361/365

has there ever been a group of
nearly fifty year old men who
look forward to the decades ahead
rather than reminiscing about the lifetimes
lived? sitting at the local pub with the blokes
sharing the same war stories of shows seen,
trips taken, women known- sprinkling the
conversations with medical woes and the
deterioration of their bodies. slipped discs
and the inevitability of eveything slowly
getting worse before the final call. look at us
at eighty, if we are lucky, looking back at these
days as the ones when we were still spry
and alive, raising teenagers and playing in bands.
drinking on tuesday nights planing future trips
wondering if there will be enough time to be
better dads, husbands, sons, friends- men.
what do you want to do next? one of them asks
nursing a headache and a watered down whisky:
a gentle tropical breeze ambling through the street.
each quietly contemplates an answer, unsure
how to respond publicly. somewhere an obligatory
promise-made shifts in a pocket- waiting to be set free.

353/365

a stale chocolate eclair
just before midnight
washed down by cold sparkling
water straight from the bottle.

a tiny white head zit
on your lower eyelid
causing swelling and irritation.

sizzling mushroom fajitas
for dinner
two margaritas
large and on the rocks
a beer at the art house movie
with friends. a gentle
walk to the taxi.

a ruptured taste bud
on the tongue making
it challenging to pry
that piece of tortilla chip
from the hole in your molar.

a cool breeze
in the tropical heat.

another sunday night:
this one on the
forty seventh december
of your life.

295/365

take out pizza straight from the boxes
a few cocktails shaken and stirred
earl grey and strawberry balsamic gelato
a mellow glass of cabernet
the decemeberist. tay tay. phoebe bridgers

new colleagues.
new friends.
familiar conversations:   
how about this covid.
how about these students
this job, where else did you work?
so whatcha watching?
let’s hear a random story
from your youth.

the battery powered candles flicker
a warm glow into the room.
small talk with brains full of big thoughts
can be quite soothing.
we are all lonely strangers
bumping around in the dark
looking for someone to notice
our misguided trajectories
and bring us back into the fold.
we are shepherds and sheep.

new relationships
at middle age-
i wish there were new
parts of me to put on display.
i talk a lot less these days.
it’s a miracle we live so many years.

thanks for having us.
thanks for coming.
let’s do this again soon.
pleasantly surprised
by our sincerity.

275/365

bought a blue checkered blazer
and a red tie at the mall today,
for a wedding next week,
as well as a bottle of gin and
another one of makers mark.
not sure if this makes me feel old
or relevant. another paradox:
like long silver hair, tattoos
and a gut. mid-life straddlin’
the past and the future-
what coulda beens versus
what still might be’s.

the ice cubes clanking to the bottom
of a plastic glass. the frantic fizz of
root beer fills the room. every
carbonated bubble exploding
like a paparazzi of flashbulbs.

this should be a commercial.
this should be a movie scene.
this should be a photograph.

sometimes the cat jumps
on the couch wanting desperately
to be pet. vibrating with a purr
so that all you can do is rest the urge
to squeeze her till her bones break
from love. slow down. a gentle rub
of her nose. ears between your fingers.
her eyes closing. her throat shaking
with the acceptance of love.

maybe all it needs to be is
an appreciation of the moment.
an awareness that we are here
and alive and mindful enough
to be present to remember
just long enough so that
life might become this poem.

265/365

did you see that guy in the park today?
running? plodding along carrying eighty kilos,
in his gut with a thin moustache and white goatee?
lost in his thoughts, planning lessons,
reflecting on his understanding of and ability to
talk about race, again, another step, again.
watching the sea, time traveling to nineteen ninety two
raging against the machine. did he raise his fist
in the land of hypocrisy? speed up? skip?
sweat in his growing hair. tanned. tattoos.
feeling stronger but tired. pushing a bit harder.
he’s not fast or young or fit, but he’s here
three times a week.

