Lady Bay

Lady Bay

Molly and Tom are sipping G & T’s on the porch of their third room apartment overlooking the golf course.

“It is so peaceful here, “ Molly remarks.

The main road passes the links where cars pick up speed after leaving the confines of a 50 k zone but their roar is swallowed by the distance from the apartments and the vastness of the course.

Just then Tom’s eyes lift as he notices a vehicle driving over the green. It has just come off the road.

It slows down and stops. Two figures in dark blue uniform dash out.

“It looks like a police van,” Tom remarks. “What are they doing on the course?”

Just then three shots ring out. Then silence. There is a scuffle of some sort. Within a few minutes the van drives off.

Later at dinner Tom and Molly learn from their waiter that a king ‘roo had been hit by a SUV and wandered onto the course, broken and bloody, “scaring the bejesus out of the oldies”.

That it was the night before Halloween did not go unnoticed.

Siberia

Siberia

We arrived late at night. That may have been the reason.

Or maybe our reputation preceded us.

Either way we ended up in Siberia, Room 313 , the furthest most room from the front desk, next to the storage area.

Adele, the desk clerk, wasn’t much help. In her effort to be genial, she often hit the wrong note.

Eventually, we got our keys and lugged our baggage down the long, long corridor, the shadows across the carpet hulking and ominous.

By the time we got to our room we were stuffed,

We stripped off and hopped beneath the covers of the king size bed.

That’s when I realized we had company.

The figure beside me shifted uneasily  

Stunned and Panicky

Stunned and Panicky

I wake up suddenly

stunned and panicky

like a ‘roo caught in the headlights

of a big rig

an eighteen wheeler

tunneling thru the darkness.

My senses are all rinsed.

I leap out of bed

into the hysterical light of morning

pour myself a coffee

settle back into my little

skew whiff home.

• pic courtesy of pinterest

Houdini

Houdini
 
She’s the Houdini of hounds

getting in and out of tight spaces .

Her piece de resistance ?
The burying-in-the-blanket trick .

Performed while we’re asleep .

The props ?

A wicker basket with ground sheet
and blanket .

The technique ?

A mystery BUT
she wraps herself inside that blanket —
a hot dog —
against the cold .

In the morning we go out eyes
wide with amazement .

At the sound of biscuits sprinkled
in the bowl
she extricates herself
 
from her woolen prison
faster than Houdini
from his padlock and chains .
 
 

Ruffians of the Lord

Huddled

in their rumble jackets,

burly,

growly haired,

they waylaid me

at the foot

of the jetty

proselytizing Jesus;

one thrust a pamphlet

in my face

& I waved it away

saying, not interested

& he said

in a thick Russian accent,

why you not interested

& the others milled around;

I dug my hands

into my pockets

& strode up the jetty

wondering what Jesus would make of

these ruffians of the Lord

Blowing Rainbows

Blowing Rainbows

Maybe if I was a little less lethargic

I could turn to things pelagic

and swim in the open sea

my arms and my legs

could become fin-amajegs

and I could blow rainbows

through my nasal cavity

*pic courtesy of Pinterest

Water Towers

To the uninitiated , mysterious as

the moon monoliths in 2001 ;

pensioned off light-houses ? a giant’s

apartment house or a giant

phallus set in cement , a reminder

to the young colony —

populate or perish ? they come in

all shapes and sizes ; rise

suddenly from the landscape like

mushrooms with their long

stalks and caps yet exist singly —

it is houses that cluster

around them ; scattered around the

countryside they are tall

as wheat silos though their bellies

seem full of water

but why windows — for fish to peer

through ? or doors — what if

someone should break in ? only the tops

hold water , I am told ,

like a water tank on a stand ; largely

redundant , now they are

being sold off like unwanted churches ;

yet I consider them ,

their brief reign ; for me they always

held more than water

• pic courtesy of Wikipedia

The Naked Beach

The Naked Beach

Get your head

out of yr ass,

said my mentor;

all things must pass;

look around;

be here, now;

look at the cows

in the field,

how placid they are

learn what I cannot teach;

imbue the wisdom

of the naked beach

One Day They’ll Wake up to Me

One day they’ll wake up to me.

They’ll say, he doesn’t read the books he requests we purchase.

He just flits through them

Why does he even bother?

And I’ll say, ‘coz the book reviews were inspiring

or I read an extract in ‘The New Yorker’ or ‘SMH’,

But when I went to read it I got bored: the characters were flat, the plot rambling, the writing uninspired.

A bit like some of your posts, a snide librarian might say.

My Friday friend once said, I had the attention span of a gnat.

Ouch!

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I did finish a book a few years ago.

That was a book of short stories. Does that count?

Anyway, they’ll blacklist me soon, and everyone will be happy.

Reminiscing Rainbows

Reminiscing Rainbows

We were reminiscing rainbows at the writers’ workshop when the mentor

snapped: Get out of the picture. You’re spoiling the view. Let the vision

remain. So I did. I got out and wrote this:

A bright rainbow

scythes

the air:

a gentle crop

of rain