More Hadron Collider.
More Hadron Collider than Merry-Go Round
thoughts race around
the beam pipes
of my mind
near the speed of light.
If I close my eyes
I can make out
the blur
little flibbertigibbets speed talking
at each other
colliding in bursts of light
a few of which end up
as poems.
pic courtesy of Wikicommons
In the Middle of the Air
… and I’m halfway into my flight when the old demon from my Id suddenly wakes in terror, remembering that silly metaphor my doctor made that a plane is a lift and you fly to Brisbane regularly and you don’t freak out so why freak out in a lift but it only transfers the terror, screaming, ‘we’re in a closed space, with hundreds of people, and there’s no way out and there’s still ninety minutes to go’ and I know I’m going to freak out , rush down the aisle, try to tear open a door or something stupid like that, then I remember the texts that pastor Brian sent me the other week about Jesus the strong, Jesus the Comforter, so I get them out, read them again on my phone, then Jesus comes, just like that, meets me in the middle of the air, and my heart beat slows, muscles loosen, I settle, sit back, talk to Him and feel as playful as a panda sliding down a chute
The Bridge.
I took myself for a walk
past a corner I had not turned before.
Ahead of me was a bridge.
It was not a bridge too far.
Nor a bridge over troubled waters.
It was just a bridge.
It hobbled
from one side of the river to the other.
It shook when you stepped on it.
Swayed from side to side.
Had planks missing.
No way! I said to myself.
It was just another thing I could not get into.
Like lifts.
I stood back while others crossed.
An older man
With a border collie could not cross either.
The dog
Would not move.
I thought of the old saying, You cross
Your bridges when you come to them.
Not always.
*pic courtesy of pinterest
It’s like an ambush when you’re drifting off to sleep
a kookaburra in yr throat
an earth tremor in yr lungs
an opponent in yr bed
a double rainbow popping up in yr thoracic sky
lit up with pain
like that late train to Bedfordshire forging thru the Valley of Rumbles
a cock-eyed gift from the gods when you’ve run out of things to write about
it;s gentler than Golden Staph and comes with a puckish name
hiccups
but all you’d like to do is clobber it over the head
And a sudden thought occurred to me: if you wanted to overcome an opposing army
all you’d have to do is infect them with the hiccup virus and they’d lose the will
to fight !
Mystery Ships.
When he gets up to go to the toilet in the middle of the night,
she’d be there
or on the way back to his room after pausing in the kitchen
for a glass of milk,
she’d be in the hallway,
with her axolotl stare.
Time after time.
Passing ships in the night.
He’d look at her, and she at him,
sometimes a twitch of understanding, affection,
then they’d both look away.
After eight years, off and on,
they were still a mystery to each other.
Her cat. Not his.
They’d never bonded.
Learnt a Few Things Today.
Learnt a few things today: that prunes
are prime movers;
hashi are chopsticks;
that sometimes the least visited blogs
are the most interesting
[ kudos to you, Don],
that it’s as good to stand up, clap, sing
& wave your body about as if you’re at
a rock concert,
& that endorphins are the sacrament
that a higher power has bestowed
on us mere mortals.
.Shameless.
Part of me recoils.
What are you?
Shameless?
Milking sympathy.
No, I say, I’m not.
Though I’m doing something
just as shameless,
using the disease as grist
to the mill.
Isn’t that what writers do?
I am ferocious for new material,
for keeping the old war horse fed.
Should one take advantage of an illness
or submit meekly to it.?
*pic courtesy of Wiki Commons
Indolent.
I’m going to lounge around like the old ginger cat
the rest of the afternoon,
‘Indolent’ is not a bad descriptor
for the disease.
makes it sound almost amiable. good natured,
like a lazy, but lovable work-shy relation.
Other cancers are hares.
This is a tortoise.
In the afternoon it takes nana naps like me.
Fighting Fish: an Extended Metaphor Poem
You & me
we’re siamese fighting fish
territorial as hell
in this fishbowl
of love.
You say,
I am taking every inch
of yr space;
I say,
huh, you are crowding me
but most of the time
we get on swimmingly
*pic courtesy of pinterest
John Malone 
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