Bathtub Blues
Down
the back of Hatty’s Shack
is a
bathtub painted black
full
of tadpoles and bouncing frogs
a drinking
place for the many dogs.
Down
the back of our back yard
this
bathtubs’ full of soggy cards
the
children use it so willy nilly
someone
placed in there a cockabilly.
Down
the back near the corner fence
the
bathtub sits since time hence,
those
silly frogs jump and croak
seen
though the murk a wheels spoke.
Down
the back of the end of beyond
is an
imitation country pond,
full
of life and fun for kids
memories
softened as they close their lids.
Down
the back of Hatty’s Shack
a bathtub
progressed, no going back
the
life of nature running free
a place
to look the likes of you and me.
Pacific Island Reverie
This
happened, I tell you
so privileged
to serve in the Navy
and
every year when New Zealand wintered
a pacific
tan would beckon and away we went.
We’d
spend three months surveying
ten
days working, 4 days playing,
in such
environs as Western and American Samoa,
Tonga,
Fiji, Funafuti, Tokelau and Niue.
Can’t
forget the Cooks neither
each
island group with it’s own microcosm
of Island
Life and language, music too
dancing
the night away in many places
I remember
Apia for instance, for a kilikiti game,
on a
cricket ground hastily prepared
near
the Presidents place, up the hill from Apia,
afterwards
relaxing at either Aggie Greys
or perhaps
the sunken bar called Otto’s Reef
or perhaps
even the Tusitala itself, talofa palangi,
then
when the evening drew on, up the hill
to the
nightclub, Mount Vaea Club for a cooling rum,
or perhaps
Tonga, Nukualofa to be precise,
Joe’s
Hotel or the Dateline, keep your shirts on
the
locals have strict codes of conduct, obeisance,
the
pool at the Dateline a fresh taste of relaxation.
Niue
is different, so hard to get on there, but rugby shared,
a look
around the island, no beer I seem to remember,
still
an Island of utter beauty and remoteness.
We’d
stay more often around Fiji, so much work there
enough
to keep us coming back for four years,
yes
four years straight I had an all round tan,
mainly
based out of Lautoka, many fine nights
the
Lautoka Hotel one of our homes, another
a long
forgotten nightclub of dubious report,
the
bottle store and a nearby park a hang out
with
locals, share a beer, woman, guitars going
then
the next morning off to Treasure Island
a trip
out on the Tui Tai to the island,
rum
punches the order of the day, sizzled
the
rapport with other foreigners, Canadians
and
many Australians, plus some Kiwis,
a day
on a deserted island with just a small bure
sun
baking, swimming, wind surfing, Bula vanaka,
The
other main island Vanua Levu, sugar cane country
Labasa,
not many bars, the one that was open
a call
back to western times, grills everywhere,
across
the bar, across the stereo speakers,
across
the door if you’re fool enough to enter,
already
stoked of Frigate Rum and Kava
we all
enter and have a great time, as sailors do,
the
dance music calls some to dance, the local
girls
a treat for sore eyes, and some leave with one,
I never
tasted the ladies, their lives mapped for them.
The
underlying key to being welcomed as kiwi’s
was
our own Polynesian history, we’re all islanders
we know
the taste of salt, the bright of sun,
the
language of companionship, touché
I used
to know a lot of the languages where I had been,
made
it a point to at least converse in the local dialect,
now
my addled brain barely recognises basic commands,
I sit
here and replay beaches, coral reefs, singing
The
Last of the Robert Louis Stevenson’s, a writer now
eager
to get things to paper, for me, and my girls,
they
need to know that there is another world,
one
that revolves around peace and harmony.
Licquorice Lashings
Hitler
paid his dues, his people suffered the most, yet today Germany (and Japan) are powerhouses in economies. Maybe we should all
learn and have a tyrant as head of state, go through the pain, and come out shining in a brave new world. OR!! Maybe we should
learn and have a good governance, learn from the mistakes made by others, and live a happy life in a free world.
My daughter
reads page four
she’s
only three, reading aloud already
soon
she’ll be reading novels
adult
words meant for adults
yet
at seven she masters Lord of the Rings
and
by ten has conquered Dune series,
by eleven
she’s commanded Thomas Covenant
Unbeliever,
such a rich tapestry of fantasy.
