A robot for the elderly

 

so much to remember…

Francis I think his name was-
-is my grandson,

But I left my glasses on the library
table and,

the lady,
Jennifer,

says I’ve been stealing books.

So my son bought me a robot to help out -
- daughter says he’s left me with an aluminium problem.

Least he did something, I said.

We didn’t talk much longer -
- bad connection.

Robot knows about my tax evasion,
Conviction but,

Doesn’t hurt me when we arm-wrestle.

Anyway, daughter is here now,
Came to take over -

- whispered something in my robots’ ear,
and now he stands quiet in the closet.

The heist is still on.

Only now they want my,
robots’ memory,

And I need him.

I’m not a thief.
I just forget sometimes.

It’s either the old people’s home,

or the
next
big
heist
but,

Robot no longer remembers,

So sometimes,
My children come to visit.

 

♦picture – German Poster for the movie Robot & Frank – at IMDB♦

evocative short poetry – words move

So, health

 

And so, health.

And the discussion with mum’s friend,
Who has survived beyond her,

Turns to the evolution of mattresses,

Goose down,
Luxurious but bad for your back,

Foam,

Sometimes current but initially,
Uncomfortable,

Has silver hair that frames,
Her ice blue eyes perfectly,

And deep wrinkles around her mouth,
That light any room she’s in.

Ripe fruit can be determined by the smell of it.

A mango,
At the right time,

Will flood a kitchen with aromas that colour,
The entire home,

Dispersed into cupboards and,
Dispensed across living room sofas,

They can make you forget what you are doing as you,
Iron sheets,

Raising smiles in every nook and cranny…

If we live long enough,
Aliens may come with fruits,

That excite Amygdalas,
And titilate glands,

Caressing more than nasal passages,
Creating new sensations.

Out walking this morning,
Healthy and feeling good,

I remembered my sister and her fight with cancer,

And the frustration she expressed,
Not with the pain,

But with the body that would not allow her,
To spend time the way she wanted,

Time with her mother,
Her lover,
Her brother…

Out walking I was thinking,
A million dollars can change everything,

I feel now though that,
I’d be happier with health.

So.
Health.

♦picture – Eartha Kitt, Wikipedia♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Mount Longonot

 

Do you remember
the climb?

short or not,
shall we not?

Remember the trip up,
Longonot,

can we not, did we not?

Remember fooling around,
In that old farmhouse,

will we not, sexy tot,
love my hot
sexy pot?

Let him have the car keys dear,
Let him go to Longonot.

 

♦picture – Youth and Cars – WebstockPro

*Longonot is a dormant Volcano in Kenya, a day’s getaway for many*

evocative short poetry – words move

I wish we had played on all night

 

I wish we had played on all night,
African cowboys with not much,
Else to do,

I wish we had challenged the fish in the sea and,
Called out to the Bison,

My father and his band,
And his,

-strike while the iron is hot-

Jive,

Johnstone, his brother,
On the drums,
Kicking up a riot,

Sarah the lead,
Crooning about her rescue from a,
Very bad man,

Lydia,
Lead back-up,

Flinging in the,
‘Alleluiahs’, and
‘Godda-let-it-be’s!

Samuel,
A doctor dying of AIDS,
Breathing new life into a tin-metal harmonica,

‘Alleluhia,’

Rocking the old man at the end of the bar,
And the couple at the table, fighting with their lips,

I heard it coming when he fumbled the line,
And I wish we had played on all night.

 

♦Thanks to: Meanwhile Back at The Ranch(photo), and Jessie Veeder, whose telling, inspired this poem♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Three trees

 

A brook runs through my Grandmas farm,
That used to carry gold.

My Grandpa
-Benjamin-

Did not yield the land,
To the British, who wanted it dammed.

In 1968, they took him in,
To have his appendix removed,
And Grandma never remarried.

My Aunt Alice,
Was a witch.

She flew in on broomsticks
We never saw,

But heard in the barn,
Where she parked.

