Grey Blue ducks fly south
On
a wing and a prayer
Statues
in a pork covered in pigeon poop
a hippy
smokes a joint on a bench nearby
Sally
and Jane chase dandelions around.
From
the Maimai guns poke.
Could
be any street really,
the
stark darkness of squealing tyres
laid
to rest on a hot tarmac, planes land
Over
the weed ponds game birds fly
They
stand sentinel at the local war cemetery
the
new arrivals draped in cloth
widows
and widowers cry.
The
Everglades
shine a welcome to land
Sports
people from far and wide
winter
their sporting bride
more
soldiers died.
In
a war where fowl have no place
A mark
of respect, the lowering on a flag
half
mast to indicate the passing of a dignitary,
if for
a soldier past, be endless, such is war.
South
to the lands of water and trees.
It’s
official, thousands passed
thousands
more to follow
tens
of thousand Iraqis gone.
The
rape of a Land of the Sunni and Shia
Ducks
have never flown there
yet
enough guns to start a war
disarm
the fighting, factions.
The Death Dirge
Warning,
this is morose, I told you ok?
yet
you wander on with my deathly reverie
awaiting
the words to fry your soul
the
list of must do’s before darkness falls
you
await my telling you what death is like.
I sit
and ponder that which I should tell,
living
a life in a living hell, alongside doyens
well
strap on your boots and let me take you for a ride
from
east to west, north to south, the words
aplenty
eschewed from my mouth.
List
One
Argumentum
Torch
Spare
Batteries
Water
canned
food
a towel
(for
wetting wounds)
three
burner cooker
the
bandages
to mind
sores
a sharp
knife
for
amputation
a Ouija
board
to summon
earthquake
friends
list
to let
them know
you
are dead.
List
Two
A wheelchair
age
concern brochure
an elderly
rest home
the
Times Life section on euthanasia,
a needle
filled with cyanide
the
will
two
wills in fact
one
for failure
one
for success
the
watch that ticks by till dying time
To My
Children love letter
a coffin
of meagre means
a plot
in the local cemetery
a reason
now to die.
List
Three
A car
A cliff
a simple
urge to fly
Marzipan
I made
marzipan
from
a recipe
my
mother
left
behind.
The
kitchen’s a mess, days of leftover food and recipe scraps littering bench tops and drawers. Visitors marvelled at how it all didn’t smell, fooled by scent blocks
everywhere. Red Mars at night a point of reference for a wayward chef.
A sailor
at
sea
washes
salt
from
aching
limbs
the
triptych
shines
blue
under
clear
skies
the
life
of children
made
easier
by astute
parental
attendance
Rocks
from a volcanic eruption smouldering and spilling down snow covered slopes, a
man caught between a hut and a boulder, emergency services removed both, leg amputated to ease the pain, dress the wound,
a volcano still smokes, danger ahead.
The
Arrival
of Jesus
II
king
of all men
tell
that
to the
Muslim
faithful
who
await the coming
of Mohammed
two
prophets
to bring
peace
to stop
the wars
yet
in time
war
will still
rage.
My mother
died of cancer, she was only 54 and went way too early, her sister died just before her of cancer too, and not long after
her brother died on the operating table undergoing a triple bypass. I live my
life never knowing how or when I’m due, God said 62
once and I’d be happy with that.
Mince
pies
the
Christmas
ones
with
sweetmeat
and
cake
pastry
mirror
presents
opened
for
children,
Dad’s
clear
away
debris
to the
rubbish
bin,
filled
to
overflowing.
The
days were long in the outback town of Coonawarra,
the Aborigines long used to the heat and flies. The Australian males mostly dig for opals to make their fortune, the Aborigines mostly
get drunk on the White Fells firewater
Subterranean Visitations
Rustic
reds on blue azure mantel
yuletide
yellows yammering for life
those
grey green grasses dance daffodil dances
a bright
light assuages bent cottonwoods
the
bright orange of an afternoon Sun
purple
cassocks wave in a welcoming breeze
and
in the sonoran desert brownish cacti point
the
water beneath scarce, the memory of another life
in children
with minds fresh from advancing decay
The
black limousine delivers white actors
white
limousines deliver black
actresses
the
golden globes won by the best skilled.
Another
day shines bright white on burnt retinas
the
feeling you get when you stare too long
the
sense of losses as a brown coffin tilts down.
Do you love me My Love?
