A Social Media Memory

Apparently I was struggling to find ends worth photographing that day, I murmured as I gazed at an old lawn bowls photo, dredged up by Facebook memories. When looking to advertise their magnificence, some opt for enough selfies to fill a thousand biographies. I on the other hand, know it’s not looks that matter, it’s how close your bowls are to the jack. “There’s got to be more to life than that” you say. What’s wrong with you?

I’m joking, about bowls feet away from the jack being unworthy of a photo that is. The truth is I was playing against Harry Potter, or someone wearing an invisibility cloak who claimed to be Harry Potter. He nudged the jack away from my perfect deliveries with his invisible bowls. I asked Yoda, the lone spectator, whether it was technology or magic at work. He claimed he didn’t know, but maybe his student Luke Skywalker could enlighten me. Now that’s a hippie name if I ever heard one. I wondered if there was something wrong with Yoda’s liver, he looked more green than the bowling green but blended in well with the shrivelled old men at the bar.

My lonely bowl, towards the back of the green, is what is known as insurance in lawn bowls parlance. In other words it’s strategically placed, in anticipation of your opponent hitting the jack. In hindsight, I think I bought the wrong policy. To be honest it was several millimetres deeper than intended too.

At least I remembered to switch on my alarm clock that day. There is no such thing as slightly late when you are catching public transport and the meeting point is miles from the forest work zone. In lawn bowls vernacular, I am down by four shots but I have one to come. Whatever happened previously one needs to have the mindset that their next delivery will be a resting toucher in the sand, the only invincible shot in the game.

Failure is a lame, herbivorous dog,
who whoops like a sasquatch,
unless you’ve truly given up.
Then failure is a steel cage
constructed from cowardice
and guarded by hyena locksmiths.
Their vultures circle.

Stand up, snap the bars,
beat the demonic scavengers back
to their dilapidated graves.
So what if they create a crater with the chunk
torn from your hands, moments from the dunk.
Refuse to be their slaves.

The tortured have an excuse to give up,
the rest of us should rise up like a pup.
Loping, leaping, creeping Lazarus hordes,
swim all the abomination infested fjords.
Aimless peasants, gloating parasitic lords,
savour the drops lingering in your gourds.
Time to admit there’s no lake in the dry,
purify the ointment seeping from the fly.

You can flap your arms on a landfill mound,
until your box cheats worms underground,
or write music to which your wings march,
swap creased excuses for plans full of starch.

Let defeatist chatter babble like a chimp troupe,
who cares what it does, you’ll crush it into soup.
Then you will drink the broth like a bilge pump,
convert it into dessert, obliterating your slump.

Marching with wings?

You claim there can’t be a procession in the sky?
The ideas in your possession are a cardboard pie.
I’ll go yomping through the upper atmosphere.
Your boring, baffling doubts will soon disappear.
Those who claim nobody can march with wings,
have dreams too small to be struck by sonar pings.

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