Gran Slam brings a senior poetry revolution

Born free and hearing the first sounds
of thunder right from the womb by a midwife in wonder washed clean with a
silver spoon touched tight in my fist in the halogen of light. If I died tomorrow
the fluff would stop gathering under my bed. The curtains would remain drawn. The
TV would be silent. No birds would sing. Bring on the Thunder. Bring on the
lightning like I lived life. I’m a messy haired Melburnian version of Brigitte
Bardot. Well I think so. If I died tomorrow all
of my dieting will have been wasted. I will only be a smorgasbord for the worms.
And who would wear my g-string? If I die tomorrow I wonder what my friends would say about me. I guess
something like “that bastard still owes me a dollar or three”. We know it’s dirty. I
never jumped into a raging river . When I was thirty I’d never been
to church. My head is a kaleidoscope, circling merry-go-rounds. If I die tomorrow people would think I’ve been sucked off the basketball court and I’d sit on the bench sulking waiting to stab the coach. If I die tomorrow I hope someone checks the
rain gauge and for caterpillars on the kale. When I was forty the river
close by hemmed me in. If I die tomorrow I would be wearing a
1960s colorful kaftan and I would leave a request that all of my friends kiss me
on my lips and linger. When I was 50 I was Bryan Ferry
slave to love. At 50 I was Madonna. Flaunting my body, realizing I had something to flaunt. If I died tomorrow
I’d like a trip to heaven. I can’t be there returning to the dunes for lusty
afternoons with Craig. Or was it Peter with his dragon tattoo. My son will
embalm my body and what will happen to my cellar full of wine? 60 I’m Sadie Thompson. Dancing with long-haired tattered lovers and South Pacific festivals, teaching
Hawaiian hula, building Kassar Aloha, running over my beloved cat. If I died tomorrow I
wouldn’t be able to finish my to-do list. Or would I? I’d start with exit fear, bye bye procrastination, enter excitement and hello clouds. At my funeral I would have a
captive audience so for once it’s all about me and I’d be happy about that.
70 was crash, bash oh the lash. Seventies was to thwack, whack,
attack, I’m back. 70 was arty, farty, party. Boat ride sky-high.
Singing, winging, blinging. Seventy, plenty. When I turned 70 I realized that
experience was the kind that life gives you after you’ve lost your hair. If I
die tomorrow call this number. The University will
collect my body. It won’t cost a penny. Remember to wash my hair. 90 is an empty
room. 90 is not an empty room. Why you want to walk through life when you can dance. Enjoy and live and bring happiness to
all. you you

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *