front of me and propelled the stationary bus in which we were sitting two metres forward. The sneezer himself, a dread locked man in a canary yellow suit, whooshed around the aisle of the bus startling passengers until suitably deflated he flopped beside me flatulent as a whoopee cushion.
John Malone 