Brutal.
Yesterday was brutal.
It was my ‘Good Friday’,
my ‘Garden of Gethsemane’.
I thought of Jesus
up there on the cross
and upbraided myself for even
thinking of the comparison.
But my time on the throne
took some beating.
It was my ‘Calvary.’
They warned you about this,
that chemo does play havoc
with the excretory system
but this was brutal
absolutely brutal.
It was right that it happened on Good Friday.
the day of suffering.
Locked between his headphones
the scraggly haired beachcomber
scours the beach with his detector
its one perfectly round ear
listening to talk-back from the sand
music to his ears :
dollar coins , gold ear rings
or bottle tops , tin cans —
relics of summer’s empire .
On and on he goes
in his hand a miniature red spade
and a blue bucket of hope
The Butterflies of my Mind.
I was out among the fields, here one more time
Vigorously out hunting the butterflies of my mind
All the poems, the stories that had given me the slip
And would it seem once more; I had to be quick.
All the bright, beautiful things just beyond my net
Any moment now I’ll snare one; damn! Not just yet
Maybe: An Enigma.
Maybe if I had played my cards
a little closer to my chest,
you wouldn’t then have known
that I had played my best;
now I have to wait
for your tom foolery
to decide what to do
with the rest of me
*pic courtesy of wikipedia
Is it okay to take a post down?
I took a post down the other day
but no one noticed,
said anything.
Look, it had its chance.
But no one came up and asked it
to dance.
It slumped, sad and neglected on the page,
loudly weeping.
You can’t have that on a public forum.
It’s like that Philip Hodgkins poem, ‘Shooting the Dogs’.
I had to take it down to the basement,
put it out of its misery.
I just hope no one was watching.
Nothing would come.
Constipation of the mind.
So what do you take?
Something new. A photo. Chosen at random.
What to call it?
The Light at the End of the Tunnel.
That’s what it’s like now.
Masks come off just before Easter.
The QR codes are gone except for medical facilities.
It has been a dark and claustrophobic journey
especially for those in isolation.
There;s the Ukraine War.
We are still in the tunnel with that one.
But it looks as if the tide is turning.
Those rigid tracks
but the train of progress has to travel
along something.
O glorious light.
See, you can get something from nothing.
I’m jealous of the scratching post.
Whenever she comes inside, cranky from some failed endeavour or an altercation with the crows and attacks the scratching post with feline ferocity like the slasher to the shower curtain in ‘Pyscho’, I’m envious.
It sure beats walloping the wall and pummeling the pillow when things get fractious or ululating expletives to the night sky.
Is it too much to ask: a scratching post for Xmas? Man-sized , of course.
when someone says, the ball’s in yr court
you know you have to do some heavy lifting.
It’s up to you.
If the shit hits the fan,
yr responsible.
The ball’s in yr court, remember?
I used to play tennis a lot, so the metaphor’s
sort of apt, but I remember tennis as a lot
of to and fro, you and someone else at the other end
but somehow it ended up just me:
the bunny holding the ball.
I can’t even remember asking for it.
How does that work?
Give in.
That’s all you can do.
It’s like being bundled
in the boot
of a car,
taken by an alien
spacecraft.
You’re abducted, baby.
Whisked away
in the arms
of creativity.
Go with it.
Don’t freak out.
Forget appointments,
routines,
even food.
Work, paint, sing.
Whatever’s yr thing.
You’re abducted.
pic courtesy of The New Yorker
M is in her cups.
Any moment now, the kookaburra cackle
the cutting off, like a hoon driver on the highway.
But for the time being I’m holding the table, telling the tale of the silver hammer beneath the front passenger seat of my car, what happens when my girlfriend spots it.
The little group leans forward, intent.
But it reminds M of something and she’s hyper now, jumps in, raucous.
This time I’m ready for her.
I took a photo today I’d like to show you. It’s for you, I say.
You did? Really?
Yes, I say, bringing it up on the screen, passing it across to her.
It’s what you do when you cut people off, how you make them feel. It’s kind of a metaphor.
She has a close look. Ouch,, she says. Lopped?
Yes, lopped.
John Malone 