251/365

reach out for anything
that makes you
feel alive
as you age.
take a wednesday night
in the throes of work stress
and grab the mic,
jump around,
feel your weight.
grow your hair.
bang your head.
always remember
there are only
so many days
to do what
you love.

233/365

wine and cheese
a few cocktails.
soft music:
the decemberists
and phoebe bridgers.
close friends
sharing first time
told stories-
the car crash in mexico,
the possum in the fridge,
and veetus the one-legged
russian neighbour being sprayed
by the hose as the couch goes up
in flames at mary lane.
it’s a miracle anyone cares
enough about anyone to listen
to their stories.

220/365

 there’s people having strokes
and losing legs out there.
as you curl up with
your pathetic despondency,
pleading for indulgent pity,
because your are too content
and bored with the predictability
of an easy and secure life.
haven't you heard the latest pop song
it’s brutal out here.
aren’t you listening?
stop navel gazing
and conjure something that
burns like passion and brand it onto
each day. the next day. everyday.
can’t just leave behind
this legacy of lethargy.
punk rock. take stock.
time to remove all the locks.
old. fat. weak.
are default adjectives
that line the bed
of the unimaginative.
pedestrian poems
for prosaic people.
you have promised
the world more than this.
if it was the path less traveled by
that had made all the difference-
how did you end up
on the same plodding path
as every other self-loathing
middle-aged schmo?
the potential for the extraordinary
is a choice away
at every turn.
all you have to do is make it.

216/365

none of it has to matter.
no deeper meaning
no slight of hand
no turn of phrase.
doesn’t need to be
revolutionary every time
or evolutionary anytime.
just the slightest shift
in consciousness.
a chuckle, a smirk,
a connection,
a tilt in an axis.
there’s no getting it,
no need for analysis,
no themes. no symbols.
there’s discovery
in no thing(s).     

that was an old man sigh
she told me as i got up to hug
them goodbye.
these are old man times
i thought to myself
washing the dishes,
recycling the bottles.
why do we promise children
magic and super powers?
when all they need to learn
is the ability to tolerate boredom
and make some things out of
no things.

none of this needs to matter,
and is seldom does.

183/365

an hour shy of midnight
craving an old fashion,
a few elliot smith songs,
and a slip into familiar routine.
a sort of wallowing
that wants to be pleasure.

but boredom and responsibilities
steer the night into another predictable
ending, a friday night in july
melting into the aging millennium
with nothing to show for it
but sober poetry written out of
obligation and duty.

175/365

sometimes the work of poetry
feels redundant,
excessive even.
you don’t need me
to connect the lines
between the concept of
pruning and meaning.

you don’t need me
to construct a metaphor
unpacking the power of:

selective removal
                        of certain parts of a plant;
                        such as branches, buds, or roots
the targeted removal
                        of diseased, damaged, dead,
                        non-productive, structurally unsound,
                        or otherwise unwanted plant material.
the smaller the branch that is cut,
                        the easier for a plant to compartmentalize
                        the wound and limit the potential
                        for pathogen intrusion and decay.

you don’t need me
to conjure up some image
of a bloated, tattooed
middle-aged man
in his pyjama pants and
sons of anarchy sleeveless shirt,
moustachioed like a young charlie chaplain
hair big and wild and silver and black,
cutting back the basil flowers,
because, even now,
he doesn’t really understand
how plant sex works.
unburdening each pot
with the weight of yellowing leaves
and blank branches.

you don’t need me
to explain to you how
he contemplates his own life
wondering what needs to be trimmed,
what tools he might need,
whether or not he needs to maintain
faith in abscission or absolve
himself to a more aggressive ambition.

i’ll piece it together for you,
but come on dear reader,
really all i need to say is:

he pruned the plants on the porch in the morning
and baked a batch of bagels in the afternoon.
he’s ready for his life.

and you should get it.