“Do you love me My Love?”
“Yes
I do my dear!”
Things
are simple really
no need
to over express sentiments
no need
to overstate a power of being
all
the want to express in short breaths
things
that need saying from time to time.
“I’ve bought you a new car.”
“You
needn’t have, I don’t drive.”
The
hast in knowledge is to impress
to shine
where only black/grey illuminates
to place
priorities where they firmly belong
the
car is for me to drive you in comfort.
“Are you ready to make another of you?”
“Not
yet my darling, we have plenty of time.”
Those
days when the sun warms relationships,
when
five foot waves allow surfing of the water kind,
when
a sand dune is scaled and slid down,
the
idea children should arrive soon diminishing.
“Have you found your niche in life?”
“No
Husband, I am still searching.”
The
traps of old age beckon, sad days ahead,
I leave
her to chase her dreams, her visions
they
no longer express what I want to hear,
My niche
is unclear, I need to search the internet
‘Maybe
Wikipedia will have an answer for me.’
The P Words
Plant
a kiss
on my dear cheeks,
a potted
tree in the front yard
a foot
on either side of the state line
Potty
Where
kids go to wee
where
nutcases go when estranged
not
putty, used in building things.
Passion
a fruit
filled with enamoured delight
the
heat in the bedroom hitting 40C
the
kiss (again) that registers 6.8 on the Richter scale.
PotBelly
an American Blues singer of the finest quality
the
stove that keeps winter’s chill at bay
the
shape of a bay on a coast bereft of shape.
Playboy
a Hefner
vision turned into stark reality
a girl
that works for the Hefner empire
a sleek
Greek with smoothed back greasy hair
Problems
in this
world too many to resolve
in the
bedroom – Viagra called for
in the
finance sector, Wall Street plummets.
I like the way you are
I like
the way you drive
how
you take charge and rocket through space
how
you make other vehicles disappear
with
your wild driving style.
I like
the way you move
gyrating
and cavorting on the dancefloor
generating
whirligigs and free-for-alls
with
your sexually tempered tempo.
I like
that way you sex
hot
and heavy in the heat of passion
not
ready to cede passion for pleasure
with
your hips driving home.
I like
the way you moan
when
the children do something wrong
when
the car in front slows to a stop
with
your lips pursed for action.
I like
the way you sleep
your
dreams clearly giving you great pleasure
the
mumblings next to me cognisant of sweat
when
you awake and we ride.
Yes
there are times I like with you
though
those dreams have me worried.
The Invasion of Poland,
1939
from - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Invasion_of_Poland_(1939)
the
September Campaign," "Kampania wrześniowa,"
a time when Nazi Germany and the USSR
signed a deal
to split Eastern unit into two zones, Nazi and Russian
to power share.
It started on the 1st September 1939
was over by 3rd October, split in two
the Polish Army withdrawn to neutral Romania.
In a place in history, people starved
others got by, Jews rounded up and herded
like cattle to the concentration camps.
The polish rights were severed
cut from reality, survival
the need to get by with new masters.
20% of the pre war population perished
the Germans took hold of the USSR
bits
when they invaded the USSR
in June 1941
the Red Army reclaimed it in 1944,
the Germans on the run, tails between legs
the Red Occupation to last for many years.
The Fighting Man
Built like a two tonne Sherman Tank
reminiscent of Goliath of Biblical terms
the strength of ten elephants on heat
made to withstand desert storms
the battle from ground and air, his realm
takes out regimental guards and terrorists
a food supply pure uranium, essence
the drip feed of water from a portable reservoir
the stamina of running bulls in a Spanish town
Takes to water with special feet, mechanised heels
chases death ships and cargo bearers with alacrity
the patience to fire nerve rockets to destroy pain.
In his death throes centuries from now, he’ll remember
a man in a machine, sort of Robocop of the Army
the need to strip him bear to walk alone, unarmed.
Even Sad People Smoke
They stand outside at work come rain, hail, or shine
puffing away in a healthy environment, fresh air
their conversation rigged to the rigours of the day
their need to be outdoors once every hour or so, done
at night, the pubs and clubs, someone’s private home
out puffing away never once looking sad, ecstatic.
Yes I smoke, once every 45 minutes of my waking day
yet I feel no sadness, just overheard someone say so.
The Last Train to Babylon
You made a million dollars last week, yet you cry the world owes you a favour.