She
mastered mathematics early,
found
mathematical puzzles so easy
by the
she was doing work three years her senior,
her
life changed it seems (the years I missed)
her
schoolwork suffered as her health
depression
and anorexia claimed her
took
her away from her parents
into
another world of cuts and drugs
still
though, all through it, she shone
her
beauty snapped up for modeling,
a veritable
lady of youthful good cheer
despite
her afflictions, she shines - to me.
Countries
try and emulate the USA, to be a better economy, a better citizen of the world. Some
are hindered by poor governance, others by tyrannical saviours thinking they are doing the right thing. Nuclear issues abound, as do free trade, and subsidies and levies.
The European Union grows with each passing day, a formal acknowledgement that everyone in any country can be treated
fairly and with equality.
She’s
a good girl, “I think”.
Has
her head screwed on
in a
naturopathic world,
helps
her mother ease the pain
pain
that is physical daily
and
perhaps a small part mental,
they
try their best, it irks me
that
I’m not in a position
to look
after them all,
maybe
the clock will turn
and
my mind ease
where
I can earn a crust,
to maybe
help out,
yes
perhaps too late.
Knowledge
economy, that’s what our government is striving for, an economy that uses education as a valuable asset, and to an extent
it is achieving that, the problem is, the trained ones leave for overseas jobs that pay more than here. Their student loans are crippling them here if they work in this fine country. Some stay, actually a majority stay, no inkling to travel. I have it on good authority the education I
have now cost me a few thousand dollars and I’ll have to pay it back. It’s
just that at this moment, I can’t work. Yes that irks me too.
She
sends me photographs
recent
updates of where she is at,
a striking
woman now, twenty and then
twenty
first this year, will I get there?
I certainly
hope so, a special day
maybe
one she’s not prepared to celebrate
but
time will tell, she was born
the
day before my mothers’ birthday,
always
had a special place in my heart
first
born, strong and intelligent
and
one that could have blossomed
had
it not been for the curse of mental illness
that
resides in my family, shame really
China
and South Korea have nearly caught up with Japan and Taiwan. The bowl of Asia
a bedpost for manufacturing, for production, at lower labour costs, so cheaper goods.
It’s a crazy throwaway world here, firms going offshore to Asia to produce something at a lower coast to the
same customers. I think I bought a fridge once that was made in Asia, but danged
be the label said Made in New Zealand. Don’t know if it’s false advertising
or blatant despotism?
Yeah,
we started teaching her young,
the
fridge (Made in New Zealand)
covered
in alphabet and number magnets
we’d
spend ages playing with her
count
the steps to upstairs so the numbers stuck,
the
songs in the car wherever we travelled
she
loves her music, plays Bass
and
has a sweet singing voice, cool
I’d
like to open the fridge, grab a beer or two
and
go outside and sing with her (now)
but
I’m stuck in mental health poor land
unable
to even share a daily joke
yeah
it’s times like this I miss them all
my eldest,
her younger sister, and their mother
but
my bed’s been made and I lie in it
rather
sullenly, but not without hope.
Yes
that damn fridge, followed me all around my travels when I was ostracized from the family.
I could still see the magnets on it, like the shadow of Goebbels propaganda, see the beer inside that messed me up,
see the full bins of food, when mine were empty, the family gone. That damn fridge
that held a stick of licquorice for a treat to myself for being a good tyrant in my own realm.
Yes I daily administer Free Trade, impose levies, have levies imposed on me and all because of that fridge. My kids were no doubt better off without me for a while, I was kinda mean to them when I was undiagnosed.
Gnarled old Men as seen in a bole of an old oak tree.
You’ve
seen those boles, ex-limb markings
the
faces starring back like faces
from
a living boxcar bound for Auschwitz.
The
knobbly nose and furled eyebrows
peering
with outward intent,
the
likes of a gun barrel in Tiananmen Square.
An agape
maw, the teeth all hanging on angles,
the
bite of a vicious tongue
the
sound of the throng hailing Kim Jong Il.
Dad
showed me the Poplar Bole, thin, distorted
the
pain in it’s being justified,
as too
Geoffrey Dahmer sitting waiting on Skid Row..
Gary’s poems.
