Sometimes when I’m driving along
the window down, wind winnowing my hair,
the sun giving me the thumbs up,
I break out in spontaneous whoops of joy.
No, I don’t have Tourette’s.
I haven’t won the Lottery.
I’m just laughing zebra happy,
turning cartwheels happy,
walking on my hands happy.
It’s infectious. I whoop some more.
You wouldn’t want to be a passenger.
You know how you get scrambled eggs, right ?
Well I had scrambled dreams.
I forgot my meds. That was the trouble.
All my dreams were Neanderthal.
Batty, belly up, R Rated.
My Id running amuck.
Skeletons spilling out of the closet.
Onto the sidewalk.
Under the lamp-post
where passersby could gawk.
It was one of those nights.
Sometimes my poems are cluttered with adverbs and adjectives,
subjunctive clauses, desultory detours like this front yard is overgrown
with weeds. When my poems gets like this. when you can’t see the structure,
it is time to bring out the whipper snipper. Time for a trim.
The last thing I do at night
before hitting the sack
is taking a peek,
and the first thing I do in the morning
after getting up
is to sneak another peek.;
the laptop is left on
so I can see at a glance
how many comments I’ve collected
since I last looked;
sometimes I go away with a full tummy,
other times I leave anxious,
afraid I failed to hit the mark,
the old lead balloon syndrome.
I know it’s unhealthy,
it’s not all about numbers
but it’s the performer in me—
you like to hear the applause,
& read the critics in the morning
- pic courtesy of pinterest
You could have knocked me over with an albatross
when I heard that four off-kilter waltzes I was listening to
were by Samuel Coleridge Taylor. Hang on, I thought,
my favourite Romantic poet [ sorry Wordsworth] whom
I studied at Uni, who wrote one of the great lyric narratives
of all time, ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ was also
a classical composer? How did this just become known?
Did he moonlight as a musician, did he snuggle up
to the great composers of his time? But then the announcer,
as if reading my mind, clarified that the composer was
Samual Coleridge Taylor whom his mother named after
the great poet. After I calmed my farm, I settled back
and listened to more of Samuel C.
I want to cram everything in
into the suitcase of life.
No wonder it’s so heavy
We were coming home from the pictures, dad and I —
we had seen one of the great ones: Gary Cooper in ‘High Noon’,
when an announcement came over the bus radio,
that the King had died. Everyone fell silent then as the announcer
proceeded with the details. I never knew the king — I was only a kid —
but later he meant much to me. I wear a silver ring now with his image
on the head for he was a stutterer too. But he overcame it.
Whenever I spoke in public and felt nerves coming on I looked at the face
Of King George VI
Listen to the sea , my granddad said
as we stood on the soft white sand .
And he clamped the shell to my ear
like a mobile phone . Listen , he said ,
listen . And we grew silent . It was
at first like listening to a garbled
conversation or the radio between
stations but then it settled — and I could
hear inside this shell which wound back
inside itself like a spiral staircase
the whoosh and wash of a distant sea —
for this one was silent —- and for a moment
it was as if I were an astronomer
listening in through his radio telescope
to the hum of the universe
Thank you, Lord
to rip into
this egg and bacon muffin
for taste buds
to savour it
& for the senior’s coffee
To wash it down
to fuel me up
for the morning ahead