But What If I …

But What If I ….

I don’t think I can run anymore.

What?

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

Albatross

Albatross

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.

Travel Lightly

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

The Search

I felt cheated

by the short story writer

whose piece

morphed

into a

sociopolitical tract

on racism

for page after phlegmatic page

leaving the characters fumbling

in the dark

in search of a plot —

and me, with them

Grandad and the Punatorium

My grandpappy loved puns.
He was considered a pundit on the topic.
He had a secret cache of punography stashed away in his room where he could be heard laughing maniacally late into the night. .
Sadly he was confined to a Punatorium in the hope of curing him of this terrible affliction.

Someone once said you can measure the value of a pun by the volume of groans it elicits.

Grandad had three which he dished out wherever he went.
A pony walks into a bar and croakily asks for a pint of beer. The barman has trouble understanding him. Sorry, says the pony, I’m a little hoarse.
Out on my walk today, I spotted a Dalmatian.
A teacher in a Year Nine English class, had trouble with a girl called Lichen. Give her time, a colleague said. She’ll grow on you.
Boom boom ! Get it? A well-full of groans.
 

Beanies

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

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.

Relationships too.

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.