Golden Staph, Such a sweet, mellifluous name.
Its Latin counterpart, staphylococcus aureus,
just as euphonious, a name fit for a new species
of wildflower, an exotic dessert, or a freshly discovered
galaxy, glowing golden. at the edge of the universe;
even the bacilli under the eyes of an electron microscope
look like jolly mauve mushrooms clustered in a field
not the toxic toadstools they are.
*photo courtesy of CDC
Coffee Shop Quartet.
that quartet of oldies, cosseted in their cardigans,
smugly commiserating the homeless
and Wheatus raps rancidly over the radio
‘I’m just a teenage dirt-bag, baby’
Billy Collins on my screen reading his poem
about Goya’s chandelier hat
lighting up the gloom of his garret
and the fusspot next to me
picking at the frosted icing on his fruitcake
as though it were a scab
* pic courtesy of pinterest
Fork.
There’s something special about a small wooden fork.
Small, slender, artisanal.
Things just taste better with them.
Apple and cinnamon muffins, for one.
Strawberry shortcake.
And this explosion of a pavlova my daughter made,
the slice I’ve just eaten,
mango and whipped yoghurt
which gave this poem its prod.
The Warrior Princess
You shouldn’t have done that, I say,
flushed the wee down the toilet.
Sorry, she says. I didn’t know.
It is one in the morning.
I can’t sleep, I say.
No wonder, she replies.
There’s too much light in the room.
But I’m claustrophobic, I say.
But it’s keeping you awake, she says,
drawing the curtains.
Sometimes you have to ride through your fear.
Get to the other side.
What’s your name? I ask.
Zena. I’m your nurse for tonight.
It’s a lovely name, I say. Xena, the warrior princess.
She smiles.
She’s Greek. I’m Filipino. Besides my name
starts with a Z.
Goodnight, John. Remember what I said.
I will. I’ll try.
I sleep for four bountiful hours.
I wake up at 4.38, bounce out of bed,
write three poems, including this one.
To me, she is still Xena, warrior princess.
I still get a kick from doing
my shoelaces up,
of threading them through the holes
of making sure that one end
is the same length as the other.
You don’t get tired of these things.
Rubik’s Cube for simpletons.
You are the gin
in gin ‘n’ tonic,
the rum
in
bundy and coke;
the abracadabra that transforms,
the fruity little pellets
that add
zest and zing
to oats
that put the sing
in snap, crackle, ‘n’ pop,
feisty little metaphors
for writing
that needs to lift its lid
let out its Id
roll like a dog
in
the muck and merriment
of language.
Hosannas to sultanas.
*pic courtesy of pinterest
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.
I have always wanted to work in a pencil factory
like Henry David Thoreau.
I could draw inspiration from my work each day,
pencil in appointments with imaginary friends
during coffee breaks or smokos.
Do they still have smokos by the way?
‘The pen is mightier than the sword’ but what about
the pencil? & which one?
2B or not 2B? Hamlet famously dithered just after
he had asked Ophelia [ in an earlier draft of the play ]
to come and look at his etchings and she had refused.
I may not be the sharpest pencil in the box but I still
want to make my mark upon the world.
I love my community of bloggers.
They’re fun.
I love them
Each and everyone.
There’s Hobbo, Beth,
Eden, the Don,
dear old Ed
& a Coyote name John.
There’s Chel. also,
formerly Chelsea,
a big fat can of worms
Little Charmer’s pithy poetry.
There’s eob2
with her eyes of blue
her mystical poems
their music too.
Karen, of course,
her Yard Sale of Thoughts
teasing us with ruminations
her imagination has wrought.
Then there’s foresty Ulle
what can we say of him?
A man , sharply observant
with a taste for whim.
Then like a shooting star,
there’s our phantasmagoric friend:
David, jester and artificer
on a trip that will never end.
Not forgetting Jewish Young Professional
and Sarcastic Fringe Head
like my mum used to say,
you wouldn’t for quids be dead.
So to my fellow bloggers,
one and all,
each day spent with you
is a real cyber carnival.
You feel a frisson when you hop in the bath—
or hear your grandson’s multi-coloured laugh.
It’s rain on a tin roof: a tinkling xylophone
or dancing to Robyn’s ‘Dancing On My Own’
A frisson is what you get when you ride the ghost train
Or rush out wheeling in the sudden summer rain
Or whenever an idea hits you high in the brain.
Frissons almost always go against the grain.
It’s the feeling you get when you take a big chance
And it pays off big time; or in a romance.
It’s the feeling you aim for when you write a poem.
Frissons are what keep the readers turned on.
*where do you get your frissons?
John Malone 