174/365

the warm sun melt
on his arm as he carves
images from the clouds.
a cycle to the latest local
place for corn fritters,
grilled halloumi,
and a latte that could be sweeter.

an effortless conversation
with his wife:
what else is there to say after
seventeen years? the familiarity
comforting and not suffocating
on this monday morning in june.

let the influencers
name the latest trends,
find the most extreme adventures,
fill the gaping holes.

he’s got an appointment
to remove a cyst from his face
at two, an hour with a novel,
pool time, a nap, another meal,
a few stolen hugs and kisses
from his growing girls
and another night in the warm
embrace of domesticity
and a comfortable bed.  

this life-
an unrealsitic fantasy
for so many,
just another facile routine
at forty seven. 

137/365

the young man scoffs
at the middle way.
everything in moderation
feels like a cop out.
the chav more prone to
intemperance
than impermanence.

gautama awoke
and set forth the
wheel of dharma
steer clear of the
extremes,
his whispers buried
in the highlighted
passages of well-worn books.

but there has always been
more than one book
upon the young man’s shelves:

the road of excess leads
to the palace of wisdom;
for we never know
what is enough until
we know what is
more than enough.

the edge
there is no honest way
to explain it because
the only people
who really know
where it is
are the ones
who have gone over.

what use does the
middle aged man
have for the edge
and the excess
needed to find it?

don't go in and hide;
don't come out and shine;
stand stock-still in the middle.

66/365

not much to rage against these days:
the machine feels quiet and non-threatening
the dying of the light still years away.

the hush of middle-aged
security and privilege
feels like false fodder
for anything consequential.

but, why is the folklore
so burdened with affliction?

why can’t the new bloom
of the bougainvillea be enough?
the turn of the pot
the pruning of dead branches
the tiny green leaves
pullulating with impetus.

the faintest changes
on a placid surface
can cause perpetual ripples

if i knew the way
i would take you home,
or so the song
has been saying
since before i was born.

5/365

We had some friends over tonight for
deep dish greek pizza
and IPAs.

It was a tame night
of middle aged conversations about
books, TV shows, worst school trips,
and other mundane things I cannot recall.

I tempered my drinking
because I have a long run tomorrow
and the hangovers hurt more than they used to.

“What’s your poem going to be about tonight,”
Sarah asks.

I didn’t have an answer when she asked,
and I don’t have one
as it nears midnight,
and I scratch these few words before bed.

It was another day
in a new year,
I drove the kids round,
thought my little thoughts
and this is all I have to show for it.

You tell me what this poem is about.

So Many Boxes

What else is there besides this? What more do you want? What fantasies do you still concoct as you lay awake in the darkness or when you let your mind drift at the traffic light? What random memory do you crawl to, to try and leverage a future you feel you are owed? Why can’t this always be enough?


The light kiss and the long hug from your wife in the living room on a Sunday afternoon. The fist pump from your daughter as she sinks a basket at basketball practice. The tangy salsa in your breakfast burrito. The casual conversation with a friend about the trials and tribulations of parenting. The work you begrudgingly had to do to get back in the swing of things. It could be worse- you could be doing a job you hate. Something that is not your calling.


What else is there besides this? Sure, the minutes can trickle by at a pace that feels frozen. A routine induced boredom that you try and remedy with…what? Why can’t you enjoy the trips and the journey? The small moments in front of the mirror, admiring how you have finally grown into yourself. The look matching the mood matching the inner voice- the one that won’t shut up. The one that is never satisfied. The one that argues with itself and demands more, while begging to be grateful.


The lives of the characters in the novel you’re reading seem so desperate, but their familiarity puts you in a panic. What are your rituals? Where is your romance and bliss? Is the literature a mirror of your routines? A cliched mid-life episode? Is this all there is? Will I cherish this at the end? Am I doing enough? Living enough? Loving enough? Am I to blame for the ho hum, hum drum of these days as they pass? Am I the only one who sees them? Feels their weight?


Why don’t we talk more about our dreams?
At this point what the hell is your dream?


So many boxes already expertly checked: job. wife. kids. expat. travel. hobbies. friends.


What else is there to want? And if you can’t even name it, why do you want it so desperately?


