What do you want? she asks.
A zing of apricot.
A zing of apricot?
Yes, a zing of apricot and lavender jam
to set me off.
2. Frustration.
Fuss, fiddle,
turn, twiddle,
push, prod,
nup, o god !
3. The Possibility of a Poem.
No sooner does the head hit the pillow
than the possibility of a poem
taps you on the head.
4. My Mother, the Drama Queen.
I feel like the wreck of the Hesperus,
the Lusitania and the Titanic
rolled into one
Timing is Everything.
It’s like stand-up.
The audience is a bowl
of expectations.
Can you pull it off
this time?
Now you’ve taken your meds.
You stand tall,
clutch the old mike.
Come on, baby, you say.
Don’t die on me now.
Then weeeeeeeeeeee
out it comes
in one joyful, exuberant stream
like a stallion.
What a performance.
You will sleep well tonight.
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.
People Chat More in Pools.
People chat more in pools.
You walk up and down.
Say hello.
You talk, share stories,
laugh, banter,
trade histories.
Find your tribe.
It’s like being in a pub
without the alcohol
or in church
without Jesus.
You slip under the nylon ropes,
do a few laps,slip back
then chat some more.
You can even write poems in pools.
I go to gym a few times a week too
but people chat more in pools.
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.
Greedy Gubbins.
I want to get up.
I want to see how much my eyes
have swollen,
want to see Kokki dash across the court
in his tiger shorts after his prey,
want to see those arum lilies again
trumpet their hosannas to orange,
want another pod coffee
another shot of Bailey’s
just a thimble full
but my partner sees me passing by.
You should rest your eyes, she says and I say,
too much to see,
and I know what she’s about to say
even before she says it:
my mummy would have called you,
a Greedy Gubbins, she’ll say
and then she says it,
Ouch!
The Message.
Okay. Okay.
I got it.
I got the message.
No gym.
No hanky panky.
No chasing after
runaway hats
in the park.
No bending down
or reaching up..
Go placidly.
Remember.
It’s only been two days
since surgery.
*pic courtesy of pinterest
The Butterflies of my Mind.
I was out among the fields, here one more time
Vigorously out hunting the butterflies of my mind
All the poems, the stories that had given me the slip
And would it seem once more; I had to be quick.
All the bright, beautiful things just beyond my net
Any moment now I’ll snare one; damn! Not just yet
Where’s My Bear?
I’m not myself today.
I wasn’t myself yesterday either.
Where are you? she says. Where’s my Bear?
I’m still here, I say.
No, you look like him but you’re not Bear. Go away.
So I do.
Back to my little cubby house in the ‘burbs.
I think of her. I miss her. The good times we had.
Perhaps I have been a little sloppy, solipsistic.
I send her a card. Anyone can send a text.
She texts back. I call.
Come over, Bear. I miss you.
I buy her a bouquet of long stemmed oriental lilies.
We cuddle. We kiss. Like bears.
We have found each other.
*pic courtesy of pinterest
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.
John Malone 