Just Us?

Just us then?

Yeh, just us.

What we gonna talk about?

I dunno,

I dunno either.

they both look into the distance contemplating the grim prospects ahead

Poor Jess.

Yeh.

She’s had a bad trot recently, Lost her wallet last month and then lost her balance in the bathroom.

Broke her hip.

Yeh. And only a few days ago she trips over the cat and breaks her arm.

Accident prone.

Yeh, you could say that.

Must be hard to dress herself with one good hand, wipe her bum.

Think she’ll phone?

Hope so; otherwise it’s just us, the two bozos.

Isn’t it her turn to bring the wine?

It is.

they look into the distance again

Miss her a bit.

Me too.

Hard to get a word in sometimes when she’s here.

True. I don’t like the way she interrupts sometimes.

Still. She puts up with us. That shows character.

True. Do you think she’ll come next week?

Hope so. Otherwise it’s …

Just us.

they look into the middle distance again quietly quaffing their ales.

That Bloke at OUR table

There was someone sitting at our table. This was the second time in less than a month that this had happened. My friend in the wheelchair was ropable but I suggested, good old level-headed me, that we cool it.

Mind if we sit at our table? I asked.

Be my guest, he said quaffing his ale.

We won’t bother you, I said and then after we got our beers we became companionable.

Our friend introduced himself.

Steve, he said extending his arm for a handshake. I didn’t want to seem prissy and Covidy, so I shook it with all the manliness I could muster. [I go to gym :)]

Unlike our former usurper, the bloke with a book, Steve was not a reader. He was a man of action who spent much of his life as a pneumatic/hydraulic mechanical engineer working in mines throughout Queensland and W.A.

He was a good drinker too, downing four pints to our one. And he was still lucid and like our former companion a Catholic who still attended mass.

How come, I said to my mate after, we always end up with Catholics?

And loners, he said.

Maybe it says more about us than them? I suggested.

Which Animal Are You ?

Perhaps I am a porcupine.

I am prickly by nature

& when I forget to shave

I have a prickly kiss,

Like most porcupines

I live alone

except when I cohabit

with other porcupines

in which case, I’ve been told,

we live in a prickle.

When my quills are quivering

people steer clear of the thornbush

that is me.

*what animal are you like?

*want to add a little poem about yourself as that animal?

Eyeballs of Yr Brain

Some people say I should write

More about people

Social issues

Than, say, red pencil sharpeners

Or cats with no eyes

But I reckon you’ve got to run

With what you’ve got,

Whatever grabs the eyeballs

Of yr brain,

the sad, empty chairs of the Nail Salon, for instance,

plushed as if for royalty,

the little commas at the end of sentences wriggling

like tadpoles,

that lop-sided moon like a broken smile,

Whatever,

You’re there to celebrate its otherness,

How it shines out in a tawdry world,

What brings it, and you,

In the words of Trent Reznor,

‘Closer to God’

I forgot to Remember how a Poem Works

Let’s see. Firstly there’s the way in.

‘The Way In’ sets the poem going,

it also sets the tone: what sort of poem

it’s going to be: jaunty, jocular , or,

thoughtful and serious, a poem with heft.

Then there’s the ‘Exposition’, I suppose,

where things indicated in the opening lines,

unfurl with some detail and gusto,

however restrained. Neither undercooked

nor overdone. A good poem is like

a good meal, satisfying and sustaining.

  • is that a fair summary, do you think?
  • what have I left out?