It’s funny I saw that other place as Home
& not my place; but now things have unravelled
I see my own place anew; love its peace, its warmth,
its acceptance of who I am,
the quirky writer with special needs,
that I can move freely within its borders,
its little backyard big as the other’s big yard.
Home is the dog that wags its tail when it sees you.
I have always wanted to work in a pencil factory
like Henry David Thoreau.
I could draw inspiration from my work each day,
pencil in appointments with imaginary friends
during coffee breaks or smokos.
Do they still have smokos by the way?
‘The pen is mightier than the sword’ but what about
the pencil? & which one?
2B or not 2B? Hamlet famously dithered just after
he had asked Ophelia [ in an earlier draft of the play ]
to come and look at his etchings and she had refused.
I may not be the sharpest pencil in the box but I still
want to make my mark upon the world.
O brittle love
O brittle love
whatever were we
thinking of?
one careless word
misplaced phrase
put us in a spin
for days
but now in each
other’s arms
we appreciate
our twisty charms
locked in firm,
solid embrace,
steady as stone
we’ve found our place.
I drove past the Snack Bar the other day where twenty years before I came across the boy with the furrow in his head.
He was in his early teens, with a patch over one eye and did not speak. His mate, a little older. spoke for him. They left with a few cans of coke and cigarettes.You could do that in those days.
What happened to him? I asked the shopkeeper after the two had left.
Well, he said, they were out in the shed horsing around with a speargun when it discharged. The spear shot across the room and took off part of the boy’s head.
We both went quiet for a while as the horror sank in.
I purchased my newspaper and left.
Everytime I drive past that shop …..
Each morning the little shih-tzu takes
his snowy-haired owner
for a walk.
They wind through the back streets and lanes
to the school oval
and back.
It is a long walk with constant stops.
He knows it like the back
of his paw.
But what if one day
he forgets too…?
A new driver
took over his bus
clean,
open-faced,
good-natured,
knew how to swing
a conversation.
Sure, he still liked
his cigs,
the pokies,
but he doesn’t touch
the booze.
Not any more.
He’s high
on Jesus now
and Marge.
And look how she
leans into him
as if she really belongs.
And perhaps this time
she really does.
I saw it advertised in the local rag.
‘Bonsai Show’, it said.
It was a tiny notice. I had to squint to read the details.
The hall was rather tiny.
I squeezed through the entrance almost knocking my head
against several light fittings on my way in.
It looked like a huddle of hobbits around the bonsai which
were unusually tiny.
“They’re not fully grown yet,” a volunteer offered.
Like many of you, I felt like saying but bit my tongue.
The Club President gave a haiku-sized speech for which
we were all grateful.
I mingled for half an hour indulging in the small talk until
refreshments were served.
There were pies, pasties and muffins from the ovens of Lilliput.
“Would you like a short black?” the serving lady asked.
“Any chance of some wine ?” I said.
“Sorry,” she answered, “It’s in very short supply.”
I had had about enough of pint-sized jokes,
and headed out into the big, wide world.
*pic by backyard boss on pinterest
John Malone 