I Hope They Pay the Ferryman

I hope they pay the ferryman.

I hope they pay him good.

For all his journeyings. all his toing and froings,

miles notched, hours accrued.

over the last four days.

He is resting now.

ferry in dry dock.

It is a busy time of the year. but what do you do?

You do anything for yr kids.

I hope they pay the ferryman.

And they will. Ten fold.

With love and affection.

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

Bono in the Car

Can’t keep Bono in the car for too much longer.

It’s a warm day, getting warmer.

I can’t let Bono get overheated, not on my watch.

He was good enough to come with me,

make himself available.

It’s my fault.

I should have gone to the library AFTER

I had done my grocery shopping

but I was excited. The book had just come in.

What if someone nicked it?

After all, the book is in high demand.

53 requests for it when I put my name down

and only 5 copies.

Bono would have been proud.

And I want to get home quickly and start getting into it,

before the heat starts curling the pages,

and Bono starts sweating.

I’ve seen him live, the sweat oozing out of him.

It’s a bloat of a book at 563 pages.

I hope he’s good at prose writing as he is

in writing songs.

But first there’s these veggies to get.

Hang on, Bono. Won’t keep you waiting long

*pic courtesy of pinterest

Crack

Crack

Not the crack in the cosmic egg

Nor the crack addicts smoke

Not even the crack in crack, snapple, pop breakfast cereal

but the bum crack

of Mr. Hairy

at the Eye Clinic

when he bent over to pick up

a form he had dropped

his shirt rolled up,

his jeans slipped a notch or two.

Everyone copped an eyeful.

I cracked a smile.

Some tittered.

Mr. Hairy was oblivious.

*pic courtesy of pexels.com

Ants Doing Yoga — & Other Wild Things

Ants Doing Yoga

I was watching ants filing back and forth the other day

When two pulled ovef for a chat; and I wondered how it was





They knew each other seeing they all look alike; and I

Concluded they must have individual features like us:





Hooked noses, for instance, bushy eyebrows, little pot bellies

And carry nicknames like ‘Shorty’, ‘Ginge’ or ‘Spike’





And further ants must have little to say seeing they say it

So quickly, but mostly I wondered where ants are off to





All the time; it is hard to imagine them doing yoga, or chilling

Out at the cricket or at the beach in a deckchair or moshing out





in a mosh pit to Adam and the Ants. So where do ants go?

Two Venetians

I was in bed with two Venetians, a long black

and a sleazy paperback

by Suzanne Pleshette

when an angry text erupted like a boil

on my iphone:

where were you, it said, I looked for you

& your floozy

everywhere in the cinema?

It was my old mate George.

Please don’t call her a floozy, I said.

We couldn’t make it. Sorry.

Sorry !!! Couldn’t make it.?

To see my new film, my best yet.

‘Ticket To Paradise’.

We’ll catch it on DVD, I said.

It’s not the same, he snapped,

sounding peeved and pedantic.

I don’t like hanging up on George

but he can work himself into a lather.

I dipped a Venetian into my long black

& carried on reading.

Is It Okay?

Is it okay to take a post down?

I took a post down the other day

but no one noticed,

said anything.

Look, it had its chance.

But no one came up and asked it

to dance.

It slumped, sad and neglected on the page,

loudly weeping.

You can’t have that on a public forum.

It’s like that Philip Hodgkins poem, ‘Shooting the Dogs’.

I had to take it down to the basement,

put it out of its misery.

I just hope no one was watching.

Shrek

This is Shrek.

Say hello to Shrek.

As you can see this Shrek is NOT a fictional character

but real flesh and blood.

Nor is he green or ogre-ish.

Shrek works at the Stunned Mullet,

the best fish and chip shop in the suburbs

cooking and serving customers.

His real name is Srikanth and comes from India.

Workers at the Hilton near the airport where he used to work

contracted his name to ‘Shrek’ in 2016.

Srikanth loves it and has been called ‘Shrek’ ever since.

He is warm and amiable and has a wicked sense of humor.

When you get served by Shrek it brightens your day.

But What If I …

But What If I ….

I don’t think I can run anymore.

What?

I run out of puff. I can walk fast though. Does that count?

But you’re a running joke. Can’t you push yourself?

But what if I damage my hamstring?

Then you’ll become a lame joke. Get it?

Hey, I’m the one supposed to be cracking the jokes here.

Then run, for god-sakes, run.

*pic courtesy of pinterest