The Poems I Have Not Written.
I am outside late at night
writing poems
about the poems
I have not written
the ones I’ve shied away from
because of embarrassment
or timidity
or , worst of all, for fear
that I might offend
and find
somewhat alarmingly
that the poems I have not written
Far outnumber those I have
You gotta be careful what you put up.
It’s like Fish ‘N’ Chips.
One bad batch and people remember.
That bad taste in the mouth.
You gotta serve it up fresh, hot, well salted,
people like salt and it has to have crunch
and zing.
It has to hit those taste buds.
Make the mouth water.
Run with melody.
A good poem is like a bag of fish ‘n’ chips.
Not too fussy.
Just the basics, a little poetry with herbs and spices
and that secret ingredient people keep talking about.
Something you can savour.
Ponder over for a while.
You develop trust,
Yeh, that little guy behind the counter, he knows how to do it.
And you keep coming back.
That’s how you want it to be.
A good poem is like Fish ‘N’ Chips.
This is Max.
The birthday boy.
He was 10 years old the other day.
Say happy birthday to Max.
He’s my grand-daughter’s dog.
A lovely, well behaved Labrador.
But recently Max did a Houdini.
Somehow he got out and went for a wander.
When my grand-daughter got home she looked everywhere and began to get anxious. Max has ID on his collar but their house abuts an 80 k zone.
Then a woman phoned.
Your dog is in my backyard, she said. He’s fine.
When she picked Max up he had a great big grin on his face.
What you been up to, Max? she asked.
But Max kept mum.
It must have been good because Max slept very soundly that night and that great big grin was still on his face.
John Malone 