Whoop

Sometimes when I’m driving along

the window down, wind winnowing my hair,

the sun giving me the thumbs up,

I break out in spontaneous whoops of joy.

No, I don’t have Tourette’s.

I haven’t won the Lottery.

I’m just laughing zebra happy,

turning cartwheels happy,

walking on my hands happy.

It’s infectious. I whoop some more.

You wouldn’t want to be a passenger.

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

I Do My Best Work in Bed

I do my best work in bed, she said.

I do my best work in bed.

When all is said and done,

I do my best work in bed.





Scurry beneath the covers,

pull the sheet up over my head.

I do my best work in bed, she said.

I do my best work in bed.





It’s where my magic garden is,

my fantastic flower bed

where poems and images blossom

& music plays in my head.





Some think better sitting up,

but I’m too easily misled.

I do my best work in bed, she said.

I do my best work in bed.

  • pic by Pinterest
  • * have you a special place where you find inspiration?

Happy

What I need is another day of the week.

Would that make people happy?

I could divide my time equitably then.

Or perhaps find my doppelganger

and if he has nothing going on in his life

could he stand in for me on occasions

or, better still, on a regular basis,

perks included, of course?

Or, failing that, what would you have me do?

Bifurcate?

Who Has Written These Poems?

Who has written these poems ?

I say

as I browse through the pages

of this commonplace book.

I have neglected to name their authors.

There’s one about

Tennessee Fainting Goats

which calls to mind

my ‘Cows in a Paddock’ ;

another about women in a junkshop staring through a window

at the rain

‘where a taxi as yellow as a forsythia

is turning a corner’,

and a snippet about snow over Xmas and New Year

hanging around long after

‘like the drunk at the bar

who needs to go home’

Hmmmm.

Could any of these be mine?

But the one about the fortune cookie is Ed’s.

It’s got his mark all over it.

But the others? I just don’t know.

Could I be that good?

I don’t think so.

Petrichor

She loves the word ‘petrichor’

She fondles it like a pet dragon.

She repeats it during meals

and chuckles.

The next morning.

What’s that word again.

I tell her.

Her eyes gleam .

That pet dragon look.

I never knew one could love

a word so much.





*are there particular words you love, just for their sound, their strangeness?

  • pic by deviant art o pinterest

Hocus-Pocus

It is the birthing time of morning

when the hocus-pocus starts:

the cackling of the kookaburras

over the latest joke,

the sardonic salut of the crows

from the peppercorn tree,

the slap of ‘The Sunday Mail’

on the driveway,

and that text from next door:

‘Hey! You awake? Like to come and visit?

Be my Sunday Male’ 🙂

Sailing

In the old days — I’m talking ’95 — I did drafts.

My notebooks don’t lie, Thirteen sometimes of the one poem

and it still turned out crap. There’s something to be said

for inspiration, how it comes light and easy like a breeze,

and if you catch it, you’re sailing.