What it’s Like

You wanna know what it’s like? He says.

I’ll tell you what it’s like.

It’s like walking around with a ‘Vacant’ sign around your neck.

Like being scooped out by an excavator.

Or being a songbird without a voice.

It’s like walking along a jetty studded with couples clinging to each other like barnacles on pylons.

It’s like being on the esplanade ripping into a pulled pork burger like an animal ‘coz you’re on yr own so it isn’t all bad.

That’s what it’s like.


			

A Bit of Love

Some of my poems end up like this,

bashed, broken , bent beyond repair,

car wrecks,

the ones you don’t usually see

in the showroom

of my blog,

the ones abandoned in the junkyard

out the back,

but sometimes I remember a part that worked

when the rest of the poem didn’t

and I go down & look for it amongst

all that scrap metal

of words

misshapen phrases

 give it a polish, an oil change

a bit of love

& fit it into the poem I’m working on now

so the old gives vigor

to the new.

It works every time.

Hittites

You jerk

awake

black thoughts

scuttle across

the floorboards

of yr brain

little

armour-plated

Hittites,

the cockroaches

of yr mind

  • photo by Hermes Rivera from Unsplash


			

Not a Drop was Spilled

Look, I’m going to be honest. I made a mess of this.

You shouldn’t try to explain the inexplicable.

I wrote a poem. Big deal.

People write poems all the time. They don’t try to explain them. They just present them. And that’s what I should have done.

But instead I went all mystical: probably the result of my religious upbringing and the time in the Pentecostal Church when I was speaking in tongues. Well, that’s what I thought I did. I probably spoke gibberish. Come to think of it, that’s what others around me sounded like.

The trouble is I don’t stay grounded long enough. I never have. You heard that story about the boy with his head in the clouds, well, that was me.

So I wrote this poem or someone did —- do we still subscribe to ‘the Muse’ theory? It was sort of compelling and confusing at the same time. Are you familiar with that feeling?

And okay, I put down stuff about jabbering seagulls overhead, and the guy with a metal detector who found something and went a bit gaga with it, like I did with the poem I found in my head, the one I carried around like a precious fluid till I got back to the car and wrote it in my notebook, without a drop being spilled.

That’s what I was trying to do all along. Get that last line in. Well, I did it. Sorry I messed up along the way





*pic courtesy of Pinterest by Veronika Gilkova

Wolf Down

A few years ago I read a book called Wolf Hall.

Now I’m writing about Wolf Down

what the cat does with food when it’s been stuck

on the roof all day;

what we do now

wolfing down pleasure,

sunshine,

the great outdoors,

going for drives,

doing stuff together,

hoping to outfox the old virus for another day.

There is a Beach called Maslin

There is a beach called Maslin

where nude people go

It’s not far from us

we used to go there, you know

when we were hippies

but is there a place for unclad thoughts

thoughts free of political correctness,

herd mentality

to go?

thoughts still showing their wobbly bits,

their stretch marks,

scowl lines?

No.

No Place

No free forum of ideas

of any kind.

No Maslin of Minds

Burmese

The cat is the forgotten candidate when they fight:

sure, they hurt each other but the cat recoils too,

even the walls and lounge chairs at the suddenness,

the squall of this. The walls and sofas cannot move,

but the cat can. Exit, pursued by bear. Only small,

but with the memory of an elephant. The cat remembers

long after they forget.

A Quiet Place

Whitby_harbour

We’ve come to a quiet place

a harbor

beyond the squalls and storms

of yesterday

where nerves frayed

we tore each other’s hearts

away

a quiet place

a harbour

to berth our frail vessels

a good place to stay

 

  • photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Humble Pie

 

man-couple-people-woman-343.jpg

After bickering over breakfast,

and stewing over it all day

she finally found what she wanted —

the clinching morsel.

Now she would serve him his just desserts.

What’s for dinner? he said.

Humble Pie, she answered

as she handed him the perfumed panties

she found in his drawers.

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* have you ever had the ‘pleasure’ of having to eat humble pie?

* photo from pexels.com