I write
to myself
a message
of graying
concerns
and
the old folk - Delaware way
Walt
denies his old age
his
poems reeling off the years
time
etches away at heirlooms
the
need to write one a day,
relaxed
now, the journey near over
five
more I think to myself
though
corduroy trousers
will
wear anon.
I see
his picture on the book cover
the
one that adorns this site
the
straw missing from a mouth
contemplating
the American South.
Hail
the days, when two great men
conjoined
to tell you more than I can say,
the
wish to read more
the
reality - life ends.
Nathans View - Hiroshima
“Radiation
burns, Hidoko” the doctor offered,
“but
it’s been 23 years dokutoru-san”
the
boils to the surface
cancerous
nodules
the
searing heat when hot water runs
lazily
Enola Gay winged her way
her
pilot recently deceased
a hero
‘to
whom?’ I ask.
Japan
outgrew the damage
leads
by example
economic
powerhouse
sores
of centuries
a death
of the Shogun
the
samurai wrapped in rice paper,
rice
wine Saki sunk in painkilling amounts,
the
citizens long in the teeth
short
of breath
everlastingly
injured
to die
the cheats way,
focus
centered on Hari Kari,
a need
to stop the pain,
yet
why the children cry
they
weren’t burnt
did
not feel the pain
do not
deserve to eat their fathers sword.
The
valley orchids grow irradiant,
a chase
of striking leaves
flowers
that used secrets,
like
the doughty people,
to survive
the dangers,
Paper-thin
walls seared to a sizzle
the
heat immense, survivors few,
the
back wings of Enola Gay wave farewell.
The Bolshevik Boys
In a
country where culture is endemic,
there’s
a group of Russian refugees
that
dance the Troika reeled off with ease;
the
Maori do the Haka and Te Ariki,
an Indian
community dances to Darbari Aatam
Europeans
waltz to Po and Rock and Roll;
The
inherent beauty of an opera or ballet,
the
select few attend in abundance, clap
the
Bolshevik Boys clobber thump music,
Dance
the music of human movement
an ability
to put desires in the face of hope
ten
ladies line dance to a country song.
I sit
here and wonder what my affliction is,
be it
stomp, thump, or giddy high schtump,
the
result of all my attempts lost in poetry.
Slower than the day I won last place
I won
last place you see,
was
something like gumboot tossing
or perhaps
dodgems at the raceway,
Maybe
even the foot race at school
when
Jimmy Cotton pissed all over me,
I know,
sounds onerous, losers always picked on.
I recall
my first job, reminiscement of Deja vu
the
cloudiest of days when my mood was foul,
the
lackey sweeping the floors spat dust in my eyes,
But
I made it, twenty years on I own that business,
the
lackey still there spitting dust in others eyes,
I'd
fire him I owe him, he gave me resolve,
Yeah
I hired Jimmy Cotton too, he's night sweeper.
Ugly People.
This
day we walked,
my brother
and me,
amongst
the tents
of those
called Free.
He turned
and spoke,
the
words so certain,
“why
are all these ugly people
all
born again Christians?”
I did
a double take,
took
another look around
yes
he was right
ugly
people to be found
but
I’m sure their hearts
will
be pumping pride
as you
look closer
you
see the love inside.
Ends to Means
Anybody
could have swayed you,
made
you change your mind,
I tried
and the wall of silence prevailed,
you
built sandcastles of airy fantasy
hid
in minarets piled high with shit
tried
to say you were the Queen of Destiny
I tried
to see your point of view, tried
but
failed to even attain understanding,
I rung
the doctor, he said just keep trying,
solidly
the walls grew between us, dying
the
love we had for each other, leastwise
not
the way we used to love, we’re parting
then
one day your dreams wake me up,
you
ask a question in your sleep, I answer
and
you return my query, I see the minaret
try
every night to learn to understand, cool
so during
the day I ask you pertinent questions
and
your smile lifts the gloom, I hardly sleep
trying
to keep the marriage alive, cheating I guess
but
it’s working, I seem the fantasy castle, questions
you
need nurturing, I answer as a far off prince,
sullenly
one day you snap, your mind collapses
the
doctor will see you this time, remedies
I let
him know where we are, he postulates
indicates
the door, this must be done alone,
the
result, a few weeks in a ward to come down
to be
medicated to fix the dreams, cut her cord,
the
reality that heaven is a place only for the dead,
soon
she’s back, I have quit work to care for her,
too
hard to face the loss, still I listen to her dreams.
