Protocols for Bon-Bon Popping

There are protocols for almost everything you can think of:

how to behave on a first date, how to address royalty,

whether to fart in public or hold it in, the etiquette of blogging,

BUT WHAT are the protocols for bon-bon popping?

Over Xmas dinner the other night, we couldn’t decide when;

whether, as I thought, at the beginning of proceedings to start

the evening with a bang ; but my daughters were of the opinion

before the main meal but nonna shook her head, no, no, she proclaimed,

it must be after; we checked the box they came in, in the hope

that the protocols were printed there. Google was no help

nor the shop we bought them in. In the end they weren’t popped at all.

Oh well, we said. Let’s hope we can work it out by New Years’.

Yr Fizz

I opened up a soft drink —

You know how it is —

One recently opened

but it had lost it’s fizz.





It had lost its zest.

It had lost its tang.

It had lost its bite

& it had lost its bang!





So hang onto your hat.

Enjoy life’s gee whiz.

You gotta be where it’s at.

Never lose your fizz.

*happy Xmas everyone

Rattle and Ho Hum

 
 I rattle the biscuit tin.

You coming in? I say.

Nah, she says, I’m waiting for a friend.

That mangy old tom I saw you with last night down by the chook shed?

Go easy, she says. I don’t talk about your friends like that.

Look, I say, it’s reaching the ungodly hour of 9.30. I’m going to hit the sack. You coming in?

Silence.

Well, don’t forget. Santa’s coming tonight. He might have something for you. Be good.

She looks at me nonpussed.
 

Jelly Cakes

Jelly Cakes.

They were called jelly cakes and they melted in yr mouth.

Marge brought them for Ted’s birthday.

Baked them herself.

What a whizz.

They were cheery and cherry coloured like Xmas.

No need to scrabble around for words to describe the taste like you do for wine.

One word would do.

One syllable.

Yum.

  • what’s something that’s knocked you out taste-wise recently?

All My Christmases

Today on my front doorstep a bundle,

tied in coloured string, wrapped in cellophane,

5 New Yorkers, a Paris Review and

two School Magazines with my poems in,

the Covid backlog I thought would never come.

It felt like all my Xmases had come at once,

enough binge reading to last me till the Big Day.

the Red Telephone Booth

I was watching the Xmas Special of ‘Call The Midwife’ when the plot ran into a red telephone booth on a remote Scottish island. It reminded me of the red telephone booth I ran into some years ago:

The Red Telephone Booth

No one writes poems about telephone booths anymore

So I thought I would write one,

about the time I drove down

A series of side roads to avoid a booze bus,

when I almost ran into one.

It was so nostalgic.

It was the sort of booth that Clark Kent would dash into

to change into superman.

I opened the door and went inside.

It stank of stale urine and cigarette smoke.

The paintwork was peeling. There were no phone books

Only numbers,

‘if you’re after a good time call …’, that sort of thing

 and anti-gay graffiti.

It looked like

the last telephone booth on the planet before mobile phones

took over.

I closed the door, climbed into my car and drove off,

Heavy as a telephone booth, 

into the arms of the booze bus.

My Madeleine Moment

 

alexandre-godreau-JCxwEFcB62A-unsplash-1

 

Try a Madeleine, Marcel says.

It worked for me.

So I do

Opening up the family tree

As far back as my grandma

 

That little old lady

Who sat me on her lap

told me stories

In the park

& always wore widow-weeds

Midnight dark

 

who happily each Xmas,

Chopped the chooks’

heads

off

 

& we’d

watch them

run around the yard

higgledy-piggeldy

in shock.

 

do you have memories of your grandma?

 

  • photo by Alexandre Godreau from Unsplash