The washing in your room ranks five deep, and rank is what it is. Spend
some money on a maid or housekeeper.
The Last Train to Babylon
left
the rails south of Baghdad
the
carnage for all to see
Sunni,
Shia, Kurd, and foreigners
the
taste of blood drying on a mouth smashed
I open
the
emergency
box
try
to lift
the
last
medical
supplies
to help
patch
the
wounded.
The
cup on the nightstand beamed piping hot coffee, the cigarette in the ashtray drawing down.
The polite discussion on the TV makes for background noise. I see the
love for the written word flash across the screen as you
tempted another morsel from the acclamation journal.
The
Iraqi’s flashed
a warning to all
the
tracks being blown to smithereens
no,
the oil pipeline is safe, secure
the
days of Hussein the Hated passed
you
crawl
through
damaged
carriages
looking
for children
broken
bones
dead
hearts
the
loss
great
compared
to the
war
that
rages
diminishing
now
a scream
another
lost
mother
The
ride downtown to choose your next business partner a major hassle with cars locked in grid-lock, the cell phone constantly
beating out the next meeting. Cairo called to
say something big is going down in the Middle East, something about a train of peacekeeping
citizens being sabotaged for the sake of religion.
The
crucifix, the star of David,
a mullah
with a memory of the Koran
practice
death rights amongst the carnage
the
disinterred bodies of the dead and dying
passing
on their way, no matter the medical supplies.
I walk
amongst
the
evil
stand
pithy
to their
ministrations
toss
love bonds
deep
into
the
bowel
of the
Eagle
silently
the
Last Post
plays
another
soldier
another
three
citizens
the
delay
between
now
and
then
the
outcome
ongoing.
She
draws the curtain in the office, now dimly lit by fluorescent tubes, the computer screen blinking email. You watch her go about her job, wondering if she would wear a burkha?
Of course not, this is the free world. The urgency of another phone call reminds you to check your investments, to dial the doctor for
another check up. Oh, she says the doctor is in Baghdad to help.
Last Days in the Palace Grujon
We fumbled
around in the dark
lights
long dimmed by neglect
the
carpet covered in droppings
the
furniture dust covered and barren.
You
pointed out the dust on the mirrors
the
genuine misconduct of housekeeping
long
passed since human habitation
the
kitchen rust coloured and stenches
The
real estate agent holds her nose closed
the
place where the downstairs toilet overflowed
the
smell of rat urine and bird faeces
the
need to think this one over for prosperity
“but
monsieur, it is a bargain, ready to spend”
we shuffle
upstairs, the second level a little cleaner
the
smell from downstairs permeates every room
the
windows nailed shut since the French Revolution
Today
we open the chequebook, especially the view
from
the third floor bedrooms and a sitting room,
the
dust thinner here and less of a worry, nor smells
we look
at the spare cash register, place an interest
That
was thirteen months ago now, the sun shines
and
every room shines brighter for our work, guests
wander
around the palace and enjoy, the gardens
manicured
by your tender love, my forte decorating
No this
isn’t central France or anywhere
in France
this
is a little town in New Zealand called
Oamaru
and
the Palace Grujon is a fictitious name
for
a three storied Bed and Breakfast my wife wouldn’t buy.
Something
to do with cold winters.
Sniffing Glue
It's
a problem in most societies
the
constant use and abuse of solvents
to gain
an immediate high.
You
see kids wandering the streets
with
hoods up and a bag to their nose
see
them in the supermarket, blotchy faces
It's
a sign that society doesn't overly care
that
it's willing to make it easy for solvents
to be
purchased over the counter no questions asked.
Sure
the Wikipedia article talks more about
registered
inhalants, yet it still mentions something
about
the scourge on society, the blot on the face.
My
Bad Back
It catches
me unawares
bend
down to pick something up
crack
bad
back
smack
my head to ease the pain
the
lasting ache
I wish it was fake
but
no,
I move
this
way
or that
and
hang my hat
the
pain hits
crack
it goes
again
and
when
we men
get
bad
backs
it hurts.
Sir Robert Falcon Scott
We set
out on this adventure
to beat
Amundsen to the South Pole
as prepared
as we could be,
The
ice was broken with wind driven snow
Antarctica's best defense against Man
the
want to make haste tempered by needs
needs
to have enough food
needs
to have good clothing
needs
to manage good distance
needs
to be the first.