As a kid from an inadequate family, why can’t you just focus on the one goal? Have you forgotten the promises of selflessness you made to your infant daughter, on those quiet dark nights in the glow of her bedroom, with the tender music, and her in your arms, perfect and precious, an empty vessel for everything they didn’t do for you, an empty bag waiting to be filled with everything you salvaged from yourself worth passing on. You vowed to erase yourself piece by piece on those nights, promised to ignore your selfish needs for the sake of your daughter and your wife and this family. And now what ten years later you are wondering about your needs again?


Where did they go?
What are they?
Why do they feel so trivial and obscene?


Your priorities are in front of you. No more lethargic days passing away in a slow drip. Tell her you love her more often. Thank her. Help her. Live your politics instead of tweeting them. Go to Ikea with a smile. Care about the curtains. Get excited about the parties and the holidays and the future and the present. Be more present. Play with the kids. Talk to them. Look deeply into their eyes so they can tie themselves to your ballast.


Slow Sundays in your head can be exhausting. This election is pulling on you like dead weight, forcing you to carry around its bile with every step. The videos. The words. The Tweets. The half-baked opinions of every idiot in a comment box. Why do you let them burrow into your heart. Your space?


What else is there besides this? You are a middle aged man: a father, a husband, a friend and a son who is doing his best. Although, this seldom feels like it is enough, you have to trust that it is.

Old and Ugly and Gross

“If I’ve properly studied what’s going on in me, there’s a good chance it’ll read as if it’s about you.” Alain de Botton

Today wasn’t great. It wasn’t so great in a bad way, just in a not so great way. The day never really felt like it got off the ground. You ever have days like that? Ran a few errands in the morning that didn’t have the intended results. Although, Kaia came with me and we had some- sing-Pearl Jam-at-the-top-of-your-lungs-father daughter time.

The rest was mediocre.

The timing of my showers was off, and as a result I felt a bit sweaty for most of the day. Timing your showers in South East Asia is a key survival skill.

I didn’t eat right. I had some random McDonald's Fries, a Coke and an Apple Pie around 3pm that was not a good idea. This is my go to gluttonous, feel guilty for supporting corporate devils, but do it more often than I care to admit, snack.

It was cloudy and grey and the pool was uninspiring. I’m not cutting my hair or shaving my beard until the end of February, when I will shave it all off for our annual Hair for Hope event, but today the young beard was itchy and gross, and the hair felt a bit like a helmet. I was not comfortable in my own skin.

I felt old and ugly and gross.

We also took Kaia to get a manicure, watched Lemony Snicket, fell into a nap, and bought some bread from the store.

…

Sometimes when I’m bored I google myself. You might think this particular act is nothing more than narcissistic navel-gazing, (Kind of like writing a long Facebook status/blog post everyday for a year) and you might be right, but you might also think that I am tending, with due diligence, to my digital foot print.

Because I have chosen to put so much of my life online, it feels like the responsible thing to do- is to know what is out there for when/if anyone should type my name into the search engine.

Tonight, the results were about the same as usual. The main page was Twitter, my blogs, Facebook, Flickr and some random work I have done on other sites. The images were all kosher too. Mostly the thousands of profile pics I have used for various social media, a few shots of Kaia and actually lots of pictures from my PLN (personal learning network). The video section also checked out- youtube channel front and center, followed by clips of me singing at school and a variety of videos I have made for workshops in the last few years. The pleasant surprise was when I clicked on news.

I wasn’t expecting to see much of anything, but there were at least seven or eight websites that had used my Creative Commons Licensed photos for their content. A few shots of workers I had taken in Doha, a photo of Kaia dressed up as a scientist was on two STEM pages, and a shot of Singapore was on some travel site. They were all correctly attributed which was good. There was also some French article about me from 2011 when I was in Hong Kong. Not sure what it said exactly, I hope it was good.

It was reassuring to know that a kind and communal internet is possible. Not everything has to be viral or troll-laden. We can create content and openly share it with other people who might need it. Seems like a simple concept, this internet, but sometimes if feels like it has gotten too murky.

