Five Minute Poem

My mum played Chopin

On my dad’s family’s piano,

Ironically, or perhaps premonition,

Made in America,

Imported to England.

I don’t think my dad would say he’s artistic,

But give him a golf club,

Or a business problem to solve,

You’d say he’s gifted.

My brother is a crazy creative,

Words and stories and never-ending digressions,

An ability to turn the mundane day-to-day

Into a Bruce Willis-meets-Harold Loyd-with-a-touch-of-Chaplin-and-the-Avengers-physical comedy-tragedy-caper.

Plus there isn’t a song or movie he can’t quote almost word for word.

I photographed in black and white,

And improved my way through Butoh: dance of the dark soul.

Now I write poetry in bars.

Sometimes I cry.

Often I feel all that life has to offer or take away.