Rip off

Rip Off.

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

not knowing.

Bella

the breeze is slurping my face

like Bella’s pink dog tongue

when sick, I slumped on the sofa

These Books

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

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

Along the Way

I’ve lost Ed along the way.

Don too.

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.

Your tribe.
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,

their stories,

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

Once Upon a Time

We are watching a UFC telecast at the pub.

That’s what we do to each other, I say.

We kick, box, wrestle each other.

Only we do it in words.

Words are much nicer, she says.

I don’t know about that, I say.

Do we really fight like that?

Yes.

We should be on TV.

There’s a show like that on TV now about bickering couples.

There is?

Yes. MAFS. Married At First Sight.

God, she says, we’re not like that, are we?

No, I say, we’re like UFC fighters.

We’re not like that now though , are we? she asks.

No, I wink, but once upon a time …..


*pic courtesy of Wikipedia
 

That Poem Beth Wrote

I remember the poem Beth wrote

about the 31 cents

she took

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

How Does That Work?

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?

Hocus-Pocus

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

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.