There was a saying in my parents’ day
not to upset the apple cart.
My uncle was a market gardener so it had extra meaning for us.
For a while things went smoothly
then I came along, then my sister.
We were the world’s first teenagers.
There was sex, booze — no drugs — and rock ‘n’ roll.
Mum and dad didn’t know what hit them.
And this went on all over the world.
A whole lot of apple carts were being upset, overturned.
Then came Feminism, Vietnam War protests, R rated movies
and in our country
the sacking of a government.
Boats were rocked, apple carts overturned.
It’s a bit like that now. Only there’s far more involved.
The fate of our planet.
I think before we get to wherever we’re going there won’t be too many
apple carts left standing.
*pic courtesy of Pinterest
When I was a kid I used to wander down the park and watch dragonflies flitter over the pond like tiny, restless angels.
Later I wanted to write poems about them the way Monet would go down to his garden at Giverny to paint water lilies.
The only difference is that water lilies stay still. They don’t dash and dart about the pond at 100 ks an hour. Even when they have sex they’re on the go, coupling like planes fuelling mid- flight.
I almost got one once when a dragonfly dawdled on the front doorknob one drowsy afternoon, after summer rains, then saw me and took off, its gossamer wings flashing rainbows.
Perhaps I should turn like Monet to waterlilies. He got 250 paintings out of them. I haven’t got one poem though I reckon I’ve made 250 trips. [ pic by loriedarlin on pinterest ]
The way you get worked up.
I can hear you, the noise of your coming, three rooms away.
Are such outbursts necessary?
Why, even the walls vibrate,
Now you’re really going.
Hope you don’t bust anything.
You’re not that young anymore, remember.
There’s no doubt you give it your all.
Do you enjoy it?
Sounds as if you do.
Now you’ve gone quiet, can I come in?
Yes ! The clothes are done, giddy with all that spinning.
One hour, twenty. Wish I had your stamina.
You must be exhausted.
Now it is spent and lying limp
and placid at my feet —
a contentment of inky blue
but the other day if you
could have seen it bucking
with energy , flailing its
wild hair and arching its back
[ sea mountains surfers abseiled
down ] you would not have been
surprised to see it thrust
its loins again and again against
the soft white dunes nor after
to see the body of the foreshore
bruised and torn nor its rump
so foam wracked .
pic by Lachlan-Ross on Pexels
I walked past that place today.
You know, the one we walked past last month with the nude couple canoodling in the front yard …
Well, they’re still at it.
Must have happened when the wind changed.
You know that old saying: if you screw your face up when the wind changes it will stay like that, Well, it could extend to the position you were in when …
What if you were ….Or even ….?
Don’t even think about it.
Could be a blessing or a curse then? Let’s look at that photograph again. I can’t think of a better position to be in when the wind changes.
Nor can I.
Just when I was about to retire the statues a friend pops up
with a proposition that floors me.
Look at the legs, he says, the position of them.
I do. I have a good hard look.
Well, the legs are not in the right position for the proper performance of the act.
Couldn’t they move them?
You mean …
Yes, they’re condemned to a life of Eternal Abstinence.
The curse of the statues! I reply. It wouldn’t be much of a life, would it?
Well, it wouldn’t suit you and me. he answers. But people do it all the time. Nuns and priests, for instance.
And incels … I say.
Yes, incels and celibate statues.
Can we leave the topic now? I ask.
Yes, he says. I think it’s run its course.
* what do you think?
the Maserati of the insect world
they leap from dawdle to dash
in one second flat
at one moment hovering helicopters
the next fighter planes
daredevil pilots at the controls
coupling in mid-air as if refuelling
how do they do it?
sex on the run
& here comes junior, red-headed
as a matchstick, parents in tow,
learning the ropes
…. and now for something lighter: Can you come up with other cheeky titles to add to this list of Imaginary Books? or even, if you’re up for it [excuse the pun] write a paragraph or two ?
I’ve written another poem about a cat.
I promised myself I wouldn’t do that,
But this one leapt upon the page
and as usual took centre stage;
the other poems took off and scurried,
looking set upon and rather harried.
There was one about a lecherous leer —
that would have to wait another year;
and one about my old dog Trigger
who humped his mattress with manly vigour.
So may things about which to write
but this cat poem purrs with delight.
She had just come from the clinic from seeing the care nurse and seemed a little flustered.
Everything okay? he asked.
There was a medical student there. I said to the nurse I didn’t mind. He was neat, presentable, well spoken and was totally okay except for the fact he kept adjusting his crotch.
Perhaps he was just glad to see you.
That isn’t even remotely funny. Not these days.
Sorry, he said. I’ll be back in a minute.
Where are you going?
To the bathroom. To wash my mouth out with soap.