…

I read today that there are gangs of roaming violent boys from Morocco, harassing people at a train station in Stockholm. And recently a vigilante gang of masked Swedes went into said station and beat them up. This story feels like a lose-lose for humanity.

…

Lessons Learned:

• Not everyday is going to be great, or inspiring or even that interesting. 
• Some days are just meant to pass by. 
• Living your life online needn’t be scary and your work and ideas can end up in interesting places. 

1. Tell us about a mediocre day you recently had. 
2. Google yourself right now and share the results. Anything surprising? 

Isn't Life Strange?

This post started off as a word. An idea- content. In my mind it started to grow into a tweet, sprang some arms and legs, maybe a heart and almost grew into a Facebook status. But somewhere in its fetal zygote state it demanded more. Put on some music it said, sit with me and gestate; let's see if you can give me birth.

I had no idea what to expect. I was tired when I started. Getting over a cold can leave you flat, like you've spent all of your energy lifting heavy things off your flattened body- houses, trees, trucks and vans come to mind. But that wasn't my day, heavy had nothing to do with it.

Today was easy and light. The weight of my sickness was more like a feather I simply blew off. So why am I so tried? It went like this:

Woke up late(ish) past eight. The girls tired and groggy left us alone for the most part. Gone are the days of their constant need for attention. Upon waking up we decided to meet some friends for coffee at the park, so we got on our bikes and rode beneath the clear blue sky toward the ocean.

We decided to meet some friends for coffee at the park, so we got on our bikes and rode beneath the clear blue sky toward the ocean.

We decided to meet some friends for coffee at the park, so we got on our bikes and rode beneath the clear blue sky toward the ocean.

Sounds good enough to say three times. They rode their bikes too and our children played while we spoke about our lives and our jobs and our maids, until we realized it was time for lunch, so we moved a restaurant over and had margaritas and naan.

We rode home for a swim. I told my kids that I was proud of them for a variety of things, like falling and not making a big deal about it.  I yelled at them for being selfish assholes. I didn't use the word asshole, but wondered when I could use it for more effect.

I don't want them to be selfish assholes. (At this very moment I am listening to Dress (demo) by PJ Harvey and everything in the universe is flowing through my veins and my skin is gone and I'm not sure who is typing these words.)

After the swim, which was refreshing and quiet and necessary, the girls played on their own, while I read and slept and read and slept and dreamed and rejoiced, and read and slept until I was a groggy rested blob of self. After crawling out of bed....

I hugged and tickled the girls, told them I loved them and yelled at them for yelling at each other. I felt foolish and stupid, but then lost myself in the book about people who break their way out of stone.

After dinner we put the girls to sleep and decided to write this rambling post instead of a Facebook status. I'm still pretending like you care and that sharing these moments clothed in these word matters for some reason. 

I hope you might read them- old friend from high school, uncle, co-worker, friend, random twitter follower, ex-girlfriend, father- and you might shake your head and think- Man! Jabiz is weird. These words might remind you of why you care about me in any way that you might now or might have in the past.

You might think as you skim your social network (Your thumb scrolling all our lives into an endless feed of news stories, cat videos and pictures of the primate genocide) that- This is something, not sure what it is. It is not exceptionally well written or even proofread, but it appears he has chosen to smear some thoughts on my ethereal cyberwall. It might not be much, but.....

This was a day and I lived it and these words are a testament to that living. There has to be value in that.

Now, I 'm gonna grab a glass of red wine, slink into bed and watch Fargo. I haven't run in a few days or worked on my novel. I have been sick I tell myself. That is a good excuse. I have been living. I hope that is enough. I have a race in a few weeks and my draft is due soon.

I have never been good at goals. But sleeping, reading, yelling, swimming, riding.....living? These things I can do.

In closing, when I was twelve years old, I walked into Supercuts and said I want this haircut please:

Now at forty one, I hope to see something like this in the mirror by months end:

Isn't life strange?