But What If I ….
I don’t think I can run anymore.
I run out of puff. I can walk fast though. Does that count?
But you’re a running joke. Can’t you push yourself?
But what if I damage my hamstring?
Then you’ll become a lame joke. Get it?
Hey, I’m the one supposed to be cracking the jokes here.
Then run, for god-sakes, run.
*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.
The grin-faced pistachios look up at me from the bowl.
Are you looking at me? I say. You looking at me?
But the dumb pistachios just keep on grinning.
You’re nuts, I say. Nuts !
Travel lightly, Matt said during a session of morning meditation
and though I knew what he meant — shedding one’s addictions,
regrets, anger, all the pettiness that weighs us down,
I couldn’t help but applying it to food, how it’s easier to move
with grace and agility with less weight, foregoing that plate of chips,
that second glass of wine with steak and even a smaller portion
of eye fillet, but surely a slice of that yummy Orange Baby Cake
after gym wouldn’t hurt
I felt cheated
by the short story writer
for page after phlegmatic page
leaving the characters fumbling
in the dark
in search of a plot —
and me, with them
So what do you do in there? You’re in and out like a flash.
In that short time? Where do you wash?
Oh, you know, in the immortal words of The Yardbirds: Over, Under, Sideways, down
I don’t think I wore my beanie at all last winter.
I took it with me all the time on the bus and in the car just in case I needed it when I got out but I never did.
Beanies always remind me of buds
How they sit clamped over your head
Protecting your ears and the soft skin of cheeks
Like buds protect blossoms.
I guess I needed protecting or maybe just the feeling of being protected.
As spring got closer I kept hanging out for a really cold day
Like kids hang out for xmas.
Having a winter without beanies is like having a summer without going for a swim.
You feel cheated.
- when was a time you felt cheated?
Oooops. Looks like I turned the heater off prematurely.
I seem to make a habit of it.
Maybe because I was born prematurely.
I don’t finish novels either.
or most short stories.
Even half my poems I bail out from.
I have meltdowns. Walkouts.
But hey ! I have three kids.
Nothing premature there.
And I’m still with my gal.
Maybe I can finally say, I’m over it.
But that might be a little premature.