I want to rip off your clothing,
want to get at yr cranberry and oat cookies,
dunk them in my coffee,
orgasm in my mouth,
like I want to unzip bananas,
tear off the cellophane cover my New Yorker
comes in each week;
why do I always want to unpack things?
I would like to unpack your heart,
see where it went wrong between us,
why it went downhill so doggedly
after the lightness of those early years;
I want to crack open the kernel of existence.
I don’t want to die like Grant Beaumont yesterday
57 years after his three kids disappeared from
a busy suburban beach in Adelaide on Australia Day
the breeze is slurping my face
like Bella’s pink dog tongue
when sick, I slumped on the sofa
These books have been around the block.
These books have done the hard yards.
They’ve had the stuffing knocked out of them
like a much loved teddy bear,
the sort of sorry, scruffy specimens grandparents bring
to ‘The Repair Shop’ ( UK ).
Is there an equivalent place for bruised, battered books?
What happens to them?
Is there a retirement home for old books?
A Hospice where sick books go to die?
Are we allowed to visit?
Is it over for paper books,
like it is for paper bills?
Is the future for books solely digital?
I for one like to hold books
like children teddy bears.
A Little More
I think it’s okay to want a little more.
A little more love.
A little more applause.
That second glass of red.
Another night in paradise with you.
We were not built for abstemiousness.
We have gullets, appetites.
It does not mean excess.
A modicum of more will do.
Along the Way
I’ve lost Ed along the way.
And Hobbo, of course.
We’ve all lost him.
Blogging friends come and go
like friends in the real world.
But a handful, a baker’s dozen, if you’re lucky,
stay with you.
Through thick and thin.
Missteps and triumphs.
Five years is not a long time
but they’re always there
sharing their thoughts, their little poems,
knowing you won’t be judgmental.
A few drift off for a while
but they come back.
I love their voices in the night,
on bleak afternoons,
on the mornings you’re home alone,
souls you can share your inner life with.
And they listen
*pic courtesy of dreamstime.com
I remember the poem Beth wrote
about the 31 cents
from Hillman Bailey 111’s open desk
in primary school
and how she made up for it
over half a lifetime later
by leaving change —31c — at the checkout
for the next person to have who might have had a child
who wanted candy
and I thought , yes!!!
that is what I will do with the $250
a children’s literary magzine owes me
for the reprint of four poems
from the early 2000’s.
i can’t be bothered filling out all the forms
so I told them to donate it to a charity
so it goes back into the universe
where my poems came from anyway
My mind is a scold.
It calls me sloth,
a lassitudinous layabout.
Is that even a word, I say?
Get off the couch, it says. It’s early afternoon
Attend to your blog.
Your Yorkshire mate puts up three posts
to your one.
Write that poem about airing the sheets.
How they purr like cats as they are stroked
by the sun.
Re-read that article :
‘Should Leopards Be Paid For Their Spots’.
Phone your daughters.
Go see your sister.
Give people their worth.
Go to gym.
Release your inner Thor.
Okay, okay, I grumble
but, in truth, I’m happier
and have loads more energy
when I’m buzzing around
like a gingery bee.
How does that work?
It is the birthing time of morning
when the hocus-pocus starts:
the cackling of the kookaburras
over the latest joke,
the sardonic salut of the crows
from the peppercorn tree,
the slap of ‘The Sunday Mail’
on the driveway,
and that text from next door:
‘Hey! You awake? Like to come and visit?
Be my Sunday Male’ 🙂
That man looks like you, she says, as we pull up near a block of shops.
So he does, I say, having a good squiz.
Only he’s got more hair, she smiles, and less of a paunch.
Go easy, I say.
And look he’s going into the same shop you plan to go into.
Saves me going in, I chuckle. Hope he buys what I want to buy.
Only a minute passes and he comes out carrying a shopping bag.
Let’s see where he lives, she says. Could be fun.
So we follow his car down Pridham and Plymouth past the long Covid Testing queues.
Hello, I say, he’s pulled up outside your place. And he’s marching to the front door. Like he owns the place.
Saves you coming in, she says.
So I let her out and drive away in my little blue Subaru, scratching my cerebrals.