Die Hard

I always draw the short straw.

She gets the drumstick.

I should be quicker

more assertive.

Less of a bozo.

That’s the trouble when you share.

In our circle

old courtesies die hard.

The lady goes first.

Rumpole

This is Rumpole.

Rumpole is a plaster of Paris statue of a real dog that wandered away nine years ago and never came back.

We tell tales of where he might have gone, what mischief he got up to and the puppies he might have sired.

We still think one day he will find his way back home which is why we leave the side gate open.

Meanwhile the statue is comforting. We know he’s not really there

But every Halloween he cocks his leg and pisses on the pavers to remind us he still is

Spookier than Halloween

I go down the shop to buy a packet of cigs for a friend. I tell the cashier the brand.

What colour? she says. Blue, gold or red?

I dunno, I say. The one with Bryan on the packet.

Who’s Bryan?

The poster boy of lung cancer. On the rack of his deathbed. Skin sick as pus, emaciated, eyes wild, pleading.

Sounds terrible, she says.

It is. Cancer porn. Spookier than anything you’ll see on Halloween.

Me and the Ant

Me and the Ant go way back, ever since we discovered

our mutual Achilles’ Heel: coffins made of steel: Lifts.

He’s not a big fan of car boots either or small caving tunnels,

so the Thai cave rescue would not have been high

on his agenda. One thing’s for sure: Ant is an SAS commando

& instructor and if he can’t handle lifts, what chance

have marshmallow men like me got? It’s in my Will:

‘to be cremated’; just in case

Seek and Ye Shall Find?

.

I’d been looking for a career back in the late sixties but it found me.

I went looking for God for a few years in the early seventies but found what I really wanted was to have kids so God went out the window.

I had another shot at finding God or Transcendence a little later on but ended up in a cult so I had to get out but I found Rhonda who was very spiritual and inspirational. I used to say to her, ‘Help Me Rhonda’ and she would smile and help me anyway.

For a few years from 2010 everyone went looking for Bin Laden. I would track all over the streets of Adelaide because Adelaide would be a perfect place to hide. I mean who would think of looking for him there?

Then I went looking for Milton but I found him.

I know a journalist who was sent to write an article for a top American magazine on J D Salinger who proved elusive as God but he wrote the article anyway on NOT finding J D Salinger and still got it published.

Lately I’ve been searching for Equanimity but that’s harder to find, except in snatches, as Bin Laden or J D Salinger.

The Moment

Whales!

I heard there were whales lunging out of the water

At Henley South,

“sleek and smooth as peach slices”,

One eye witness said.

I finished what I was doing and went down

For a look.

But the sea was flat and empty.

There were only a pair of cyclists on the other side

Doing up their clips

And a pelican amongst the gulls gazing wistfully to a spot

Where something might have been.

No sun was out. The sky was whale-grey.

I had missed the moment.

Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow

It had been bugging me for months so I took a clipping down to the Garden Centre.

What’s it called? I asked. What’s its botanical name?

I didn’t much like the sound of it.

So I asked its common name.

Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, the man said.

I very much liked the sound of that.

so I went home and dubbed it with my royal ruler.

Henceforth you shall be known as Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, I announced with a clipped classy accent.

It sounded like a song.

Like something from ‘Revolver’.

Max and the Great Big Grin

This is Max.

The birthday boy.

He was 10 years old the other day.

Say happy birthday to Max.

He’s my grand-daughter’s dog.

A lovely, well behaved Labrador.

But recently Max did a Houdini.

Somehow he got out and went for a wander.

When my grand-daughter got home she looked everywhere and began to get anxious. Max has ID on his collar but their house abuts an 80 k zone.

Then a woman phoned.

Your dog is in my backyard, she said. He’s fine.

When she picked Max up he had a great big grin on his face.

What you been up to, Max? she asked.

But Max kept mum.

It must have been good because Max slept very soundly that night and that great big grin was still on his face.

The Rant that became a Poem

I’m always amazed how they go in

Without thinking

Then close the steel doors on themselves.

Haven’t these people any imagination?

Sometimes they are bunched up in there

like sardines in a can.

Speaking of cans I can’t help thinking of the Kursk

how those poor submariners were coffined

in a can.

Speaking of coffins, that’s what they remind me of.

Lifts.

Vertical coffins.

Going Down?

My counsellor says I have too vivid an imagination.

Isn’t that what writers are supposed to have?

Anything can happen.

I think of ‘The Towering Inferno’ and those people

plummeting to their deaths when the lift cables

snap

or in ‘Speed’ when they are cut.

And my counsellor says to calm my farm!

Speaking of farms I think of cattle being trucked

to the slaughterhouse and not knowing

till it’s too late.

And speaking of not knowing, and I promise I won’t

speak of ‘speaking of’ again but I bet poor old Nicolas White

never knew when he stepped into an elevator back in 2008

that he would be trapped in it for 41 hours.

No food. No drink. No cell phone. No company.

 I don’t know if those people got out at the other end

or not

but I’m taking the stairs.

Mystery on a Bridge

There was someone on the bridge

Curving high over the dark water

About half way along

Then there wasn’t.

Someone with a mop of ginger hair

an orange top and grey track pants

Standing against the railing

Looking wistfully out.

I looked away when a siren sounded

On the headland then looked back.

No splash.

No disturbance of any kind.

No bright lithe form spearing

Through the water.

No one emerging from either end.

Nothing.

Just someone standing on a bridge

Then there wasn’t.