Spiral Staircase

My extension cord is kinky.

It winds around itself, gets tangled up in knots.

What can you do?

Iron them out?

I have kinks too.

The world would be a straighter, sadder place were it not

for kinks.

Our quirks, our oddities, the little handbag we carry around our talents in.

How we’re wired, the way we spin, the bands we listen to.

Kinks.

They’re in me and you.

Those pairs of long thin strands coiled like the banisters of a spiral staircase.

Our DNA.

You don’t want to untangle them.





post courtesy of dykeanddean.com on Pinterest

The Black Glove


My laptop has a mind of its own
Has decided due to its senior years
To take ‘nana naps’ in the afternoon,
To nod off during the ‘quiet times’
its screen dark and sinister as a black glove.
If I upbraid it, it turns to me saying,
What’s good for the goose is good
for the gander!
Where does it even get this stuff?
The ‘nana naps’ sometimes drift into sleep,
in which case a sharp rap over the knuckles
of the keyboard seem to do ‘the trick’

Wish I Could Come Up with Something

I wish I could come up with something,

I really do.

I mean how long can it take for inspiration to strike?

Do I have to stand outside in an electrical storm under the tallest Norfolk pine to be struck?

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I know slouching around doesn’t help or reading Beth’s poem on Cheetos and working up an appetite for snack foods won’t do it either.

Maybe if I played with my Rubik’s Cube like Maro does might do it — loosen up a few brain cells.

I’m desperate.

Perhaps if I go outside and wail beneath the full moon like uncle did before they took him away.

God, there must be something.

They still do ECT, don’t they?

That’s what happened to uncle. He saw God, angels, the whole shebang then settled down among the fairies at the bottom of the garden.

But he found something. He wasn’t wracked anymore. He found quiescence. If you got that, you don’t need anything else.

Shit, did I just write all that?

Rock

Thought

you’d be

my rock,

he said,

upon which

I could build

my future;

but you turned

into a sharp-

edged reef,

now I’m all scarred

& sutured





*pic by Tengyart on Unsplash


			

Balzakian

Not cinched

cloistered

coffined

poems

but big

blubbery

Balzakian

bursting with life

Rubenesque

with rotundity

doorstoppers

of poems

life spilling out

of them

like clothes from a suitcase

clowns out

of a jalopy

That Little Guy in my Head

Every time I go to post a poem

About my partner or family, or another poet

That little guy inside my head says,

Hey You Can’t Say That! And when I ask,

Why not? He says. Are You Serious?

You Re3ally Don’t Know? But, of course, I do

But you can’t fictionalize everything.

You take away the bite of authenticity.

So I slam the door shut on that censorious little freak

but he shouts out anyway: DELETE! DELETE!

The Woods

The rash on my back

has dimmed:

angry red

to demure blush.

I wish I never

had thrush

in my left nostril —

in that cramped cave

hard for the air

to get through

but the meds kept

the wolf at bay,

subdued.

Almost out of the woods

like Red Riding Hood.

Hiding behind Metaphors

You’re doing it again, he said.

What?

Hiding behind metaphors.

What do you mean?

‘Claws’, ‘Whales’. ‘Billabongs’. All metaphors. Why don’t you say what you want to say? Get it out in the open.

I’m afraid.

Of what?

Of how ugly it all is. All that anger.

Face it ! Stare it down !

What would it look like?

It would be a different poem. It would bang and bellow. Draw blood. Howl with expletives.

Would anyone read it?

Possibly not. But it would be honest. And it wouldn’t have billabongs in it. Billabongs have to be earned. Not brought in after four lines. Your poem is the most polite poem on anger I’ve ever read.

The Floodgates

800px-Waves_at_the_flood_control_gates

This is how it starts.

You bring up that phone call

At the Jewellers.

It could have waited, you say.

It was important, I snap. You have no sympathy.

Tit for tat.

You go on about my clothes on the back-seat

Of the car.

I go on about your obsession with tidiness.

Stop, can you hear it? You say.

Hear what?

That creaking.

We both listen.

Ahhh, the floodgates, I say.

Let’s not go on with this, you say.

We give each other the peace sign.

Hug.

 

The Slippery Other Side

oliver-roos-pcndauvpbja-unsplash.jpg

We came to a fork in the road.

Damn! Which way? Daz asked..

I don’t know, I said.

Never mind, he said. Hang on.

Daz wanted to hoon the car and revved up over a spoon drain.

We went flying over the slippery other side and jack-knifed

Into a guard barrier.

Damn! Said Daz. Damn!

That Green Day song about another fork in the road

playing in my head

 

  • pic by Oliver Roos from Unsplash