There should be secrets
For us to ponder
to worry about.
Not everything need be known
like how we got here
on this island Earth,
Why God put us here,
the point of suffering,
of brain tumors, cancer?
why some people sail through life
while others ….
What’s it all about, Alfie?
Like the house across the street.
Who lived there? Why did they go?
Why has it been left to ruin?
I could ask the guy raking the leaves
in the house next door
but if I knew, I couldn’t ponder.
There should be secrets.
There should be secrets.
The exorcism was short, brutal
after five days of possession , the toxins
had weakened my body, drained my senses
but on the sixth, a little miracle happened;
my body did not convulse or levitate
nor my head spin round like Linda Blair
but all the toxins pored out of me in a holy sauna,
soaking my underclothes, shirt, track pants,
the sheet I was lying on, all soggy and cold
but I was clean, strong, rejuvenated,
the only sign, the stigmata of possession,
two scars on my upper lip, healing, healing
movie poster courtesy of Pinterest
I watched ‘Love on the Spectrum’ last night
about young autistic people
mostly in their twenties,
take part in the thrilling game
of Speed Dating;
& I thought how cool it’d be
if senior citizens,
marooned in singlehood
could be brought together for a night of fun,
under the one roof,
speed dating, meeting other single men and women
in a similar age group;
what a boost it would give to their lives,
what a night of fun
and who knows what good things might come of it,
what magical pairings
Seven year olds will always ask, at some stage when you are least ready for it, the mermaid question.
Granddad, Tina asks me, how do mermaids go to the toilet?
While you are grappling with this one, they ask another, THE BIG KAHUNA of questions, usually in the car while you are driving them to or from some event:
Grandad, where would I be if you and grandma never got married?
It’s the sort of question you need to pull over the side of the road for, but I kept on driving, hoping an apt answer would ‘pop’ into my head. Where’s the Muse when you need her? Surely she’d good for things other than poetry.
I don’t know what you would have done? I mean, how do you answer a question like that? There’s an obvious answer but that might depress the hell out of her, Who wants to be confronted at that age with self obliteration? And there’s the ontological answer but she wouldn’t get it.
I thought I’d go with the mermaid answer. That’d be the easier of the two …. maybe.
I wonder if spiders
in their webs
‘bout me & you
nattering away in the moonlight
in neat little haiku
you with your cigs
me with my brew
of jasmine tea
spinning our memories
of how things might be
or would they instead
taking a jaundiced view
spin snarky little
So where are you?
In a galaxy far far away.
No. Where are you really?
Isn’t that where …?
Yes, where Billy Pilgrim went.
That time traveller from ‘Slaughterhouse Five’?
Yes, he went there on his days off.
His days off? From where?
Reality. Reality bites, you know.
But what if you never came back?
Like Hugh Conway in ‘Lost Horizons’? Dorothy in Oz ?
And Peter Pan in Neverland.?
Would it really matter? You’d be where you want to be. Would you even want to go back?
Have you a favourite fantasy place ? Which fantasy world would you live in if you could? What if you couldn’t come back?
I wonder how often they make love out there in the garden?
It gives a new meaning to the phrase ‘hard on’
I wonder is it a man and a woman?
I creep up to get a better look but they turn on me with a stony gaze.
I just hope they are discreet when the grandkids come over
or disengage for dear old great grandma.
A sight like that could finish her off.
I must say though they do have a marmoreal presence
and no unseemly sounds come from them.
Perhaps they are conscious of passers-by like me, voyeurs
and let it all hang out at night when only the stars and the big white eye
of the moon are watching.
I just hope they don’t get too rambunctious though:
that tap on the right looks a bit dodgy;
it wouldn’t take much to snap it and water come spurting out
like … like …
Discretion forbids me to extend the simile.
I was driving towards my destination
a place I had never been
when I missed a number of turnoffs.
I had overshot the mark.
It made me wonder how often in life
I had overshot the mark
& missed some vital turnoffs
where, for instance. I could have become
a famous novelist like David Foster Wallace
& worn a red bandana
or rakish rock star like Keith Richards
or, god forbid,a prominent politician.
Or even married someone else!
What if you didn’t marry grandma?
my granddaughter once asked,
would I have still been born?
Most of us overshoot the mark.
It may be a good thing.
Danny Kaye, that Court Jester, once famously said,
we always land where we were meant to be.
Maybe it’s true.
I could have done worse.
Did men really walk on that?
It looks too pale and flimsy
at nine in the morning
a ghost of itself
that clouds could pass through
not strong enough to bear
the weight of history
something the night
had left behind
I heard there were whales lunging out of the water
At Henley South,
“sleek and smooth as peach slices”,
One eye witness said.
I finished what I was doing and went down
For a look.
But the sea was flat and empty.
There were only a pair of cyclists on the other side
Doing up their clips
And a pelican amongst the gulls gazing wistfully to a spot
Where something might have been.
No sun was out. The sky was whale-grey.
I had missed the moment.