GOING WITH THE FLOW- Billy Collins, the great American Poet, suggested pick a starting subject and just keep writing, allowing it to surprise you - and keep at it until it ends. What is poetry? Good question! These poems led me to old memories and some new endings. The last poem was sparked by Mark Doly’s poem - this is your home now.
GOING WITH THE FLOW- Billy Collins, the great American Poet, suggested pick a starting subject and just keep writing, allowing it to surprise you - and keep at it until it ends. What is poetry? Good question! These poems led me to old memories and some new endings. The last poem was sparked by Mark Doly’s poem - this is your home now.
DOORS, WINDOWS & HAIRCUTS
GOING WITH THE FLOW- Billy Collins, the great American Poet, suggested pick a starting subject and just keep writing, allowing it to surprise you - and keep at it until it ends. What is poetry? Good question! These poems led me to old memories and some new endings. The last poem was sparked by Mark Doly’s poem - this is your home now.
DOORS
I notice we have different doors.
Some slide into pockets
Some swing outwards
Some swing inwards
awkwardly blocking me into a small space.
some door open both ways
depending where I am coming from or going to
So now I wonder if the same doors
open up new ideas for some
and block others from moving forward
becoming a prison for the mind,
just as for some a challenge opens up opportunities,
while others see an insurmountable problem.
What is the key, where is the key?
To create a way forward to keep growing and offering.
I had a key to a safe deposit box,
but the bank closed so now the box is empty.
I put all those precious papers and paper clips
and the odd collection of supposedly valuable paraphernalia
into an old hard brown plastic Samsonite briefcase under the bed.
Hoping that we would be able to grab it
as we ran out of the smoke.
Until I realized that the only things of value in the old briefcase
are the gold Dupont cigarette lighters that do not work
and that my father used to sell to very rich smokers
who frequented Harrods.
Now 60 years later the smokers are probably from Saudi Arabia
driving around London through congested streets
in Rolls Royces or Lamborghinis feeling protected and isolated
from the common riffraff.
They have no need to hurry even though they know it's quicker to walk or take the tube.
They are in a different world that floats above the council flats in Brixton,
in large penthouses in Mayfair or Sloane square
How different from the days 60 years ago when I rode two buses, 16 and 124,
across London to school at Sloan Square,
wearing my bright green Eaton House blazer with the red cross on the pocket,
and my only pair of shiny gray wool pants.
Until the day the sadistic headmaster beat me with a hard black leather batton
for a forgotten sin.
I was not alone to be punished and go home
with black and blue bruises on my buttocks,
Eventually justice was done as the sadist was removed,
sent to a dungeon in the tower of London,
where the beefeaters guarded the doors
keeping the human and animal rats out of society.
Yes, back to doors
ancient big thick iron and oak which had only one purpose
to keep him inside and free the rest of us from tyranny,
at least for now.
WINDOWS
Here in Florida
Windows let in the light, keep out hurricanes and noise,
give us glorious views of sunrises, sunsets, rivers and ponds
ibises flying by information at eye level now.
These windows keep us cool, holding back the hot humid summer air
and open up to let in cool winter breezes.
I remember the house we left along the Saugatuck river on the dirt road,
a whole wall of glass doors bringing us into the river world.
The winters of sparkling ice crystals and pure white snow.
The clear glass keeping us warmer than the freezing air outside.
Flashback to Cropthorne Court, London, I am 15.
The small square window panes of glass in the lattice work of cold white painted metal
I sit at my small desk in my small childhood room diligently doing my homework.
Until I can go outside to play on the narrow asphalt strip,
where once the milkman steered his horse drawn cart every day.
Then we would play cricket of sorts on that strip,
every now and then breaking a window, and run away,
hoping beyond hope we would not be punished,
kept inside those windows watching the world pass by.
We were the trio Michael, Martin and Anthony.
Sometimes we could go on adventures to watch cricket at Lords
for days on end.
Somehow occupying us enough to avoid boredom and relish freedom,
getting ready for our next home game and broken windows.
THE HAIRCUT WITH NO BARBER.
I reach under the sink and grab the plastic bag
With the turquoise cape, electric razor, comb and sharp scissors.
The tall chair goes on the porch,
Then her gentle hands hold the long hairs left on the sides of my head.
Snip, snap the silver and gray hair hits the dust.
Probably to be used later by birds lining their nests.
Now the tug on my inherited bushy eyebrows
I fear may disappear completely or become lopsided,
but she always stays even.
I emerge with well-balanced hair and eyebrows.
This has happened for over 37 years,
whenever my ears disappear under an unruly tangle or I am deemed unkempt.
Less times than the fingers on a healthy hand
someone else has cut my hair since we got married
Twice it has been a simple shave almost to the skull.
The first traumatic time, egged on by our daughter, in Sydney Australia.
Another time, an old guy special, in Albuquerque New Mexico
in a true barbershop. Before I got slathered with oil in my Pancha karma treatment.
I have grown to appreciate that clean fresh feeling of a completely shaved and shiny scalp.
With so few hairs left on top there is not much to lose!
My memories of English hair cuts:
the pudding basin cut in Clifton Gardens,
the John Lennon look around the university in Manchester.
Those were the days of thick hazel hair matching my hazel eyes
as all the young ladies swooned over me.
At least in my imagination.
I have slipped out a couple of times during our marriage,
To Great Clips for some emergency shearing
Also once to the really old barber on route 41, who barely missed cutting off my ear.
Now I simply relaxing into the loving hands of my dearest Kassandra
as she snips and snaps perfectly shaping the few remaining silvery hairs
to once again make me a respectable person
and able to see the sun below the once bushy eyebrows.
©MartinStrasmore2022