Goulash

I am reading a short story but it is not making any sense.

Call me ‘old-fashioned’ but I think a story should make sense.

Maybe it’s because it’s told in a goulash of styles.

But the writer is an accomplished writer.

Does that mean I am not an accomplished reader?

Can a writer be over-confident, cocky? If so, can a reader?

Maybe it’s my mindset.

Maybe I should loosen up like good old George, slouch around in the ungrammatic, delve in the demotic, savour the stew

• have you read any books or seen any films that made little sense? did you continue with them anyway?
• what makes an accomplished reader?

Don’t Go Down in the Basement, Darling

Bad things happen in basements

we know

the Id beneath the floorboards

so Lester’s wife should have thought twice

about mocking his masculinity

in their basement

by the clothes dryer that doesn’t work well;

now Linda doesn’t work well either.

Badasses and Babadooks bide in basements

& the offspring of Horror Writers’

brains.

So the next time someone offers to take you

down the basement

or hop into a car boot

or trunk

if they’re North American

that basement of motor vehicles

don’t!

Your Face, My Friend, is a Poem

Your face, my friend, is a poem.

An ode to youth,

masculinity,

not the toxic kind

but the Howard Keel kind

of Seven Brides & Seven Brothers

cocky, confident, wholesome.

I bet you have a brawny baritone too,

can hold a song

in any amateur musical;

I bet there’s a bit of the buffoon about you

as well

that swaggery moustache

that raucous smile;

it’s not a bad dial

to go through life with

• the poetry is pretty good too. Visit JOJO by googling JOJO AL-WAEALY and his blog comes up

Lost Books of Childhood

Not read ‘Alice in Wonderland’?

Not opened ‘Charlotte’s Web’?

And you say you’ve read 1000 books

& claim you are ‘well-read’

Not read ‘Wizard of Oz’?

or ‘Where the Wild Things Are’?

Never read ‘Peter Pan’ or heard

of ‘The Hungry Caterpillar’?

But you’ve read Robert Ludlum,

everything by Wilbur Smith

and you’re into science fiction

& all of its What Ifs?

Go in The Secret Garden

the Grimms wild, weird woods

& get thee to a library & read

the lost books of childhood.

* what children’s classics have you not read? [I’m about to read ‘Charlotte’s Web’ for the first time. I’ve seen the film J ]

A Bit of Biffo

I just got back from the gym on a mild, sunny morning,

walked into my study, went onto my laptop and walked

into a storm. Two bloggers whom I follow were sparring

online. It’s not often you see this level of engagement

and in a sense it was bracing: I felt like saying,

hey guys! calm your farm but thought that may come across

as talking down to them. Sometimes beliefs must be

hotly defended — a bit of biffo has its place —but I hoped

for some sort of conciliatory gesture.

No one wants a knock-out blow. Heaven knows where

this argument will end. No Names. No pack drill.

The Magic Robot

He knew everything,

That little green figurine

on a metal base

a gold wand in his hand .

We’d stand him on the board

inside his metal slot

[ It was all done with magnets ,

I explained to my grandson ]

and point him to what

we wanted to know —

the capital of Mongolia , for instance ,

or what was the longest river in the world ?

Then we’d lift him off

place him on this little mirror

surrounded by answers

on the other board

and watch him go .

He’d wobble a little bit

at first

as though he was thinking

then slowly turn and point

to an answer .

He always got it right .

Kids would come over and we’d run

quiz shows

with the robot as quiz master .

There were lots of questions

on lots of topics .

He knew them all .

Then one day his powers died.

And he knew nothing.

We put him out in the shed.

I never got to ask him the big ones

like what will I be when

I grow up

or when the world end will end

or where animals go

when they die ?

For a long , long time

there was nothing

like him .

The along came something

just as good ,

the internet of course .

That’s the Magic Robot

for these times .

You can ask it any thing

you want

though it still can’t answer

the big ones

You Really Have to Lift Your Game

You really have to lift your game, I say to my poems:

pull the finger out, push the envelope, think outside the box;

you’ve been resting on your laurels too long.

Other poets are doing amazing things with words,

smashing them together like neutrons in a Hadron Collider.

Get this: ‘these widowed months’, ‘the dents of highway laughs’,

and my favourite: ‘the soul is a runway for anything willing to fly’.

Whew! they say. Is that all you can say? I say.

Will you try a little harder? I say to my poems. Come on, guys.

For the Home Team. They look a little hesitant, abashed.

I don’t know, they say. It’s just not us.

We’ve been through this before. Okay, okay , I say. I’m sorry.

Just be yourselves. Just occasionally, Huh? Would it hurt?

They look at me. Give me the thumbs up.

Then I play them Slowly Slowly’s ‘Jellyfish’ as a stimulant.

They light up, move to the music.There’s hope for them yet.

* quotes from Bob Whiteside’s blog: naïve haircuts

On the Hop

Did someone throw a switch?

One moment we were out of the woods.

The next in.

We’re going in hard, fast, early,

the Premier said.

And that’s how it happened.

Six days hard lockdown,

stricter than Wuhan

or Melbourne.

Pubs, schools, businesses.

Even the police were caught

on the hop.

Who decides these things?

.Hard, fast, early.

Then three days later

we were out again.

A lockdown based

on a pizza worker’s thick crust

of lies.

Even my grandson in Vienna

heard about it.

Did you?

We’re the Easter Bunny State

where decisions are made

on the hop.

What If I Leave the Dog Out?

What if I leave the dog out?

You can’t leave the dog out. It’s hilarious.

How about the two phone calls?

Necessary to the plot.

But it’s got to be less than 100 words. What if I leave out the storm descriptors?

Then, excuse the pun, you destroy the atmosphere.

How about the phrases I worked hard at?

Like ‘freckled sensibility’ ?

Yes.

It’s a frilly phrase..

But ….

Kill your darlings.

So what do I do?

Regroup. You can fit anything into 100 words.

‘War and Peace’?

Yes, even ‘War and Peace’.

In Which the Dog Loses His Cool

I’ve got a bone to pick

with you,

says the dog to Mrs. Hubbard.

How come when I go

to look

there’s no food in the cupboard?

No meat, no cans, no biscuits.

Why there’s not

even a single bone.

And you have the cheek,

the temerity

to call this place a home!

It’s not as though you’re

the old woman

who lives downstreet in the shoe.

Look around. You haven’t

any kids to feed.

There’s just me and you!

Whatever can be the cause

of this

outlandish state of affairs?

Why if I was goosey goosey gander

I’d kick you

right down these stairs!