Awkward Not Balanced.
Can I tell you my dream, she says,
when talk turns to flowers.
What I really like
is a bouquet,
with one long sprig off to the side.
Awkward not balanced.
I like my poems like that too:
eye-catching,
with fascist suns,
ladies with tachycardic eyes,
a girl with incarnadine hair,
poems with flourish,
quirk
like Tintin’s quiff.
Everything Small and Modest
Robert looks happy here.
Eyes lit up like lamps
full of wonder..
He is on one of his long walks
from the asylum,
He has spotted something.
Perhaps it is a wood pigeon
clearing its throat.
Or a song thrush balancing on a twig,
beak open ready to burst into song.
Everything small and modest
is pleasant and beautiful. Robert declared.
He looks dapper here, and in good health
certainly better that he did when he was found
dead in the snow that Xmas day in’ 56,
the photograph that ghouls pore over.
He didn’t write much in those last years
at the asylum , letting himself off the hook,
declaring, I am here to be mad, not to write.
I sleep in short sentences.
Learnt a Few Things Today.
Learnt a few things today: that prunes
are prime movers;
hashi are chopsticks;
that sometimes the least visited blogs
are the most interesting
[ kudos to you, Don],
that it’s as good to stand up, clap, sing
& wave your body about as if you’re at
a rock concert,
& that endorphins are the sacrament
that a higher power has bestowed
on us mere mortals.
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.
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
The Memory Paradox.
Not all words get through.
2.5 million gigabytes of memory
count for nought if words are stopped at the gate
The meaning of ‘lambent, for instance,
or the tricky title
of that Tony Joe White song,
the best cover Elvis ever did.
Not even the name of the new friend we made
at Church last Sunday,
starting with J: Jordan? Josh? Jaidin?
My daughter doesn’t remember either.
Maybe it’s a family thing.
Why do some words get blocked, while millions of others
get through?
The mind has a mind of its own.
*pic courtesy of pinterest
Sunset.
Fascist yellow
sun,
barking mad,
see how the sea breezes run
from you,
your rabid red breath
stoking
the ovens
of night;
four days of heat
ahead.
No mercy expected.
Submariner.
When I’m tearing up the pool
a one-lap wonder
& my goggles come loose
& the water rushes in
I feel like
a submariner
on the
Kursk.
*pic courtesy of pexels
Waterlog.
The rain has begun.
I park the car close as possible, then dodging the drops, duck into the library.
“Ahh,” says the librarian, “we’ve been wading through your requests and look what’s washed up.”
It is like Santa handing over a present.
“Ahh, ‘Waterlog’”, I say.”The perfect book to read in the bath,”
“Just don’t drop it,” he says.
I should have seen that coming but Steve is quick, very quick.
“Thanks,” I say and we have a brief chat on the merits of reading in strange places, like baths.
“Have to go”, I say. “The rain’s getting heavier.”
By the time I get to the car, the book and I are waterlogged.
Steve would have appreciated that pun.
Now I don’t have to worry about dropping it in the bath.
* what’s the strangest place you’ve read a book?
John Malone 