Everything Small and Modest
Robert looks happy here.
Eyes lit up like lamps
full of wonder..
He is on one of his long walks
from the asylum,
He has spotted something.
Perhaps it is a wood pigeon
clearing its throat.
Or a song thrush balancing on a twig,
beak open ready to burst into song.
Everything small and modest
is pleasant and beautiful. Robert declared.
He looks dapper here, and in good health
certainly better that he did when he was found
dead in the snow that Xmas day in’ 56,
the photograph that ghouls pore over.
He didn’t write much in those last years
at the asylum , letting himself off the hook,
declaring, I am here to be mad, not to write.
- pic courtesy of pinterest
I want to get up.
I want to see how much my eyes
want to see Kokki dash across the court
in his tiger shorts after his prey,
want to see those arum lilies again
trumpet their hosannas to orange,
want another pod coffee
another shot of Bailey’s
just a thimble full
but my partner sees me passing by.
You should rest your eyes, she says and I say,
too much to see,
and I know what she’s about to say
even before she says it:
my mummy would have called you,
a Greedy Gubbins, she’ll say
and then she says it,
Anita + Heydon: Hard Love. For Don, Tnkerr and others
Are they still together , I wonder ,
after all these years ?
Had they cemented their love
after the concrete hardened ?
Are they still living there
in # 510 ?
Is she still the boss ?
[ her name did go first ]
Did she walk all over him
like people do to their names?
Did their love fade ?
Will it outlive the concrete ?
Are they inside now
holding hands on the sofa
[ like their conjoined names
on the footpath ]
watching tv ?
I’d like to go up to the door
and ask ,
Hey ! do Anita and Heydon live here ?
But I stare at the names instead .
One day their love was fresh
as the newly poured concrete .
I’d like to think it still is.
The last thing I do at night
before hitting the sack
is taking a peek,
and the first thing I do in the morning
after getting up
is to sneak another peek.;
the laptop is left on
so I can see at a glance
how many comments I’ve collected
since I last looked;
sometimes I go away with a full tummy,
other times I leave anxious,
afraid I failed to hit the mark,
the old lead balloon syndrome.
I know it’s unhealthy,
it’s not all about numbers
but it’s the performer in me—
you like to hear the applause,
& read the critics in the morning
- pic courtesy of pinterest
like a kangaroo, not putting a foot wrong.
Some say I’m flippant, a little shallow
but I’m mellow yellow, baby. quirky as a quark
and when I’m hopping mad, I bark.
*pic courtesy of wikipedia
What I need is another day of the week.
Would that make people happy?
I could divide my time equitably then.
Or perhaps find my doppelganger
and if he has nothing going on in his life
could he stand in for me on occasions
or, better still, on a regular basis,
perks included, of course?
Or, failing that, what would you have me do?
Lola’s in her basket.
Tiffany’s in her tank.
I wouldn’t want to sleep
out. It is cold and dank.
Soph is in her frame
that sits upon the wall.
She is twenty eight forever
and loves us all.
The food lives in the bread bin,
the pantry and the fridge.
It is there to succour us
that we all may live
I want one of these
so I can hoon around the street
like old Frank does on his,
zip around the shopping centre
when Security’s not looking.
I will have to save up though,
maybe trade in the car
but it’s a beauty,
a rhino of a Gopher,
the Humvee of mobility scooters,
a ‘chick magnet’ for seniors.
Yee Ha !