Scott:
I stand at the Pole, the Norwegian flag nearly decimated by the strong Polar Winds, the sign we had failed, the shoulders
of the men slouched in failure, too hard to get them going again, the loss so hard to take.
He made
for the Ross Sea,
his return journey
the
supplies dwindling as endeavour bit,
the
rice swelling with the cold, cold, bitter cold
Scott:
Evans perished today, a sign perhaps that we won't make it. We pee and defecate in the tent now, a sure sign this will be our dying place. The wind outside too cold and bitter and very cutting, we lost another to the storm, Oates, frostbitten
and sour. If I had a pipe I would share it, but all I have is words of comfort
and our diaries. Some write letters home.
I estimate were are within reach of One Ton Camp, but physically we are readying for death, too far gone.
Scott
is remembered as a great adventurer
even
though he lost on two counts
the
fact he tried I suppose evidence enough
Do we
hear about the deeds of the dead on Everest?
Ten minutes before Stanley met Livingstone
Livingstone:
I sense
a change in the mood of the party. They too sense something momentous. The blacks have a spring in their step, the Arabs - measured increase in pace. Personally I have the feeling a new mountain will come into view, or perhaps another new animal species.
Stanley:
I’ve
been lost too long now though I know I’m travelling in the right direction for something? The carriers and horsemen trot single file down the jungle growth, the undergrowth hacked with machetes. We sense something new, something daring around the next bend, but all have been through
too much to even contemplate.
The
meeting:
Stanley I presume.
The
last time two white men met in Africa
was
never, unless you talk about the Crusades
but
this far into deepest Africa, no one
the
light in the afternoon sky dimmed
as hands
were shaken, backs patted
such
good luck and fortune for the two to meet
a few
hundred yards to left or right
a possibility
history would never had been made.
What she knew about my lineage.
I met
her online
she
knew more about me than I her
did
she have association with my ex?
We’d
talk for hours
me more
to help her get through depression
she
lost her husband, heart attack
I was
a willing ear
so we’d
chat and soon it was more than chat
long
discussions of past and present, future too
the
breakfast I made
was
soon followed by a hearty lunch
the
dinner we shared with alacrity,
we swapped
addresses
presents
this way and that, warmly received
cards
for birthday and Christmas, love maybe
yes
I went missing for two years
she
never gave up hope, waited everyday
a hint
of a return, a snippet of news
through
my Ex off all things
the
reassurance I’d be back, to swoon her again
yet
still, I wonder how my ex got her email address?
Ribbonwood Lane and the
Castigans
The
ripple on the water at Blackmarsh Grove spirals
aquamarine
mirrors of Oaks and Willows reflect upon
artist
Monique paints the scene with pale watercolours
her
sense of hue redolent in a summers day refracting.
A Blackberry
hedge down Ribbonwood Lane shines indigo black,
Children
run and press themselves in for the fruit within,
Those
gates at Reubensteins farmlet open to produce seekers,
the
painter taking it all in as he daubs oils of the Lane scene.
The
Minstrel Diego sings a life song as he dances down,
giving
the lane another voice, another colour on canvass,
both
painters imbibe in his enthusiasm, drink it to palette
seven
cars in a funeral procession drive through darkly.
Hanky Panky the maize crop scarecrow whistles a bird song,
a farm
free of birds, the crops still in one piece, just
the
chime on Mayor Dromgool’s clock tower chimes
mid afternoon,
people
run hither and yon to attend churches as is done.
Ribbonwood Lane resounds to the patter of feet
and children,
the
lifeblood of a farm town drawn to reality, beauty, signs,
that
the time of life is slow and meandering, painted,
the
artists continue apace, gathering ribbons of colour, daubing.
Night
comes all too soon, buggy’s with oil lamps and whips,
the
horses clip clopping down the Lane, snorting for effort,
the
painters long gone now, light turns to dark, gloomy,
the
blackberries hiding for another day, the Castigans claiming night.
Yes,
the Castigans, or the body snatchers, the night callers,
the
long black dray, and Clydesdale horses whipped
the
lady Candroghast laying dying at the Cottage Clamatis
just
one house down from Cappy’s Corn Farm, around the bend.
They
overstretch their welcome, the children run for cover,
the
great horses clop their way down the drive, whinnying,
at the
sound of the horses, the widow passes, the body readied,
for
it’s final journey down Ribbonwood Lane, past
the chiming clock.
