Some Men

 
Some Men
 
Some men walk around with their hands clasped behind their backs as if handcuffed, their posture stooped. They look like they’ve given up on life, prisoners of age and ennui. If ever I get like this, I tell my partner, shoot me.

Travel Lightly

Travel lightly, Matt said during a session of morning meditation

and though I knew what he meant — shedding one’s addictions,

regrets, anger, all the pettiness that weighs us down,

I couldn’t help but applying it to food, how it’s easier to move

with grace and agility with less weight, foregoing that plate of chips,

that second glass of wine with steak and even a smaller portion

of eye fillet, but surely a slice of that yummy Orange Baby Cake

after gym wouldn’t hurt

The Getting of Wisdom

Back in the seventies when I first

went teaching , I came across them ;

flimsy paper tickets as evidence you’d paid

for your journey on the tram or bus;

you’d turn them over discovering a world of wisdom:

‘it’s the spouting whale that gets harpooned’,

‘it’s not enough to point the gun , you’ve got

to pull the trigger’ ….. ‘the past is dead,

the future’s not here, the present is your home’ ;

little homilies to help you along life’s journey ;

I collected them all until they stopped using them —

then one day left them in a carriage and never

saw them again ; I was like a disciple

who had lost his guru ; I had to seek

other sources for the getting of wisdom .

Taking Off

Not all poems will leave the tarmac.

Not all are destined to fly.

Some are too heavy to lift off,

weighed down with their own importance,

too mechanically unsound.

Some simply haven’t enough fuel in the tank.

Others are just puzzles, enigmas,

the captain scratching his head in the cockpit,

saying, well, it should fly. Everything appears in order.

It was checked this morning.

Not all poems will leave the tarmac.

Not all are destined to fly.

  • pic courtesy of Pinterest

The Wrong Saint

We were at St, Francis Winery

& were trying to find

our way home

when you said,

Hey! Isn’t St. Francis the Patron Saint of Travellers

& I said, yes,

I think he is

so we got praying to St. Francis

but were getting

more and more lost.

Hey! let me check something, I said

so I pulled out my iPhone & Googled

‘Patron Saint of Travellers’

& found

it was St. Christopher.

No wonder we were lost.

We were praying to the wrong guy.

So this time we prayed to the right guy

& cheered up.

The car cheered up too.

It had a bounce in its wheels.

We were on our way.

Any minute now …..

Home

It’s funny I saw that other place as Home

& not my place; but now things have unravelled

I see my own place anew; love its peace, its warmth,

its acceptance of who I am,

the quirky writer with special needs,

that I can move freely within its borders,

its little backyard big as the other’s big yard.

Home is the dog that wags its tail when it sees you.

Snigger

The car next door has not moved all week.

It sits on the verge, desolate, forlorn.

I put a notice on the windscreen under the wipers.

“I’m bored. Please take me for a drive’.

The lopsided moon sniggers.

The next day I hear its engine rev.

And off it goes sprightly as a mountain goat up the hill.

Who says writing doesn’t work?

When it gets home a few hours later it looks buff, glowing like my hair when you rub

argan oil into it

Where’s Raymond?

Where is Raymond?

Everyone loves Raymond.

But no one is saying.

They’re tight-lipped.

Christine is gone too.

But no one is asking after her.

It’s Raymond we love,

Raymond the Joker,

the Energiser Bunny that kept

the whole thing humming,

the convivialist who could talk

to children, animals.

Why, he could talk to a stone

& it’d open up.

Did he blot his copybook?

Perhaps he ran off with Christine,

some wag suggests.

The world just seems smaller

without Raymond.