Stranded

Stranded.

I don’t want to be stranded

like Robinson Crusoe

on an island

of pain

with no rescue in sight

another weekend;

so, doc,

can you fill out

the prescription again

that one with real bite?

Quilt

Quilt.

Lynne is weaving a quilt

based on a pattern

in the happy cancer ward.

Do you ever deviate from it?

The pattern? I ask.

Rarely, she says.

If I do things can go horribly wrong

but sometimes, she says with a tinkle

in her voice,

they can go wondrously right.

• pic courtesy of pinterest

Fork

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.

People Chat More in Pools

People Chat More in Pools.

People chat more in pools.

You walk up and down.

Say hello.

You talk, share stories,

laugh, banter,

trade histories.

Find your tribe.

It’s like being in a pub

without the alcohol

or in church

without Jesus.

You slip under the nylon ropes,

do a few laps,slip back

 then chat some more.

You can even write poems in pools.

I go to gym a few times a week too

but people chat more in pools.

Without My Eyes

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.

The One No One Wanted

The One No One Wanted.

It was the one no one wanted

The last one on the shelf

The one no one wanted, I didn’t

Much want it myself.

But there were no others

So I had little choice

The one that all had shunned

I purchased myself.

And Oh it fitted the bill

To the nth degree

So the one no one wanted

Was the right one for me.

*pic pinterest

One Perfectly Round Ear

Locked between his headphones

the scraggly haired beachcomber

scours the beach with his detector

its one perfectly round ear

listening to talk-back from the sand

music to his ears :

dollar coins , gold ear rings

or bottle tops , tin cans —

relics of summer’s empire .

On and on he goes

in his hand a miniature red spade

and a blue bucket of hope

• pic courtesy of Wiki Commons

Breviary

K’s fond of haiku,

Michael senryu, its jokey cousin;

Mia, ‘a struggling author’ writes tiny tales,

Richard American sentences,

put them together,

and what have you got?

a slim, selection

of shorts,

a breviary of brevities

a pocket book of poems

for the wee small hours

Kiss Curl

Kiss Curl .

I love the way the wind

plays with my hair

when I whisk along the road

windows wound down

twirls my comb-over

into a kiss curl

like Bill Hayley in the fifties.

Rock around the clock, baby.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

Axe Throwing

Axe Throwing

My daughter has been Axe Throwing with some friends from work.

Apparently it is the new thing.

It’s a bit like darts only more dangerous,

I’ve been hit with a dart in the hand,

Being hit with a hatchet would be a totally different thing.

People are encouraged to bury the hatchet in the target not in each other.

This is not ‘Vikings’.

It looks like fun. I’m thinking of going along.

But I keep thinking of real heads I’d like to bury the hatchet into.