Erroneous readings on the Lie Detector.
“So
tell me Sir, the day you killed your Papal Orchid
were
you aware the Vatican were watching it grow”.
The
detector went off the dial – “Yes I was aware”
he slouched
– his self respect shot to pieces, down,
the
tube at the end of the letter box shone black
a pale
white Lily passed by in two step mode, tangoed
ripe
sheep baa in unison, little lambies suffer warts
the
farmers deal as they do, vets there for comfort
and
still Jesus Hangs By His Nails, a sign of strength
Pilate
ushers in an era that touches things like war,
death,
and depravity, all in the name of the Papal Orchid,
poisoned
by the chalice of blood that is drunk weekly,
to avenge
the evil that supposedly rules the world,
the
lie detectors go off the scale again, the reality
all
things are made up to assuage personal endeavours,
the
teeth of a Narwhal fight extinction, whalers abound
in Southern
and Northern Oceans, their ilk, kith and kin
plastered
to the whaling wall, a Jewish parody perhaps,
the
Palestinians have been there for life too, so fight
yes
fight for the rights of whales and Jews, and Red Sunsets,
a blight
of wild fires colourising sky with windborne dust,
God
takes the stand, a detector twitches, this should be fun
so it
is, a picture of Bob Hope on a golf course and Kart,
not
to be mixed up with K Mart, where fallacies are traded,
suddenly
the detector dies, all truth in words written
the
key to decipher what each singularity needs to live,
I smoke
a peace pipe with seven Indian Chiefs,
The
spirit world lost in the beauty of a Papal Orchid.
Please??? Someone save the Whales.
Primal Screams.
Pencil
a mental note to myself
why
the dinosaur devolved.
Evolution
started wit Adamus and Evus
both
passed don leaving Us two men.
Amen,
the end of the species friends
if the
Bible is to be believed, succinct.
In the
sink is a spiral motion that hints
the
Ocean spreads it’s deep wings and sinks,
methinks
the psychology class at university
is but
a flash in the physiological pan,
Pan,
hear his sweet tunes, see him ride
brides
at receptions are often mistaken for Mother,
her
brother climbs a tree, balances on a limb
seven
foot tall conifers grew prolifically way back
the
track, a seven foot dinosaur alive today,
a home,
a burrow, a tree uprooted nearby,
where
and why they made this mess, who knows
why
large beasties grow on our naïve planet,
yes,
ask Janet, she may have all the answers.
Passing Passions
You
type the latest news into your generation X computer, bringing the latest on the tickertape.
You double, sometimes triple, check your passages to be sure the reader is going to understand your missive. The day grows long as you type into the night, a magazine all yours and your content. The readership is small, but eclectic and ready for another journey through your mind.
Those
seven foot monitor lizards
peaceful
creatures entitled to die
Tuatara
race slowly to their next feed,
some
say the Dinosaurs have gone
I point
at Tuatara and Great White
both
machines of a different ilk.
The
Labyrinth of scallops and oysters
provide
fare to hungry patrons.
The
dummy on the table reminds you to go feed the baby, step down from your editorial duties and be mother for a darling child. You fidget, no crying, unusual at feed time, no matter she’s still on the breast
and they ache for release. As you enter her room quietly, you see she is sound
asleep, doing what little babies do. You lift her gently from the bassinet place
her by your left nipple, and the journey begins anew.
Those
crustaceans stuck to ships
and
rocks on a sea shore littered,
they
hold the secret of life.
I’m
sure they do,
they
always did what they do now,
barnacles
that grow to a desired pattern
and
then just stick around scratching,
times
fly by when children cut and bleed
when
adult divers dodge man-eaters,
when
ships sink with the weight of the ancients.
She
sleeps right through, you put her back to bed after a burp or two. You go into the kitchen to compromise your healthy diet,
a feed of chips and dip, plus a few cokes to wash down a dry night. Besides the
baby needs a good healthy feed and by hokey she’ll get it.
The
laptop beeps new email, you wander over to the damn thing and see your brother has sent a card for your birthday. A bit early but all the good nonetheless.
