Timing is Everything

Timing is Everything.

It’s like stand-up.

The audience is a bowl

of expectations.

Can you pull it off

this time?

Now you’ve taken your meds.

You stand tall,

clutch the old mike.

Come on, baby, you say.

Don’t die on me now.

Then weeeeeeeeeeee

out it comes

in one joyful, exuberant stream

like a stallion.

What a performance.

You will sleep well tonight.

Playful Panda of a Poem

A Playful Panda of a Poem

She glows and she glitters

from sunset to sunrise

she is an all night lady

with tachycardic eyes





She loves the crickets of Quorrobolong

the whimsy of the wind

the noisy cross-eyed mynah

the clatter of rubbish bins





She has a tachycardic heart

and  tachycardic toes

and takes herself off

wherever the wild wind blows





She loves the smell of coquetry

the stars, the perfumed black

and when she finally settles, eats

French Fries and Big Macs

*pic courtesy of pinterest

People Chat More in Pools

People Chat More in Pools.

People chat more in pools.

You walk up and down.

Say hello.

You talk, share stories,

laugh, banter,

trade histories.

Find your tribe.

It’s like being in a pub

without the alcohol

or in church

without Jesus.

You slip under the nylon ropes,

do a few laps,slip back

 then chat some more.

You can even write poems in pools.

I go to gym a few times a week too

but people chat more in pools.

Maybe it was the Meds

Maybe it was the Meds.

Maybe it was the meds

but I felt a little trippy

so when the nurse leaned over and said.

we’ll give your cannula a good flush in a minute

I said, O wow! It’s been a long time since I’ve had my cannula flushed

& the room broke up.

Rhianna and Jacob joined in the fun.

It was that kind of treatment room.

Don’t worry.

We all have our heads screwed on

but with the lids a little open

to let the silly in.

Surly

Surly.

Bono looks surly.

Putting him beside a book called ‘Euphoria’

did it.

Bono feels anything but.

Euphoric, that is.

He’s been languishing on the Express Shelf

for three weeks

while books all around him have been flying

off the shelf.

‘Pissed’ is closer to the mark

as in ‘Pissed off’.

Bono is not used to this sort of treatment.

I would take him home myself

but I already have.

If the book was as lean and finely crafted

as a U2 song

it’d be different.

But it is as bloated as a Pynchon novel.

Axe Throwing

Axe Throwing

My daughter has been Axe Throwing with some friends from work.

Apparently it is the new thing.

It’s a bit like darts only more dangerous,

I’ve been hit with a dart in the hand,

Being hit with a hatchet would be a totally different thing.

People are encouraged to bury the hatchet in the target not in each other.

This is not ‘Vikings’.

It looks like fun. I’m thinking of going along.

But I keep thinking of real heads I’d like to bury the hatchet into.

‘Ditherers’

 ‘Ditherers’ 

There’s a place at the slow end of town

where the fussy and fastidious

can’t-make-up-their- minds go.

It’s called ‘Ditherers’, a little hither

of Yon.

It’s where you mull over the menu

menacingly slow.

And dishes are consumed at a pace

only snails know.

Where anecdotes meander for miles

while the night nods off

and the moon hangs low,

There’s a diner called ‘Ditherers’

where minds to and fro.

Where’s My Bear

Where’s My Bear?

I’m not myself today.

I wasn’t myself yesterday either.

Where are you? she says. Where’s my Bear?

I’m still here, I say.

No, you look like him but you’re not Bear. Go away.

So I do.

Back to my little cubby house in the ‘burbs.

I think of her. I miss her. The good times we had.

Perhaps I have been a little sloppy, solipsistic.

I send her a card. Anyone can send a text.

She texts back. I call.

Come over, Bear. I miss you.

I buy her a bouquet of long stemmed oriental lilies.

We cuddle. We kiss. Like bears.

We have found each other.

*pic courtesy of pinterest