Under the influence
I wrote copiously
From midnight to morning
A devil held my hand
An accomplice flayed my side
My mind had an erection
It could not hide
All my past spilled out
From the attic of my mind
My pen swept it up
I was writing blind.
Such dark energy
Flowed through me
and out through my fingers
* have you ever been driven to write in the middle of the night that took hours?
Try a Madeleine, Marcel says.
It worked for me.
So I do
Opening up the family tree
As far back as my grandma
That little old lady
Who sat me on her lap
told me stories
In the park
& always wore widow-weeds
who happily each Xmas,
Chopped the chooks’
run around the yard
do you have memories of your grandma?
- photo by Alexandre Godreau from Unsplash
Every time I go to put down a poem
About my partner or family
That little guy inside my head says,
Hey You Can’t Say That! And when I ask,
Why not? He says. Are You Serious?
You Re3ally Don’t Know? But, of course, I do
But you can’t fictionalize everything.
You take away the bite of authenticity.
So I’m left with another poem I want to share
And I would, I really would but do I dare?
Still waters run deep, his mum said
What did she know?. He took the plunge anyway
Swept up in its flow.
Emerged twenty years later,
Three kids, a mortgage, wife in tow.
Was it worth it?
Hell, yeh. Wished he could have let her know.
* photo from pexels.com by Gabor Coyamo
I was locked in a cab once
when the driver
to get a can of petrol
& I wanted
to get out.
My hands flew all over the place.
Then the driver when he got back
& showed me
The Magic Button
at the base of the passenger side door handle.
All you had to do was pop it
& Open Sesame!
It’d be good, I thought,
to have a magic button each time
you were locked in
Like a meeting you couldn’t get out of,
A Xmas get together that had turned ugly
a flight that went on far too long
Or a poem you couldn’t find a way out from.
* pic from Wiki-commons
Where’s Uncle Midge? I asked
one sunny afternoon.
He’s off with the fairies again, aunty said
Then quickly changed the topic.
Off with the fairies? How did aunty know?
Did he leave a note saying he’d be back
By so and so a time?
It was hard to imagine Uncle frolicking with the fairies
if that is what
One does when one is ‘off with them’.
He seemed too weighty and substantial for that.
And anyway where was he off to?
Where does one go when one is ‘off with the fairies’?
I looked out the lounge room window out
To the backyard where uncle often used to wander
But there was nothing — only a pair
Of garden gnomes who seemed to be smiling
As if they had seen something.