One Trick Pony

 
Don’t be a one trick pony,my editor says.

All great artists evolve:Shakespeare, Picasso, the Beatles.

What about the lesser ones? I ask.What about me?

Them too, he says.

Find your niche, exhaust it, then push outwards again.

Or inward? I suggest.

Yes, that too.

Don’t tread in the same water twice, he adds,sounding suspiciously Buddhist.

I get it. I really do.

The writer I was in the nineties,when I gave it a serious whirl,

is different to the writer I was in the early two thousands

or from 2010.

Did you know I was a children’s poet?

I had over 150 poems and six short stories about an axolotl
published in magazines world wide.

I can’t do that now.

The writer I was in the eighties would not recognize the writer I am now.

But I still like to show off my work.

I’m a bit of a show pony

but I’m NOT a one-trick pony
 
 

Flinch

Something the photographer said about animals.

We are much more unpredictable to them

than they are to us.

We could shoot them, pet them,

kick them up the butt, out the door.

Perhaps that’s why this rescue cat eyes me

suspiciously,

sleeps with one eye open

flinches when another male approaches.

Home

Lola’s in her basket.

Tiffany’s in her tank.

I wouldn’t want to sleep

out. It is cold and dank.

Soph is in her frame

that sits upon the wall.

She is twenty eight forever

and loves us all.

The food lives in the bread bin,

the pantry and the fridge.

It is there to succour us

that we all may live

I Had Already Written That

I’m on my back doing yoga when I notice how dusty the floor is

and I think about writing a poem to sweep it up before

the cleaner gets here but I’ve already written that ; perhaps then

a poem, a funny one, about ants doing yoga when I realize

I’ve written about that too; Tanya’s poem about

‘sorrow and joy being ‘two strokes of life’s art’ set me thinking

about Joy and Sorrow both having wings, which I’d already covered

in ‘The Green Gazebo’ which my followers have sat in too many times..

Physios, podiatrists, personal trainers. Tick. Tick. Tick.

That’s the trouble with being prolific: you’re left with nowhere to go.

Twenty cat poems, a handful of haiku on gnats, dragonflies and dogs,

one about mirrors I’ll never better. A quiver of poems about Cupid’s arrows,

the mayhem and mischief they cause. Enough parables to fill a book.

Whatever Life throws at me and doesn’t kill me, I can write about.

There must be something new coming down the pike.

The Pink Comb

I have a pink comb

in my back pocket.

My one concession to pink.

Still, I was amazed

to read

in an article on Harris Reed,

the 25 year old designer,

that in the 18th century, pink

was stylish for men and women

as was lace,

a marker not of effeminacy

but of affluence & taste.

Tastes change.

Although I am not rabidly masculine,

I like manly cuts and colours

Still I;m fond of my pink comb.

O, and I like Kylie too.

See Ya !

I hope old Schooner’s all right.

He looked a little cranky last time.

He knew something was coming down the pike.

Birds know. They have a crystal ball.

They foresee earthquakes, tsunamis.

He must have foreseen the sale of the pub

& the old drive-thru that housed his Taj Mahal

of a cage where he held court. Customers

would stop by for a chat  and when they were done

he would rasp in his Tom Waits  voice, See Ya!

I liked his magisterial presence. I hope he’s okay

 wherever he is. Each Friday at the pub I raise a glass

To old Schooner. Here’s to you! I say. Stay cocky, dude.

See Ya!

The Castle

Somewhere

Somewhere remote

somewhere bespoke

for those

who practice civility

a castle you can row out to

a stronghold

of equanimity

no messy emotions

no urge to outdo

a castle with a billy goat

nestled in a sea

of robin egg blue.

pic courtesy of Pinterest

Evie

People walking up and down ,

walking off their sore heads from the night before,

mothers with their daughters, mothers with no one,

people locked on their mobiles,

missing the jaunty waves,

the graffiti of gull talk

and that gorgeous fluffy white spitz from McLaren Vale walking his owner

what’s his name? I ask.

Her, he corrects me. Evie.

Ahh I say after the song.

That’s right, he says. Evie, Parts 1,2 and 3.

And we give each other the thumbs up —

not many people know that —

& could start reminiscing when we saw Little Stevie & the Easybeats

but Evie is keen to get moving

just like Little Stevie who couldn’t keep still;

And above us, because

there’s a strong breeze,

there’s wind surfers flying around

like a dazzle of butterflies,

Blue Pastures of the Sky

I worry about you like you worried about Chloe

the day I never brought her home from the vet;

Would she be happy in Heaven?

Would someone throw the ball for her?

Take her for long walks across the blue pastures

Of the sky?

But I can’t rescue you from adulthood.

All I can do is cheer you from the sidelines

like I used to do in Nationals

Wish you fangs and claws to fight off the trolls,

The sting of the scorpion

A heart as fierce as Balerion, the dragon

From Game of Thrones,

But peaceful and playful as Puff, that magic dragon

From Honalee.

• pic by ilse orsel from Unsplash.com

Zen

This is Max.

He’s a happy lab.

Bathed in love.

Now he’s bathed

in water.

A dog wash.

Every muscle,

every fibre

slouches in a beanbag

of content.

Max is in the moment.