Me & Mrs, Crasthorpe

I am going to bed with Mrs. Crasthorpe.

I have been to bed with her before.

It was a most pleasant experience.

Her husband is dead. She is a free woman now.

She is fit and feisty and when she’s breathed in the briny air of Eastbourne, she loosens up and tells me.

She has generously full lips. blonde hair and grey-blue eyes and is the ripe old age of 59.

Nothing unseemly passes between us, however.

Sadly she is an invention of William Trevor.

That Poem Beth Wrote




I remember the poem Beth wrote

about the 31 cents

she took

from Hillman Bailey 111’s open desk

in primary school

and how she made up for it

over half a lifetime later

by leaving change —31c — at the checkout

for the next person to have who might have had a child

who wanted candy

and I thought , yes!!!

that is what I will do with the $250

a children’s literary magzine owes me

for the reprint of four poems

from the early 2000’s.

i can’t be bothered filling out all the forms

so I told them to donate it to a charity

so it goes back into the universe

where my poems came from anyway

Bug Eyed with Happiness


Look at him now

bug-eyed with happiness

evergreen with the springtime

of love.

Remember him bleached & wilting

on that park bench by the bull-rushes?

Well, look who just turned up.

His life is on an upswing.

Whoopee, he says,

as he goes higher and higher,

his love looking on.

O Brittle Love

O brittle love

O brittle love

whatever were we

thinking of?





one careless word

misplaced phrase

put us in a spin

for days





but now in each

other’s arms

we appreciate

our twisty charms





locked in firm,

solid embrace,

steady as stone

we’ve found our place.

New Driver

A new driver

took over his bus

clean,

open-faced,

good-natured,

knew how to swing

a conversation.

Sure, he still liked

his cigs,

the pokies,

but he doesn’t touch

the booze.

Not any more.

He’s high

on Jesus now

and Marge.

And look how she

leans into him

as if she really belongs.

And perhaps this time

she really does.

  • pic courtesy of pinterest by mugichan

Meatloaf: a Mash-up

When I was a horny teen, I sometimes dreamt of finding

paradise by the dashboard lights, but dad wouldn’t let me

have his car so that was that; my big brother who was into

philosophy, said, don’t worry, buddy, heaven can wait;

you don’t know what you’re talking about, I snapped.

I found a gal and we went for it. like bats out of hell.

I didn’t have a big motorcycle, or a belting voice

but I found a gal I hit it off with , so I said to my brother,

hey man, two out of three ain’t bad

*pic courtesy of Wikipedia

Start with the Animals

Start with the animals, Buddha once said.

So I do.

The cat wants to go out. It is badgering me to let it out in the balmy evening where all sorts of adventure await.

But I want it to stay inside, settle down like me.

It is so easy to be mean.

I open the door.

I must open my heart a little more as well.

My girl and I sometimes send unpleasant texts to each other. It is what couples who are not quite couples do.

I think the meanness in my texts should be let out too.

I open the door. It dithers.

I give it a swift kick up the backside and send it on its way.

I begin my text message anew.

Wilt

She’s not coming, mate.

Sure she is. If not today, then tomorrow.

Your flowers are beginning to wilt.

I can get new ones.

There’s a party under the bridge tonight. You coming?

You go. Have a good time. I’ll be here. You never know, she might ….

Nah, mate. She won’t. Don’t wilt, you hear. Just don’t wilt.

Before You

Before you

I always laughed at cartoons

alone,

was astonished before paintings & poems

privately;

but now I pass the magazine to you,

the one with the crazy cartoons.

Look at this, I say, & you do and smiles

span our faces & rumble our bellies

like little laughing Buddhas;

Trouble shared is trouble halved,

my mother used to say — but Joy

works inversely:

It is doubled when shared with another.

*pic courtesy of Pinterest by John Currin