I really can’t decide if this is absolutely dreadful, or just very bad, along with all the other stuff I throw into a haphazard pile that I reluctantly refer to as ‘my poetry’.

It results from a post from dVerse requesting thoughts about vacations and naturally conjuring up thoughts of exotic destinations sipping cocktails under an endless sky and watching a perfect sunset over a distant horizon.

But the fact is that I barely leave the house these days (believe it or not, though, I used to get about the planet quite a bit) and am more inclined to hide from the world in a book. So that’s the holiday I chose to tell you about, albeit fairly poorly ….

*

Getting away from it all

Little moments I recall

Little lives I re-live

Little errors, I forgive

My own mistakes.

With little breaks

From reality

Where, I see

And tell

Life works out well

In this little paper place

A smile upon my face

That lasts forever, in its way

The sorrow of tomorrow

Put off, another day

And so to play

Who knows where? And who can say?

A life of cheerful disarray

Should I care? Is it clever?

To never leave this place

This easy pace, this quiet space

This sweet embrace within the page

A timelessness for any age

And never mind what I have missed

Those girls I may have never kissed

For always there, inside the cover.

Behind the mist awaits a lover.

*

I wrote this in quick response to Fandango before realising it was initially inspired by Cyranny.

Anyway …

*

Her name was Suzie. She was 23 years old, of ‘Chinese descent’, liked art galleries, travel and fast cars. We had never met. We had exchanged photos, but not even yet spoken.

 

I chose the restaurant.

“Authentic Szechwan cuisine.” 4 ½ stars, Joel, 34

“The Fuqi Fei Pian is to die for.” 5 stars, Karen, 28.

“Not your average Asian slop.”  3 stars, Mark, 42

 

I had arranged for food to be served immediately upon her arrival, and so, when I recognised her gliding through the entrance, I held my hand up to her and simultaneously nodded to the waiter in a manner which I hoped conveyed an air of both experience and authority.

She was a replica of her photo.

Her hair was long and straight and dark and seemed to move as if choreographed to compliment the sway of her body. Her eyes were deep mysterious pools cut into the pure alabaster of her skin. She moved with a calm oriental grace such that the atmosphere itself seemed to bow respectfully to her as she floated across the floorboards towards me.

 

Just moments after she had taken her seat and demurely pushed her hair back behind her ears, the waiter arrived and, with a suitable air of ceremony, presented us with the opening course.

 

She examined it briefly before taking just one chopstick in her fist and driving it, like a spear, into a piece of meat nestling within a colourful array of noodles and vegetables.

 

“And what exactly,” she asked me, in a broad Australian accent, “is this shit?”

 

 

 

*

I don’t write much these days, as some of you may have noticed. Actually, probably most of you haven’t noticed at all. Which makes it worse, though possibly justified.

The problem is concentration. I have none. A good strong idea quickly fades into vague mediocre one and, before you know it, no idea at all.

So it’s good when somebody like Sammi gives me a target of less than 100 words …. it provides me with some chance of completing the task for the 5 or 10 minutes that I remain in the moment.

51 words, in this case, and I’d like to stress that bit. For whatever else it may lack as a snippet of ‘poetry’ it does satisfy the word count criteria without the need for a lot of hyphens or irrelevant words (well – some of the later perhaps).

And, like a lot of actual poetry, it paints a prettier picture than the reality.

*

Don’t you fret. I’m doing fine

Whilst suffering this slow decline

My back is stooped. A failing spine

My liver’s gone. Too much red wine

My mind is shot. Too much moonshine

My grapes are rotting on the vine

I head towards the bottom line

A victim of my God’s design

*

51 words!

I was reading something from Cyranny, about the notion of overthinking, and it occurred to me that there might, after all, be something positive about the onset of senility ….. in that overthinking is no longer an option. On the one hand, there really isn’t time for it anymore, but even if there was, the brain capacity simply isn’t up to the job. Any thinking at all (let alone overthinking) becomes a painful waste of time producing essentially unintelligible results.

So anyway, because she is a sort of friend of mine, I wrote something in response very quickly (unthinkingly in other words). She was, as ever, polite in response, but she wasn’t immediately on the phone saying, “Hell, yeah! Why not? Life is short! Come on over!”

She must be overthinking it all.

But here is what I said to her ….. I think an appropriate title might be….

*

Thoughless

Come on little darling
Please don’t overthink
Just get in something comfy
While I pour another drink
Don’t overplay emotions
Let’s not both pretend
That love is more than fleeting
Or that this night will never end
Let’s not overstate our feelings
Let’s not overplay our hand
Let’s just deal with something simple
That we both can understand
So never mind the change of clothes
Come as you are, instead
I’ll turn down the music
While you turn down the bed.

*

So …. you know …. give me a call ….