Greedy Gubbins

Greedy Gubbins.

I want to get up.

I want to see how much my eyes

have swollen,

want to see Kokki dash across the court

in his tiger shorts after his prey,

want to see those arum lilies again

trumpet their hosannas to orange,

want another pod coffee

another shot of Bailey’s

just a thimble full

but my partner sees me passing by.

You should rest your eyes, she says and I say,

too much to see,

and I know what she’s about to say

even before she says it:

my mummy would have called you,

a Greedy Gubbins, she’ll say

and then she says it,

Ouch!

The Message

The Message.

Okay. Okay.

I got it.

I got the message.

No gym.

No hanky panky.

No chasing after

runaway hats

in the park.

No bending down

or reaching up..

Go placidly.

Remember.

It’s only been two days

since surgery.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

Better

You apologize to the cat

the turtle in the tank

the goldfish in its bowl

and yr other half

in her room.

What got into you?

You’re not an IED

primed to go off

at the least provocation.

You coulda done better, mate.

You coulda done better.

Ruffians of the Lord

Huddled

in their rumble jackets,

burly,

growly haired,

they waylaid me

at the foot

of the jetty

proselytizing Jesus;

one thrust a pamphlet

in my face

& I waved it away

saying, not interested

& he said

in a thick Russian accent,

why you not interested

& the others milled around;

I dug my hands

into my pockets

& strode up the jetty

wondering what Jesus would make of

these ruffians of the Lord

I Never Heard it Coming

We’d just got back from the beach.
I pulled out a book, she put on a CD.
Peaceful, floaty music.
Music to paddle-board to.
But then it changed.
The tempo picked up, the violinists
Played furiously
Like The Two Cellos playing AC/DC.
It was ‘Winter’ by Vivaldi.
I thought, what’s there to get worked up about
With Winter?
Spring, yes, but Winter?
Sluggish, soporific Winter.
But those violins were working up a storm.
You do get storms in winter —gusts, gales, blizzards.
I wanted to get up and fight someone.
Bloody Vivaldi.
All I wanted was Peace. And I got Fury.
You just can’t trust classical music

*pic by Pinterest

Last Night was Brutal

Last night was brutal.

We fought like Godzilla vs Kong.

Boxers slugging it out in the ring.

Cage fighters gouging and kicking.

Oooops. Is that an eyeball in my hand?

We were earnest. Furious.

Mean as gorillas. Cut-throat as pirates.

In the end we smoked the peacepipe.

What was that all about? she asked..

I don’t know, I said.

Look, next time, can we please agree what we’re fighting about?

• pic courtesy of maxsportstz.blogspot.com

Low and Lusty

I like a poem with muscle

a poem with vim and vigor

I like a poem with its hand

firmly on the trigger

Love a poem low and lusty

a poem that readily scans

the sort of poem that you hear

at a poetry slam

No Wonder

No wonder there are so many love songs.

There are so many ways of getting love wrong.

Most celebrate one or more of these.

There’s more mileage in them than in ecstasy,

a much rarer state to which we all aspire,

happy to burn in love’s all cancelling fire ,

shortcomings forgotten, emotions turbo-charged,

our lives in an instant totally enlarged.

These songs are the apex of creativity

even as they approach ineffability.

*what are some of your favourite love songs?

He Laughed Loudly

He laughed loudly.

A door closed behind him.

He laughed a little more loudly still.

Another door closed behind him. Slammed!

He continued. He chortled. He guffawed. He jeered.

A text message came through.

“Will you STOP laughing, please? You’re annoying me.”

No, he said to himself. No. It’s my evening and I’ll laugh if I want to.

And he laughed even more loudly.

The walls themselves laughed loudly too, splitting their sides.

The cross-eyed cat doubled up with laughter.

A door opened quietly behind him.

The man was too busy laughing to notice.

The cord tightened around his throat.

This was no laughing matter.

That’s the Stuff You’re Keeping out of Your Poems

That’s the stuff you’re keeping out of your poems,

Ted Hughes said to his dismantling wife,

smashing the mahogany tabletop, the high stool,

during one of their periods of interminable strife

and I thought of the things each of us omits

when we sit down and write our little poems,

our peccadilloes, annoying habits, the times

we’ve ghosted or been  ghosted on our phones,

whether at times we’ve kicked the dog or cat

or when someone’s needed us we didn’t give a rats.

Little things we’d rather not disclose

like walking around in our poems without clothes