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.
Fighting Fish: an Extended Metaphor Poem
You & me
we’re siamese fighting fish
territorial as hell
in this fishbowl
I am taking every inch
of yr space;
huh, you are crowding me
but most of the time
we get on swimmingly
*pic courtesy of pinterest
I sometimes wonder who he was, that man who called at our place a few years after dad had died and mum had moved into a nursing home.
Did mum have a secret life?
We all need someone or something to keep us afloat.
After he had stormed off in his Volvo and got home to a torrent of texts, he responded with a fusillade of his own. It was like a naval battle at close quarters, with no quarter given. Someone was going down.
He got in the last word. That was unusual, Perhaps he had gone too far. He need not have said some of the things he said. One particular insult was, in retrospect, very cutting.
He texted a partial rebuttal before he hit the sack. No response. He texted again. And again. Perhaps he had gone too far. Had she…? O God no. It didn’t bear thinking about.
He buried his head under the pillow and tried to sleep. Eventually he crashed. But the nightmares ….
He awoke at six in the morning. His mobile lit up. His arm flew across to grab it. It was from her. A volley of vitriol.
He had never felt so happy.
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.
I remember the poem Beth wrote
about the 31 cents
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
Look at him now
bug-eyed with happiness
evergreen with the springtime
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.
A new driver
took over his bus
knew how to swing
Sure, he still liked
but he doesn’t touch
Not any more.
on Jesus now
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
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