Maybe: An Enigma

Maybe: An Enigma.

Maybe if I had played my cards

a little closer to my chest,

you wouldn’t then have known

that I had played my best;

now I have to wait

for your tom foolery

to decide what to do

with the rest of me

*pic courtesy of wikipedia

The Catastrophist

You better watch yourself.
 
You’re becoming a catastrophist.
 
That bbq pack in the backseat, for instance,
is not going to wreck the suspension.
Cars were designed to carry weight.
 
And , no, no one’s going to break in and steal it
when you duck in for a coffee and cake.
 
And as for that brandy and dry offered just before dinner
it’s not going to play havoc with your digestive system
if you have it before your standard glass of red.
 
It’s a cold day. Loosen up for f*&&^% ‘s sake.
You’re driving everyone batty.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

The Poem Outside my Window

There’s a beautiful poem outside my window

a shrub two and a half metres tall

with coquettish purple flowers

and a little frost of throats.

There are other colours too

lavender and white

a trinity of colours.

It has a botanical name, of course,

though I much prefer its common name:

Yesterday. Today and Tomorrow.

I’ve written about it before but not like this,

Yesterday was our 215 th day with no community transmissions.

Today we have 20.

Tomorrow?

We watch the News Bulletins, updates from the Chief Medical Officer,

Blooms of anxiety.

Viral blooms.

Somewhere ‘Round the Bend

Where does the sky start?

The sea begin?

Somewhere round the bend.

Somewhere round the bend

we can all be friends,

all colours and creeds blend

Somewhere somewhere

somewhere around the bend

we can be together again

what was broken, will mend

Somewhere round the bend

the animals will be our friends

all plunder will end

somewhere somewhere

round the bend

Is This How It Happens?

I have just come back from the shopping centre, I wrote, ten years ago

and have discovered the boot empty. Where is all that food I bought?

Back in the trolley where I left it in the car park ready to heft into the boot.

An action I never completed. I dashed back to the shopping centre

but the trolley was gone. I had supplied a needy family, I like to think,

with a week’s supply of free food. In the end, I remembered.

My memory had rebooted. But what if it hadn’t? Would you even know

you had forgotten something if you had no memory of it? 

Is this how it happens?

No More

No more typhoons,

he said,

tornadoes,

no tsunamis of emotion.

Just calm seas,

plain sailing,

no commotion

What’s Coming Down the Pike

You don’t know what’s coming down the pike.

No one does.

Covid-19 showed that.

Now there are rumours of something else.

It doesn’t have a face or name

but the word ‘China’ is often invoked.

But no one knows.

But something is coming.

You can see its shadow.

Hear its footsteps.

Feel it breathing down yr neck.

And I feel like the poet Mark Strand

who always saw something coming down the pike

which is why he always slept, he says,

with one eye open.

the Sandbags of Time

The future is coming at us

At a furious pace

We put up these sandbags

All over the place

To keep the present in

And keep the future out

It is much too horrible

To think much about

 

by

Ozzie Ostrich