Easter Rising

Easter Rising

Had breakfast with the brothers at Brunelli’s Good Friday. That was good.

Beachwalked beside the Dunes in the afternoon in golden light, thoughts jiggling like gold coins in my head.

Saturday bumped into an old school friend at Café Boulevard. Coffee and cakes. Prostrate Cancer. Dementia. The Crosses we have to carry.

In the evening Tina, my granddaughter, phoned from Brisbane. Filled me in with all their shenanigans helping the homeless — there’s a podcast coming up —and drew me out with mine. Caught the last fifteen minutes of ‘Alone’ Whew.

Looks like Sunday morning’s arrived. Easter service this morning with Pentecostal Peter and Ed. Old times then dinner with my daughter, my ex and BIG extended family including Nonna who is 95. Will fit in a rest before that.

Monday will see my sister in the Nursing Home. Still not mobile BUT she has come a long way. No signs of Parkinson’s, no signs of dementia, she has shed her moroseness, and has recovered her mirth. She is the sister I used to know, She lifts my spirit.

I will thank Jesus for the changes he has made to my life. I am a happier person, more fulfilled, more friends. We all have a friend in Jesus.

I hope you all have a happy Easter.

Strong: an Ode

Strong: An Ode.

Wished I were as strong as you

as oblivious to the slings and arrows

of outrageous fortune

as you are,

the bags of potatoes, milk cartons,

six packs of ginger beer dumped

on top of you,

leaving nary a scratch or dent

I bet you’d be as impervious to a nuclear blast

as a cockroach,

my six dollar pair of sunnies from

Cheap As Chips.

I honor you .

• pic courtesy of wiki commons

Woozy

Woozy.

It only lasted a few seconds

but I felt woozy as a drunk

a first timer on a passenger ship

riding a bumpy sea.

Whoa! I said, gripping the reins tighter

but the doc was concerned:

What is it, John? What’s happening?

My vision’s all over the place, doc.

Hang on, he said, taking my blood pressure,

feeling my pulse.

All good, he declared. Just rest for a few minutes here

till it settles.

I did. It did.

Boy! it was scary but sort of exhilarating too

like that time Marilyn Monroe

looked at herself in a fun house mirror

back in the fifties.

• pic courtesy of pinterest

Inconsequential

Inconsequential.

I maybe small

but I’m not inconsequential,

says the 5c coin

as it rattles on the polished wooden floor

where I dropped it

doing its little jig

• pic courtesy of Wiki Commons

This is One of Them

This is the old house on Botting St, Albert Park.

There are many stories.

This is one of them.

A Knock at the door.

It is the middle of the afternoon in the middle of the week when a tentative knock at the front door catches my attention.

A man in his mid sixties, I would say, spruce and well dressed, stands before me, a little awkwardly.

Is your mother at home? he asks.

Dad had passed away six months ago so who is this man? and why would he be wanting mum?

I’m Charley, he announces.

Ahh, mum spoke of him from time to time in dad’s absence, in a dreamy sort of way. A cheeky grin would cross her face. One of her old flames.

She’s in a nursing home, I say. She went downhill rather suddenly.

I’m sorry to hear that, he says. Can I go and see her?

I hesitate. Is it right? So soon after? Maybe it will brighten her up. What harm will it do?

I give him the address and he leaves, a little too jauntily for my liking, in his newly polished FJ Holden.

The Good Gardener

The Good Gardener.

The shears go in

trim, trim, trim

I am the good gardener

slim, slim, slim

out with the excess,

the tired, the dissolute,

leaving behind only

the poetic truth

*pic by pinterest

bamboozled

The leaves are frisky today

playful

coquettish, toying

with the breeze;

the butterfly looks flustered,

the bees bamboozled,

even the honey-eater doesn’t know

what to do

*pic by pinterest

Froth

Frothing.

Don’t go frothing at the mouth.

It is not a good look.

Don’t go wacko.

Your last post was a disaster.

Thankfully few saw it.

Retain some semblance of control.

Do something peaceful.

Eat a fig.

Sleeping while Standing

[ a poem for World Sleep Day ]

Sleeping Standing Up.

Horses can do it but it’s a condition I’ve never aspired to

But now it’s time to take the bit between my teeth.

To sleep lying down brings up the phlegm and encourages

Coughing fits; “fit for your coffin”, my partner jokes;

But she’s had enough and so have our friends in the next room.

“Try to do it standing up,” she says. “Pardon?” I say.

“Sleep,” she says, “Perchance to dream. Think like a horse.”

So I rein in my fears, stomp my feet a little, give it a go —-

if only I didn’t whinny so loudly in the middle of the night

• pic courtesy of pinterest

Every Day has its Markers

Every Day has its Markers.

It must be Friday, I say to Ralph at the Hot Dog stand.

I’m here. You’re there. And you’re about to make me a cinnamon do-nut.

Bingo ! he says, and it must be 10.30!

Spot on, I say, checking my watch.

That’s how we know.

Every day has its markers.

And you’re off to have coffee with your mate, Pentecostal Peter

with the aviator sunglasses, Ralph adds.

Why, it’s got Friday written all over it.

We exchange smiles.

We’ve got it down pat.