Rock

Thought

you’d be

my rock,

he said,

upon which

I could build

my future;

but you turned

into a sharp-

edged reef,

now I’m all scarred

& sutured





*pic by Tengyart on Unsplash


			

A Petulance of Poets

Not a tower of giraffes

Nor a bloat of hippopotami

But a petulance of poets

Gathered in a side room

Of the library

Each champing at the bit

Wishing the bore out the front

Would bugger off and let someone

Worthy get on

Not really listening

But when their turn comes,

Oh the words, the words,

Such melody, such sweetness,

Was ever anything ….

Barely noticing that many who had already read

Had buggered off home or hit the bar.

I have heard Stand-Up Comics are much like this.

It is no laughing matter.





  • pic courtesy of Wikipedia

Arthur

You’re in for a treat, I say.

We’re off to see Arthur.

My toes do a little tap dance on the floorboards.

Come on, you two. Mustn’t be late.

We hop in the car and we’re off.

Thirty minutes in the Waiting Room

then the call.

The doorman lets us in.

Arthur bounces up to us.

Cheerful. Chubby. Cherubic.

Have a seat, he says to my toes

resting my feet on a pouf.

30 seconds one foot.

3o seconds the other.

Done and dusted.

All over red rover.

It’s a tough job,

but someone has to do it.

he says, chirpy as a cherry.

See you in six months.

My toes do a little dance

on the way out.

Dark Spots

There’s an ad on some Word Press posts saying,

‘Don’t Cover up Your Dark Spots’ and I thought,

Whoa, isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?

Keep our sins and prejudices in the attic,

not hang them out like dirty linen in public,

to hide our inner trolls, I know what the ad means.

I’m not stupid. Just got carried away by the metaphor.

And anyway I almost put up a post yesterday

Revealing a darker, nasty side of me but my therapist

Urged me not to put it up, that there are dark spots,

she said, that are best concealed.





  • Tribute to Blenholt by Natalia Zaratieger on Pinterest

The Happy Caddie

It’s okay being a caddie

tagging along with the team

light as a butterfly

nothing to prove

floating along the lazy rhythms

of the afternoon,

the dappled sunlight,

the bodyguard gums,

the cheeky creek bed waiting

to gobble up golf balls;

you’re nimble on yr feet,

jovial as a parrot

keeping the banter going

handing out irons

as a waiter would drinks,

planting the flag after putting is done

like Neil and Buzz on the moon





*pic courtesy of Wikipedia

You Scare Me

You scare me.

What did you do wrong?

Once you were the envy

of bloggers like me

hungry for numbers.

Okay, I was competitive

but every entertainer

wants an audience, Right?

And you were the king of numbers.

Then what happened?

You must have been dismayed

as I was shocked.

What does one do to shed an audience?

Put up politically incorrect posts?

Bite the hands that feed you?

Change lanes too often?

Stay in the same lane too long?

Veer off into obscurity?

What?

There is an art to alienation

& you seem to have found it.

I just hope I don’t stumble across it

anytime soon.

You scare me.





*what scares you?

*have you written a short poem about fear you’d like to share here?





*pic by hermes-rivera from Unsplash

Parties in my Head

I’ve been having parties

in the top right hand corner of my head

where the music throbs incessantly

and civility is dead





have another drink , one says

I don’t mind if I do

and the hunchback pounds on the old piano

till well past half two





a bulky fist hammers the door

Joe sent for me, he yells

& a smokey eyeball peers out

is this heaven or is this hell?





I wouldn’t mind so much

take less of a dim view

if due courtesies were observed

& I were invited too

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

Simon’s Space Odyssey

Simon rambles in. He rattles Alec’s equanimity.

I’m getting my haircut. I see it all in the mirror.

Simon’s his usual self: brash, bold, bloody stupid, He lisps some errant remark.

Alec drops what he’s doing, reaches for the fly swatter and chases Simon down the street.

It’s like a well rehearsed routine.





A month later I go back.. Simon doesn’t look so good. His eyes are puffy, his face a little swollen, his hare lip is bleeding.

What happened? George says, one of the assistants. Your girl friend beat you up again?

Simon blubbers out an obscenity. Alec reaches for the fly swatter and the chase is on again.





Simon is a sad sack, the world’s punching bag but he does have one trick up his sleeve. His dad is Lord Mayor of Mars. No one else can claim that.

How he got there long before Elon Musk is not explained but Simon basks in his glory. On Mars International Day — yes, there is one —Simon comes in, wearing his red skivvy and breaks into the Mars National anthem till he is chased out by Alec’s furious flyswatter.





One day Simon slumps in. Dad is not well.  Dad needs Simon to take over. How will he get there? Everyone knows by now that Simon has a rocket ship tucked in a corner of his bedroom at the ready. But Simon as Lord Mayor? Would those Martians treat him seriously?

Simon doesn’t appear the next month nor the one after that.

In fact, he doesn’t appear again.

Can one disappear into one’s own fantasy?





*pic courtesy of Wikipedia

Phone Call at 3a.m.

I get a phone call at 3a.m.

Who calls at 3a.m?

You think the worst.

I glance across at the screen.

The call’s from Algeria.

I don’t pick up.

I don’t know anyone from Algeria.

I used to get phone calls from ‘my mate’

in Mogadishu asking me how my bank account’s going

but since I told him I’m a pisspot he’s stopped calling.

But Algeria?

I don’t even know where the fuck it is.

Africa somewhere?

But here’s the funny thing.
It rings three times then silence.

What’s the point of that?

Is it a scam?

How can you scam someone unless you speak to them first?

Perhaps he’s inordinately shy.

Perhaps he’s a mute.

Perhaps he only speaks Martian.

I knew a young man once, Simon whose father was the Lord Mayor of Mars but that’s another story.

I look up Algeria on the map.

No clues there.

But he’s there. Somewhere.

On his cell phone.

Now who shall I phone tonight? he wonders.

Whose puffy slumbers can I puncture?

Bizarre.