The Wonder of You.
I never got to see Elvis.
I saw the Beatles.
Saw the Rolling Stones
but I never got to see Elvis,
Saw Niagara
Saw three of the Seven Wonders
Saw a rainbow sit like a tiara
over my city
but I never got to see Elvis.
But I saw my baby girl
get born
held her in the palms of my hands.
I never got to see Elvis
but I got to hold my baby girl.
A Playful Panda of a Poem
She glows and she glitters
from sunset to sunrise
she is an all night lady
with tachycardic eyes
She loves the crickets of Quorrobolong
the whimsy of the wind
the noisy cross-eyed mynah
the clatter of rubbish bins
She has a tachycardic heart
and tachycardic toes
and takes herself off
wherever the wild wind blows
She loves the smell of coquetry
the stars, the perfumed black
and when she finally settles, eats
French Fries and Big Macs
*pic courtesy of pinterest
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
I have a rare blood disorder.
I can’t remember its name.
It’s a long word beginning with W
and it’s not a cancer.
It’s an indolent disease that has taken nine years
to get to the stage where it needs treatment.
I’m having a bone marrow biopsy on Friday
to determine what needs to be done but it will involve
some chemo.
On top of this I’ve had a bad cold which really
knocked me around.
Cold sores galore. Unable to shave.
Is anyone listening ?
And if that isn’t enough I’ve got a lump
on my forehead, a conical angry lump
that makes me look like a Tod Browning freak.
People stare.
Booked in Tuesday with the skin specialist
to have it removed.
If it’s not one thing, it’s another
I wish you all good health for ’23.
*pic courtesy of pinterest
I love how songs grow from talk
in Hollywood musicals
like ‘Carousel’, for instance,
and think, maybe, that’s how we should be
in our writing, loose and organic,
let the words, when they pulse with life,
grow feathers and spread their wings
as poems up and down the page
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.
the sky
has gone
Goth;
dyed its hair
inky black;
the dark clouds squinch
like too tight jeans
letting
no light
through;
a Greek chorus of crows
caw
from the bare boughs;
thunder
mumbles
like Nick Cave’s intro
to Red Right Hand
Mustafa who knew me well was a refugee too: he from Syria, me from the realm of common sense.
How would you like it cut? he asked.
Like yours, I said.
Like mine?
Yes.
He didn’t chuckle. He didn’t comment on the outrageousness of my request.
Apart from the difference in hair color, there was also the disparity in volume though he admitted, even at 27, he was losing his hair.
He cut, he swooped, he shaved, he teased and cajoled but when finished he wrought a little miracle.
How did it look? Shaved at the sides , but on top what hair I had was swept to the other side of my head and held down by gel. It looked amazing.
Askew, I said, It looks amazingly askew.
Like your writing, he said.
Yes, like my writing.
I am not Chernobyl.
Not Three Mile Island.
I am not about to have a meltdown.
That steam coming out of my ears? That?
Just me letting some of the pressure out.
That growl?
Don’t worry. It’s worse than its bite.
That string of expletives I’m about to utter?
Just my inner Tourette’s airing its dirty laundry.
. A meltdowm? Nah. Now what is it you’ve been trying to tell me?
*pic courtesy of Pinterest
John Malone 