A scientist
ruminates the question of life
another
regurgitates the restoration of death,
both
look to the future for longevity,
does
human life deserve long living?
A naked
murder victim in the morgue
seven
assailants submitting death blows
there’s
a certain negativity about these acts
those
days when questions outlast answers.
The
brown detritus of effluent flows on beaches
not
exactly killing the barnacles,
they
thrive on the morsels and grow bigger,
evolution!!
This
weeks edition closes on the freak show that is human life. Why there are more
disabled and handicapped people out there, some to parents affected by drugs and alcohol.
Your closing argument is that the scientists have it wrong, life isn’t a future thing, it’s more a now
thing, nothing is predictable. She then remembers a sister that ended it all
at 14. That wasn’t predicted and God it hurts still. Her heart here designed to care for her baby, and the magazine is one small part. Yes she thinks of the father, just wish he wasn’t a scientist always on field trips to discover life
on new planets.
My Heritage
The
Irish in me says Potato,
though
in reality I’m hunting Shamrocks;
the
weak English side says Haddock,
though
in reality I’m crying a Pint;
the
Scottish in me cries Haggis,
though
in reality I’m Robbie Burns;
the
German in me cries Frankfurter,
though
in reality I’m a player in an Oompah band;
the
Gypsy in me cries Flamenco Guitar,
though
in reality I have a Pierced Ear and Ring;
the
American Indian Spirit in my cries Destruction,
though
in the reality I am Bedded to the Reservation;
the
Maori in me cries Pork Bones and Puha,
though
the reality is I am NOT Kaumatua;
The
last song on the radio before bed cries Pain,
though
the reality is I am Asleep and Dreaming.
Brain fade
The
explosive reality of a brain scan
shows
temporary amnesia is hereditary,
the
spots on the right side
sure
signs a footprint of evolution
marries
modern design.
Later
I had a pint with Barry
we spoke
of old school days
and
the girls that we both chased,
he told
me his future wife loved me
when
I was a spindly gawky youth.
Bypasses
convert traffic from one lane
to another
going another direction,
the
doctor changed tack, crossed the road
found
the patient in a coma sans underwear,
a sprightly
eighty year old pointed, blood.
Pancakes
on the griddle splattered away
tensions
between East LA and San Francisco
left
on a west bound plane (Honolulu) soaring
too
many pets in New Zealand climbed the well to do ladder.
Yes
my mind flirts with reality
and
the unreal things that abound
toothaches
are more real and tangible
the
spots on a rarefied clot chart
mean
the time has come to make the most
of every
opportunity that life throws it.
Yes, No, Perhaps
Yes
you
made the Djibouti Express
Yes
the
syrup in Pancakes is runny
Yes
a time
clock ticks on by for once
Yes
the
catacombs wallow in steeped history
No
your
nose doesn’t bleed when you pick it
No
arrows
fly to a target, not the other way around
No
zero
dominance in a Lions Kingdom irks
No
the
day doesn’t turn dark with the rising of the sun
Perhaps
the
Red Baron was a hero to all
Perhaps
seven
dwarves did work for a living
Perhaps
daylight
satellite TV programmes blink
Perhaps
men
in tights in the 1700’s weren’t gay after all
So
life
on Earth goes on regardless
We
pass
each other without realisation
Say
words
that are meant to be heard by other ears
Nothing
left
in the barrel after the cork is popped.
Gravitation
Annually
I pay Taxes
I don’t
use hospitals
or graveyard
plots
I dig
holes in cardboard
for
children to play
I don’t
play in graveyards.
The
secretary genera
who
keeps my accounts
tells
me a Graveyard is for sale.
My license
to travel
taxed
at a premium,
like
a hole in the graveyard.
Those
far away days
where
dreams float and prosper
gravestones
shine in the night.
She
met me by row 23
aisle
49, the white lane
we saw
ghouls fly by, gravity.
Taxation
will be the death
the
life, money hidden away
families
dig up graveside plots.
Girl Interrupted
You
transcend the metaphysical. Your portrait shows a clear resemblance to your mother.
The taste of mozzarella on a hot pizza stupendous in the realms of gourmet cooking.
You crank up the old mixer your Grandmother passed on, readying the meal with utter clarity and succinctness.