She brought foreign sweets that didn’t
Crack our lips,
And told us naughty jokes.

-Oh Pope the Bastard,
Please pass the Custard!-
We’d squeal and never tell,

And feel all grown up and,
Conspiratorial.

Grandma says she died running with
The wrong pack,

That she was knocked from the sky,
By a cross.

Later we learned,
It was a broken heart that did it, that

Grandma wouldn’t accept a,
Jewish man in the house,

So she killed herself.

Mary was dead when we got here,
Her tree is the prettiest.

It’s a large yellow poplar that
Trembles in the slightest breeze.

She was a violinist,
A frail, little thing, who

Is fading away in family photographs.

Irridescent sparrows trill,
Beautiful harmonies,
From skinny branches,

Shielded by the most delicate,
Drooping fronds.

You see, my Grandmother has three beautiful trees,
Growing in her garden,

One for Benjamin, one for Alice, one for Mary.

My grandmother used to sit under these trees.
They’re feeding off the bones she says.

 

♦photo – personal♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Preserving dignity

 

There, my mask is on,
Perfectly concealing,
The wounds on the surface.

I have candy floss,
Bright-pink,
Right up in my face.

The little one beside me,
Wants to play,
Strong man,

Tugging me first to the hammer,
Then to the duck-shoot.

I am sucking in air,
In big gulps hoping,

No-one notices,
The man in the gorilla suit.

I have played the game well.

I rise early in the mornings and take long walks,
Arriving at the plaza for briefcase lunch.

I stroll back past the phone booth at,
Twentieth and eleven,

And call home to say,
I’ll be back by seven.

Today we’re at the fair,
And I’m hoping no-one notices,

The man in the gorilla suit,
Here picking pockets.

 

♦photo – MEG BHA at Gossamer Dreams on WordPress ♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Saturday

 

Love needn’t come your way,
Immediately,
Or else,

You’ll damage yourself in,
More ways than one.

Settle on the present,
State of things,

Jam on toast,
Children in the yard,

Doggy who thinks you’re
The best bone in the world.

Grab the frisbee and,
Curl it past the fuscia hydrangea,

You’ve spotted on the neighbours porch.

 

♦photo – webstockpro.com♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Card trick

 

Dance music,
Damp heat and talk,

Drifts to halcyon days of,
Seventies groove and Afro’s ruffled,

In the political funk of,
Freedom fighters and platform shoes,

Cadillac language,
Smooth and languid,

Dripping off honey colored lips like,
Melting chocolate…

It’s a card trick,
And we are mesmorised by,

Furtive glances,
Over fanned cards,

Fascinated by the sleight of hand,
And the afternoon light,

Our soft voices and loud giggles,
Caught in a trick of time,

Heavy with love and breakfast but,
One will not survive.

 

♦photo – personal♦

evocative short poetry – words move

playground

 

cherry cheeked and breathless

a  little girl
pauses at the top of
her swing and

her brother
-gap tooth and grubby-
does the same

at the end of a see-saw

i am not the pivot
-funny feeling in the tummy-

i am on the merry-go-round
intergalactic knight

fleet-foot
on a unicorn

daddy in delight

See - Sunday
♦photo – webstockpro.com♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Serial Killer

I squashed a cockroach the other day.

A big,
Fat,
Cockroach.

It was trying to get away and I squashed it.

Not that I had anything against that,
Particular cockroach but,
I was bare-foot.

I had tea,
And biscuits,
And was bare-foot when he made his dash across the corridor.

It took some time to calm down and,
Fetch another tray.

It had moved.

A thick, white streak,
Of substantial viscosity,
Ran right across the floor and,
Straight under my door.

Her gartered leg was up on the table.

She removed a delicate silver pistol and,
With his back turned,
Fired a single shot.

I used a shoe this time,
Like a maniac,

And then,
Framed by a single,
Swinging light-bulb,
Waited for the detective.

evocative short poetry -words move

♦photos –  my little sister♦