The woman next door is howling with pain.
It is 3 in the morning.
Clearly she is doing it harder than me.
I went in ten days ago
with a high fever
and within 24 hours my frail craft
had sailed off into the South Pole
where I was hit with pneumonia
and racked with pain.
It was Scott of the Antarctic meets ‘The Thing’.
I’m in calmer waters now.
Five days with minor ailments.
They’ve brought me into dock.
Going home today.
*pic courtesy of pinterest
Stan Laurel Syndrome.
At the Blood Clinic I got a call
from my daughter
to give mum a birthday wish
and to please clear up the nice mess
I’d got her into,
I am always putting my foot in things.
It’s a gift.
Life.
One pothole after another.
*pic courtesy of pinterest
The Billy Collins Cookbook.
Billy Collins taught me
how to write
poetry
the same way Alison Roman
taught her disciples
to cook :
don’t be fussy.
have fun in the kitchen:
a small room doesn’t mean
small ideas;
experiment:
with different flavours, textures,
be funny, entertain.
I thought I could do that
Above all,
Billy Collins taught me:
be light.
You don’t have to stomp
to be heard.
My Lonsdale Cap.
I found my Lonsdale cap.
It was scrunched between the passenger seat and door.
But it’s okay now.
I’ve pummelled out the dents.
I wish it were that easy to pummel out mine.
Life isn’t a car crash.
It’s a series of dings
and plain old wear and tear.
My car smooched a green fence post once
while doing a tight turn. Some of the green glows
through the matte grey like an early Spring.
It’s bright outside today, high UV reading.
I’m putting on my snazzy Lonsdale cap
so I don’t get sunburn
& my kiss curl doesn’t get blown around
too much.
Timing is Everything.
It’s like stand-up.
The audience is a bowl
of expectations.
Can you pull it off
this time?
Now you’ve taken your meds.
You stand tall,
clutch the old mike.
Come on, baby, you say.
Don’t die on me now.
Then weeeeeeeeeeee
out it comes
in one joyful, exuberant stream
like a stallion.
What a performance.
You will sleep well tonight.
Sunset.
Fascist yellow
sun,
barking mad,
see how the sea breezes run
from you,
your rabid red breath
stoking
the ovens
of night;
four days of heat
ahead.
No mercy expected.
Submariner.
When I’m tearing up the pool
a one-lap wonder
& my goggles come loose
& the water rushes in
I feel like
a submariner
on the
Kursk.
*pic courtesy of pexels
Without My Eyes.
I’m going out today
without my eyes
seeing without hunting
for an image to click
to post on my blog.
I’m going out today,
fresh, unprepared,
no clunky phone in my top pocket,
without my camera eyes,
just to see and hold,
and like the kind fisherman,
then release.
Maybe: An Enigma.
Maybe if I had played my cards
a little closer to my chest,
you wouldn’t then have known
that I had played my best;
now I have to wait
for your tom foolery
to decide what to do
with the rest of me
*pic courtesy of wikipedia
I want to cram everything in
everything
into the suitcase of life.
No wonder it’s so heavy
John Malone 