The
lady of Demon Light
shines
coal black
in a
coal black world,
the
realisation ten dragons
dance
war dances
for
the lower end Cantonese,
a tug
of Tarantula war
ensues
as spider bake
cooks
a web of common deceit.
Ten
days after the Man’s Birthday, you’re still marveling at the sago pudding, your best yet. The men ate with relish, the children passed as they do. Suddenly your mottled hair does changes to a distinct
purple, your fighting spirit now of Bodecia proportions, your sword a cudgel of blazing Fish Slice, your shield a cake dish
ready for another chocolate cake.
Yes
Spider Monkeys,
they
seem to thrive in zoos
the
Lions roaring solemnly
I see
a zebra shedding it’s coat
a new
crossing for unwary children,
babies
on a Baboons back
where
children should be
the
Chimpanzee picks his arse
the
animal kingdom in control.
The
club meets once a week to swap recipes and crochet patterns. You say you must
go, to be a woman, yet you’re more than my partner, a pseudo man, husband and wife a partnership. The days grow long,
I await your return - a rerun of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest on the DVD, I always have an affinity with Hightower. You don’t like watching it, your father away with the fairies for years now.
Little
Centipede
the
road is long
you
eat it up
in the
time
it takes
for cars
to travel
halfway
down
the
winding lane.
Pass
the baton
the
leader stands
raises
his arms
pumps
blood
into
an erect
truncheon
“We
rule the world,
ruin
the planet,
play
unfairly,
all
to win
the
prize
we cannot
see.”
There’s
a cross stitch class on at the Haberdasher’s Arms, a pub for woman, where you can drink wine and call friends, friends. There’s a lot of detail involved, more than in a spluttering AFL game on the
TV, where everything is detailed for you, play by play. You come home and show
me the spider monkey cross stitch, inspired no doubt from the Zoo visit last week. You
also have a picture of your Dad, and your mother’s apron to share. We sit
and watch Girl, Interrupted, something we both have an affinity to.
Pass
me the remote
change
scenes willingly tonight
dyes
her hair again.
Hot
Went
to a funeral today
hot
as all hell
everyone
sweating
especially
the pall bearers.
Ran
across family
as you
do,
made
some new acquaintances
as you
do.
The
service was good
a few
tears
sweaty
palms
a good
eulogy.
But
hot, whew
had
to have cold drinks
for
all, though some had tea
did
I say it was hot.
Pass
on Kelvin
you
fought to the end
but
age knows no barrier
soldier
to the end.
The Race
I spied
the tape of the finishing line
my energy
near spent
a taste
of victory sweet
peripheral
vision shows no attack
the
ones behind lost in the roar of the crowd.
Another
fifty metres and it was mine
my energy
revived
legs
driving full pelt
the
crowd rising to my victory
then
I heard it, the increase in patter feet.
I check
behind, a longer look,
the
red of USSR
the
hammer and sickle
his
feet driving faster than mine
I turn
back and drive, running faster than hell.
Thirty
metres, and the tape loomed,
I sucked
hard the air
swam
dizzy from exertion,
the
sweat oozing as heat takes affect,
the
sudden lessoning of the footfalls behind.
Released
from purgatory, break the tape,
Reach
out fast
with
pumping arms
the
realisation the Gold was mine
and
with elation, exhaustion enters the mind.
She
clasps a flag, the Silver Fern
throws
it in my direction
lands
with a gentle plop
I stand
gingerly, grasp the flag
and
somehow find the energy to celebrate.
I think
back on this event, eons ago,
she
is still with me
the
Gold shines loudly
in a
room devoid of other mementoes,
the
memory will die with me, but I celebrate.
Glued to Neanderthalism.
You’re
sitting here reading this poem. You wonder what Thane is going to produce to
provide fare for thought. Suddenly you realise that you are too Thane, your fingers
held out in front typing the words at 44 a minute.
You
touch your nose with your ring finger,
the
lazerlite shining hot sun through it,
settling
down on the harsh black carpet,
burning
retinas through horn-rimmed glasses
and
as suddenly you’re back in the narrative, the fingers twitching in your mind, the sudden realisation you want to be
a part of the poem, the prose, the doggerel, et al. Your eyes squint closer as you start to enjoy this little missive, the
start reality you are a part of this poem.
