Freakishly Thin


I didn’t know how freakishly thin he was till
I saw the photo in ‘Far Out’ magazine
of the young Nick
Cave
.
What a head of hair, a squall of black,
lean and loose-limbed, hardly anything of him,
but a chiselled face staring knowingly and determinedly into the future.
He knew what he wanted.
He had the bridled brawn to do it.
I have always admired thinness. the Nick
Cave
kind
not the thinness of the heroin addicts
I’d see in the backstreets
of the city
nor the thinness of the wan weakling
I saw in the fish ‘n’ chip shop
whom a mere breeze could bowl over
but a macho sort of thinness
that seems to have passed me by.

* pic courtesy of Pinterest
 

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
 

Stragglers

Don’t be in a hurry, the buds tell me.

Open when you’re ready.

What does it matter if others blossom

before you?

Remember the gulls

how they fly in loose formation over the sea

at sunset,

how there’d always be some bringing up the rear,

the stragglers.

It’s not a race as our Prime Minister said.

They get there in their own sweet time.

Like my teachers said of me, you may be slow, John,

but you get there in the end,

It’s okay to be a straggler.

Oooops

Oooops. Looks like I turned the heater off prematurely.

I seem to make a habit of it.

Maybe because I was born prematurely.

I don’t finish novels either.

or most short stories.

Even half my poems I bail out from.

Relationships too.

I have meltdowns. Walkouts.

But hey ! I have three kids.

Nothing premature there.

And I’m still with my gal.

Maybe I can finally say, I’m over it.

But that might be a little premature.

Taking Off

Not all poems will leave the tarmac.

Not all are destined to fly.

Some are too heavy to lift off,

weighed down with their own importance,

too mechanically unsound.

Some simply haven’t enough fuel in the tank.

Others are just puzzles, enigmas,

the captain scratching his head in the cockpit,

saying, well, it should fly. Everything appears in order.

It was checked this morning.

Not all poems will leave the tarmac.

Not all are destined to fly.

  • pic courtesy of Pinterest

Taking Over

You’re taking over, she says.

Am I? I say. I didn’t know that.

You men are all the same, she says.

I go away and think about it.

Can one take over without even realizing it?

Did Alexander the Great conquer all those kingdoms without

even being aware of it?

Did Genghis Khan?

Did these warrior leaders perform their actions with sleight-of-hand

fooling even themselves?

Take over? Who? Me?

I talk to my therapist who is mightily amused at the very notion.

She said what? Who? You?

I take a good look in the mirror as I pass by.

Ummm. My tentacles do seem to have grown longer.

pic by pinterest. Andrei-Pervukhin on DeviantArt

I Had Already Written That

I’m on my back doing yoga when I notice how dusty the floor is

and I think about writing a poem to sweep it up before

the cleaner gets here but I’ve already written that ; perhaps then

a poem, a funny one, about ants doing yoga when I realize

I’ve written about that too; Tanya’s poem about

‘sorrow and joy being ‘two strokes of life’s art’ set me thinking

about Joy and Sorrow both having wings, which I’d already covered

in ‘The Green Gazebo’ which my followers have sat in too many times..

Physios, podiatrists, personal trainers. Tick. Tick. Tick.

That’s the trouble with being prolific: you’re left with nowhere to go.

Twenty cat poems, a handful of haiku on gnats, dragonflies and dogs,

one about mirrors I’ll never better. A quiver of poems about Cupid’s arrows,

the mayhem and mischief they cause. Enough parables to fill a book.

Whatever Life throws at me and doesn’t kill me, I can write about.

There must be something new coming down the pike.

The Blue Curtain

I promise to corroborate, she says

behind the blue curtain.

I promise to corroborate.

Good, the male voice says, then keep still.

She does but her mouth doesn’t.

Any minute now she’ll mention the condescension running down the windows of her van and I’ll try to suppress a snigger,

but just then the doc comes in and injects me behind the blue curtain.
Jeez, I say. I felt that.

Sorry, he says, and you’re bleeding.

But I rally coz that’s what a man poet’s supposed to do.

It’s nothing, I say as I look at it, kind of mesmerized. It’s like that song says.

What song?

You know, Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls. ‘Sometimes you bleed just to know you’re alive’.

You Give Me the Shits !

You give me the shits, is perhaps the highest compliment

you can pay a piece of fruit ; moondrop grapes, for instance,

sometimes called ‘sapphires, ’ loosen the bowels and keep

you regular; I like being a regular guy; I like being called

‘a regular guy’ and wonder how they know? Does it show?

Do ‘regular guys’ emit a glow that constipated guys don’t?

Moreover, moondrop grapes are delicious and send you

in the right orbit for the rest of the day.