Except

 

I barfed off and on last night

but my heart wasn’t in it.

If you are going to barf —

‘barf’ is a much nicer word than ‘vomit’ –

you’ve got to be committed,

not lackadaisical

like the time I went to the doctor

for anti-depressants and was refused

because ‘you are not depressed enough’.

I can’t give myself wholeheartedly

to anything, it seems.

‘Except your writing’,

my ex told me.

‘Except your writing’.





  • pic courtesy of Pinterest

Poor Old Keith

 
My heart goes out to him.

Hey, Keith, I know it’s hard languishing on the Express Shelf still after three weeks.
I know what it’s like to be a wallflower
alone and palely loitering on the cold hillside..

I don’t know if he gets the reference. Keats.

Yeh, I know what it’s like, Keith, I say.
But don’t worry. Nicole still loves you.

He seems to lift a bit.

And anyway, I tell you what: if you’re still here when I come in next week, I’ll borrow you. I’ll take you home.

A bit of color seems to flush his cheeks, and there’s a glint in his eyes.

Hang in there, Keith, I say, on my way out.

When I Grow Up

I want one of these

so I can hoon around the street

like old Frank does on his,

zip around the shopping centre

when Security’s not looking.

I will have to save up though,

maybe trade in the car

but it’s a beauty,

a rhino of a Gopher,

the Humvee of mobility scooters,

a ‘chick magnet’ for seniors.

Yee Ha !

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.

On My Own Again

I’m on my own again.

My partner’s hit the sack.

The cat’s snuggled up in her basket.

Tiffany’s asleep in the tank, light out.

Even the mozzies have called it a day..

There’s nothing on TV.

Perhaps someone will text. Someone …

Is this what it’s going to be like?

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.

Sultanas

You are the gin

in gin ‘n’ tonic,

the rum

in

bundy and coke;

the abracadabra that transforms,

the fruity little pellets

that add

zest and zing

to oats

that put the sing

in snap, crackle, ‘n’ pop,

feisty little metaphors

for writing

that needs to lift its lid

let out its Id

roll like a dog

in

the muck and merriment

of language.

Hosannas to sultanas.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

As Soon As

As soon as you stand outside someone’s place,

whip out your mobile camera and start taking snaps

of something in the street,

jacaranda flowers, for instance, carpeting the verge,

an ibis making love to a TV aerial,

a drunken, tilting fence,

someone starts singing loudly in a bathroom.

conversations break out in the hallway like a rash.

windows open or close,

to let you know they’re onto you

when all you’re doing is trying to compose a poem.

When did people start growing so suspicious of poets?