Deck
the halls with shit and garbage
fa la
la la la la la la la
make
the reason for this folly
fa la
la la la la la la laaaaa.
Yes,
a mind slip, the cause and effect of Bipolarism, the need to sit here and type nonsensical nonsense and make the reader squirm
with the fact that love is amiss, hope is a facet of doom, charity is what one should get when and if she asks for sex.
Imperious
arsehole, you called me Dolt,
I know
what Idiot means, you don’t have to spell it out,
the
dairy on the corner sells Peter Jackson 30’s
just
to ensure my life isn’t prolonged.
I made
a bed, much like you do, tuck the corners, smooth the quilt, pad the pillows and then lie down on it and leave an indent in
the middle for the kids to dive in when they visit. Oh I forgot, my keyboard
is black (see you looked at yours) and my mouse is an optical type, (runs away when my hand approaches), fearful of another
bashing at the hands of the rapid surfer.
I read
this post with relish,
my mind
amiss this afternoon
good
I am me, creative
and
with that, I finish my reading.
The Stipendiary Steward
On race
day, the horses sweat for money,
punters
raise a heckled hand to cheer,
Dead
heats are received with disdain,
seven
judges adjudicate on a photo finish,
a polling
booth at voter time succinctly empty,
the
elections perceived as a ne’er do well,
the
administrators peruse voting papers,
to measure
the means, weigh the rites,
a way
to find doggerel in poetic circles,
read
the lines that don’t rhyme, nor reason,
so today
I spent a dollar on a nag, winner,
walked
home flipping a two dollar coin.
Why the Daisies are Booming Zero
Delectable
delicious Diamondback Daisies
dancing
daintily down Dewar’s Droop,
Carnal
Colleges crown cleaners cool
collapsing
cowardly ‘cross cauliflowers,
Broken
bowers bend backward brilliantly
bringing
Bowditch brooms back by Bushwalks,
Another
alliteration archive answers awkwardly
Arthur’s
accounts announce another apt awareness.
I finished
this thinking there’s not much more to add,
tasted
D back to A, and the two in between so
tainted
alliteration artfully prepared and written,
I ruminate
on the dexterity of an artful poet
trash
cans littering a dark alley, signals decay,
“Times”
newspapers dumped on a park bench,
the
wind blows subjectively, the whistle of a train
lonesome
on a winters night, the chapel doors open
to let
the ill content enter and assuage their sins,
a doctor
points to Z, says a count back would be fun,
just
four letters, Z, Y, X, and W, to conclude the end,
I race
for the dictionary to see if I can accept the challenge,
I decline,
very hard to create sentences with reason,
so I
let this poem lapse and …………………………..?
The Tightness of Her Pinafore
…she passes the time baking, confectionary
That
night long ago when she misfired on cordial
the
reaction an over reaction, the case a coma,
her
skin crawling with spider monkeys, itching
the
marks on her arms a badge of office, nails
... she delights in story telling, laughing
those
kids sit at her feet, one by one falling asleep
the
story hypnotic and overwhelmingly rancid,
her
youngest, though yawning, the one to win
she
smiled a hidden smile behind the story, recanted
… she plays with the car controls, even at 80mph
her
dangerous acts always follow a manic attack,
the
car a tool for mayhem, the driving act to scare
seven
police cars in the chase to date, across town
she
parks in a lay by, and accepts God’s judgement
… she walks the halls, the echo of her feet resounding
her
mind is quiet now, the children came today,
the
poor excuse for a husband brought them, he’s ok
Olanzapine
and Lithium in large doses, to mellow
a lady
in the next room screams all night, awake-mares
… she sits in the trial a spectator to her own demise
Your
honour (pipes up her reedy lawyer), ahem
we seem
to be at an impasse, the lady is clearly sane
just
a moment of madness, a touch of unreality
she
is fine now, let her go – at which she laughed.
… she sits in her kitchen overlooking recipe books
it’s
been a week now, and still she can’t bake
the
oven a demon of hot breath, the rays head cutters,
the
ingredients sit transmogrified and affixed the bench,
children
cry around her, unable to sample her delights.
… she turns to the TV and wished a cure
Olwen
James, the chiropractor popped in for a visit
tweaked
this, twanked that, and lo and behold, cure
beast of a sore head cleared with bone reconstruction
a belief there is a God and he’s human, so be it.
