Neil McKay's Shared Poems

One time, I convinced my writing group to hijack a haiku slam, delivering only haikus about flying Orcas.
Another time, my poem was a knock knock joke.
I prefaced a poem based on Springsteen's Thunder Road by singing the song in it's entirety. Imagine my singing voice. It's worse than that.
My poetic nemesis, a local retired professor, does not even know who I am. But many of the open mic poets think of him as nothing but my nemesis. In fact I inspired several poets to name their own nemeses. It was very thereputic.
If I like another poet's piece, I will sometimes parody it.
I read one particular piece every week for a couple months until it was parodied by another poet.
Among the long standing poets in town, I was known as the guy who coined the phrase: "Like standing on kittens."
The first poem I ever read at an open mic began, "When Lisa leaves me it will be for a plumber." Several years later...
True story, once on a drive to the Seattle Slam, with a nationally known poet who has since passed away, we stopped for Vietnamese food. Getting back into the car afterward, he turns to me and says, "Now how do you get to the Slam". I replied, "Practice."
More truth, I made him repeat the question when the other poets came out of the restaurant so I could say the punch line again. His reaction: "Bellingham poets are crazy.
I wooed my sweetheart with a series of bawdy limericks sent via cell phone.

I would give my right arm for you
I want you to know that.
I would rather go blind than to see you cry
I would take a bullet, walk through fire,
Crawl over broken glass.
For you.

And then, of course,
You would have to feed and dress me,
You would need to rearrange my house so I would not trip
Make sure I didn't burn myself on the stove
And change the dressing on my bullet and glass wounds
Because I love you that much.

My love works on math problems while I write poetry
She pays bills and fills out forms while I draw her nose
She does the weekly grocery shopping
And invites me along as her jester
Making my witty observations, playing with the food

My love flirts with the cashier
I fly into an impotent rage
The cashier is bewildered when
Smirks and giggles sneak out of our mouths

My love flirts with me as a stranger
For the benefit of onlookers whose own lives
Will be enriched by our play acting.
I'm the worst with pick up lines
But she comes home with me anyway
How do you like them apples?

My love feels safe with me
And i with her. In sharp contrast
To our earlier lives
When we were strangers who,
had we met at the grocery store,
Would not have flirted.

Dumb joke, like always,
This one a song parody
My patient son smiles his patient smile
He loves me, I know that
And he allows me my humor
He appreciates it for the clever
If not for the funny.

I am looking into a distorted mirror
The spitting image from one angle
From another, a man I never was
A strong silent type. the guy you
Want next to you when the shit goes down.
Where did he learn to stand up straight?

I try to crack him up with the same
Silliness I used when he was five.
It's really all I have. Again he smiles
Out of respect for a man who has been
Always there. He laughs only when I've already
cracked myself up, enjoying the pleasure on my face
Like you would a child with his first knock knock joke.

But I can't beat him. No giggle fits,
No spit takes, no shock value
His countenance remains serene.
I keep trying, I keep trying.

I think we both see what's coming,
Not this year or next, but someday.
My forgetfulness is surprising but mild
Compared to the day in the far future
When I will forget his name, my address,
When his serenity will be tested
Against my panic, my rage against the cruelty of
A life winding down. I'm afraid I won't
Go gently.

He will have to be patient
He will have to be strong
He will have to look into the distorted mirror
As he teaches me my first knock knock joke.

If I text you instead of calling,
It's only because I am a better writer
Than I am an extemporaneous speaker.

If, when texting you, I mention
The weather, it's because I have to
Slowly build up to what I really want to say.

If, after several texts, I say I'm sleepy,
It's because I trust you not to read anything
Into my falling asleep between texts.

If I text that I love you
I don't expect you to respond in kind.
Simply continue the narrative of your day.

If I end up calling you anyway because
My thumbs can't keep up with my thoughts
Expect long pauses while I edit in my head.

After you hang up in frustration
Expect one more text that starts out
With "I wish..."