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.
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
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
in their rumble jackets,
they waylaid me
at the foot
of the jetty
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
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
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
Get your head
out of yr ass,
said my mentor;
all things must pass;
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
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.
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.
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
a gentle crop