Battle of Evermore
Eerily,
upon deserted undergrowth in bushclad seminars, the races of UnderGrath deal with the decay of living matter. Toddlers play with fake swords and overgrown shields, too big for a serious tussle, to small (they) for
the reality of war. Spuriously, divine dream makers dance to the rhythm of the
North Wind through the rustle of trees, the song of love and loss loud to all those that hear.
Supine
the secret serpentine
she
who deals death,
dances
to the beat of a forgotten drum,
ladies
in pinafores and undergarments
secretly
scythe the wheat fields
for
men are at odds with each other
fighting
battles for glory and honour,
the
children locked in a time warp
till
Father walks (or limps/wheels) in
Dramatically
the South Wind change brings Imps and elves to the party, teasing little chitlins as they go about their daily play on words,
the frost from the west left a white cloak last night but now the warmth of the midday sun sings a melting melody, several
Trolls clip clop clip clop across a bridge in the valleys depth, far below the trees that signal fun times and happiness.
The
buried Sergeant Ganes in the chapel,
his
mortal remains cremated to be spread
the
ladies all cry, the children wonder
the
Padre passes around a donation pan
to help
feed the family, children et al.
The
Military march in honour, brisk and sharp
the
cut of their cloth indicative of long service.
The
Doors “Roadhouse Blues” echoes from the woodlands centre, the Granny Bake playing her favourite song, tapping
her blues ridden foot, swinging her over large bum to and fro, the beat driving the squirrels nuts as they play their daily
trade. Sarina the Saucy Siren sings Hayley Westenra’s “Pure”
in water song mode, her enchanting voice driving the children ever inwards, to seek her out.
The boys driven by the Blues, the girls by water music.
Down
Memory Lane the casket slow marches,
the
12 Gun Salute ricochets around the valley,
women
weep, what men there are, puff out chests,
the
lake by Dudding’s Emporium awash
with
South wind ripples and the drip of tears
rent
asunder peaceful tranquility, the day wanes
children
hurry back from the woods and eat,
the
woodland creatures retire to bed, work done.
The
Trolls stop for the night under the Bridge at Downhearts Crossing, the leader hungry for more little children to torment. Maybe this night will have a scream or two, maybe not.
The South Wind dies a little, enough for another Frost Cape to envelope later.
The Imps dance with their taillights, as if big cars on a speeders highway. The
Lady of The Night, Genoa, leaves a haunting song hang in the air, five miles into the forest, even farther into the haunted
valley folks. The funereal quality enough to have the good folk locking doors
and battening windows.
Verily
I fall upon my sword
the
death of Men and Children
Women
the true survivors.
Memoirs of a Twenty Something Hypocrite
She
remembers the day
she
stood in a field of daisies
plucking
the ones at her feet
and
making a floral tribute
to herself.
She
also remembers her first boyfriend
spotty
Jimmy from the house next door
her
first kiss
reminiscent
of those daisies
a floral
tribute
to herself.
Oh and
what about the exams
passed
with relative ease
allowing
her
a passage
into
university
a flowing
tribute
to herself.
Now
she’s a twenty something hypocrite,
drinking
vodka to ease the pain
snorting
coke to remove the memory
the
boyfriend from hell
who
used her daisies
and
turned them on
herself.
Reinsfield prophecy
Like
a rock drawing pretty pictures in a day old diary,
he reads
the first chapter, the last chapter
fails
to read the middle, the end like a bullet.
He acts
like an enraged Bull, all legs and horns,
the
act of charging at anything a failure to read,
white
stockings like his mothers legs, encapsulated.
The
junkie on skid row weaning off H, passes out
like
a turd dropped in a dry bowl, no means to flush -
He dies
with his pants down trying to expunge the fire.
lace
of her pretty camisole flaps in a funereal breeze
she
read him the middle bits in his dying moments
a story
of death and depravation, a story of life dying,
The
cremate his sorry carcass, like ten gun salutes,
the
“bullets” in his bowel going off, rupturing the whole,
a smell
of the happy party, not ten days hence, death
his
mother takes the reins, drives the horse and cart
her
reality that her children are dying before her,
she
has two left, she’ll watch them closely, alert.
Bow
down to evil
rice
wine intoxicates
babies
pass the gates.
