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

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.

‘Ditherers’

 ‘Ditherers’ 

There’s a place at the slow end of town

where the fussy and fastidious

can’t-make-up-their- minds go.

It’s called ‘Ditherers’, a little hither

of Yon.

It’s where you mull over the menu

menacingly slow.

And dishes are consumed at a pace

only snails know.

Where anecdotes meander for miles

while the night nods off

and the moon hangs low,

There’s a diner called ‘Ditherers’

where minds to and fro.

Butterflies of my Mind

The Butterflies of my Mind.

I was out among the fields, here one more time

Vigorously out hunting the butterflies of my mind

All the poems, the stories that had given me the slip

And would it seem once more; I had to be quick.

All the bright, beautiful things just beyond my net

Any moment now I’ll snare one; damn! Not just yet

If It’s Not One Thing ….

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

Is This How it Happens

Is This How it Happens?

He drove down to the Tobacconist to buy her some cigs.

There was someone new there today.

Yes? he was asked.

That’s when it happened.

20, 20 …..It’ll come to me in a minute.

But it didn’t.

He had forgotten the mantra. The words that come one after the other. He had forgotten the first word. If he knew that, the rest would come.

He had to drive back home and ask.

What an idiot, he thought.

It wasn’t as bad as forgetting the groceries in the shopping trolley then driving off without them.

That was ten years ago.

But it wasn’t good.

She told him.

Then he drove back and said it: 20 Classic Gold Signature, thanks, Red.

It felt good like rattling off a formula for the chemistry teacher in Year 12.  Or a soliloquy from Hamlet.

He was on top of things again.

Maybe: An Enigma

Maybe: An Enigma.

Maybe if I had played my cards

a little closer to my chest,

you wouldn’t then have known

that I had played my best;

now I have to wait

for your tom foolery

to decide what to do

with the rest of me

*pic courtesy of wikipedia

Gone

Gone

Admittedly it ranks a little lower

than the mystery of the Marie Celeste.

missing Malaysia Flight  A 370

or the disappearance of the Beaumont children

at our local beach on Australia Day

half a century ago

But I still want to know

what happened

to my snazzy blue, gold trimmed vest

I got for Xmas and took off for a shave

on Boxing Day

I only took it off for a minute

so I wouldn’t get it grubby.

Where did it go?

Roughage

Roughage.

Like Tom Waits’ voice.

The grit and gristle of life.

The rumble tumble.

The rush and the roar.

Like Xmas. New year.

The whirligig and whoopsie cushion.

You’re on it, babe.

There’s no getting off,

You wouldn’t want to.

It’s the roughage that stirs things up.

That lets you know you’re alive.

Like them Brooklyn Girls on the downtown train

and you’re shining like a new dime.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

*lyrics tom waits

I Hope They Pay the Ferryman

I hope they pay the ferryman.

I hope they pay him good.

For all his journeyings. all his toing and froings,

miles notched, hours accrued.

over the last four days.

He is resting now.

ferry in dry dock.

It is a busy time of the year. but what do you do?

You do anything for yr kids.

I hope they pay the ferryman.

And they will. Ten fold.

With love and affection.