Peek

Peek

The last thing I do at night

before hitting the sack

is taking a peek,

and the first thing I do in the morning

after getting up

is to sneak another peek.;

the laptop is left on

so I can see at a glance

how many comments I’ve collected

since I last looked;

sometimes I go away with a full tummy,

other times I leave anxious,

afraid I failed to hit the mark,

the old lead balloon syndrome.

I know it’s unhealthy,

it’s not all about numbers

but it’s the performer in me—

you like to hear the applause,

& read the critics in the morning

• pic courtesy of pinterest

Early Morning Walk

On my early walk

I passed a group of musicians

Under the bridge

It sounded like

They were tuning their instruments

In preparation

For a concert

Perhaps a twilight one on the bank

The notes

Bouncing off

each other —Boing boing — like hollow

rubber balls

banjo frogs

amongst the rocks and reeds already

drawing a crowd

How I Like It

Short,

sharp, snarly,

tight as a a haiku

assured.

amped,

giving it to me straight

like a track

from

Amyll & the Sniffers

• pic courtesy of Wikimedia

Low and Lusty

I like a poem with muscle

a poem with vim and vigor

I like a poem with its hand

firmly on the trigger

Love a poem low and lusty

a poem that readily scans

the sort of poem that you hear

at a poetry slam

How Could I Not?

I put up a post the other minute that I knew might offend people but I wanted to honour the veracity of the experience. Would it be more acceptable if the man was the one shouting, and he was the bear of the title rather than his female partner? She did unleash a scatological attack upon the poor guy. What he had done was unclear; more likely it was what he hadn’t done. The title of the piece was unavoidable, though might have been more acceptable were it the man hurling abuse.

It was what happened. Security was called. I overheard the remark, ‘woman screaming in the mall’. It was quite an event. It stopped everyone in their tracks. I could bend over backwards to sugar-coat the experience or ignore it but I’m a writer. How could I not respond to it?

A Move towards Empathy

“You’re like Lee Chandler,” she said.

“Who?”

“Lee Chandler, the guy Casey Affleck plays in ‘Manchester by the Sea.”

Jackson liked that film but he did not like Lee Chandler, the way he closed himself off from people.

“That saddens me.”

“That you’re like Lee Chandler or that I mentioned it?”

“Both.”

“The reason I brought it up is that I asked you if you’d like to see Anne perform in the ballet from ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ and you said you’d give it a miss though I made it clear I’d like you to go.”

“I know. I’ve thought it over and would like to go see her perform.”

“Because you want to or because you’re afraid of being compared to Lee Chandler?”

“Both.”

It was a little late, Jackson admitted. It would have been better if he’d said so straight off but at least it was a move towards empathy. She would have to give him that.

Aisle #9

I’m walking down aisle #8 but it could be aisle #9, depending how they classify it.

But it’s not down either.

I’m afraid to ask.

I know what sort of response I’m going to get but I’m desperate.

I ask one of the assistants,

So where do you keep it? I ask. Where do you keep the canned laughter?

Pardon? she says.

You’ve got canned fruit and canned veggies but I can’t find the canned laughter.

Is this some kind of joke? she asks.

Sort of, I say, But I do need a can or two.

She looks around for help. You know the look. This guy might be dangerous, I better humour him.

I’ll go and ask the manager, she says.

Don’t worry, I say sadly, no one stocks it any more. She heads off anyway and I slump out the store in my clown shoes and frizzy ginger hair. I beep my red nose for good measure.

No one laughs at my jokes these days. I’ve lost my edge. Looks like I’m going to have to go back to Comedy School.

Forklift Driver

I don’t want to be a forklift driver

the rest of my life

the 23 year-old from Perth said

just before he came on stage

and belted out

‘I Need You Tonight’ by INXS

only as good as Michael Hutchens

and he looked good,

strong, strapping with brown tumbling curls

& a sinuous, sexy voice

which filled the hall and lifted the coaches

& crowd

like a forklift driver

*pic courtesy of Wiki Commons

A Petulance of Poets*

Not a flock of seagulls

Nor a murder of crows

But a petulance of poets

Gathered in the conference room

Of the public library

Each champing at the bit

For their turn to read

Not really listening

to others

But when their turn comes,

Oh the words, the words,

Such melody, such sweetness, such wit.

Was ever anything ….

Barely noticing that many who had already read

Had gone home or hit the bar

down the street.

They rattle on regardless.

Where’s the stage manager when you need him?

 

 

* ‘They never listened to one another; they were preoccupied with waiting for their turn’ [Jean Stafford: ‘An Influx of Poets’]

The Very Short Poem

I’ve got a poem for you, a very short one, he promised with a garrulous grin, and then, in a long-winded introduction in which all the masters of brevity were cited, he proceeded to demolish the very notion of shortness. The poem took ten seconds, the intro five minutes.