Minotaur

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It seemed hours he’d been driving down the ramshackle roads that wound back upon themselves. And already he could feel the Minotaur lumbering down the labyrinths of his brain. It’s not true what they say. You want to send someone mad? Don’t lock them in a closed room. Set them loose in a maze, the sun setting suddenly as if a shutter had come down behind them.

Ditch or Save?

 

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Selling the house.

Downsizing.

Opening cupboards I haven’t opened

in twenty years.

Out with the old!

What’s in here?

Open Sesame.

I had forgotten about these.

Ditch or save?

But just in case

the world

falls off the grid and returns

to a pre-internet age

I’m keeping these,IMG_20190321_075147

these dusty hard-covered gems

of knowledge

these encyclopaedias & dictionaries

I earned as a door-to-door salesman.

 

what old things would you definitely keep if you moved house and downsized?

Hope is the Helium

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I was down in the dumps when someone praised

A recent poem of mine.

I know we should be immune to Praise

And Criticism

But it’s hard not to be lifted

Like a hot air balloon

Above the petty doubts and grievances

That beset us all

And to bask in the warm sun of appreciation

Knowing that, yeh, we’re okay,

We’re going to get there

We are not alone.

Hope is the helium that keeps us aloft.

 

can you think of an occasion when praise made a difference in your life?

what is the helium that keeps you aloft?

That Little Guy

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I don’t know how to take the mattress that’s been dumped in our driveway.

Admittedly it’s not as bad as the dead cat that was dumped in our rubbish bin.

But it’s harder to get rid of.

It’s an affront.

You eye yr neighbors suspiciously.

Suspect the crotchety old bloke across the road.

And then you do something nutty.

You drag it up the driveway and dump it on the street.

You don’t think. You react.

That little guy inside yr head.

Someone in the middle of the night drags it back.

So you ….

It’s like a tug-of-war.

So what’s yr next move?

One thing’s for certain.

Yr not going to take this lying down.

Mistrust

fruity cereal in a bowl. white background.

 I’ve come to mistrust the little guy who lives inside my head. He used to be such a nice guy but over the years he’s become a little loopy, his thinking transgressive. Now I hardly know him. He’s a loose cannon, an IED waiting to be stepped on. Look, I say, let’s be reasonable. You can’t say that! And you definitely can’t do that! You want to end up in prison with me? Sometimes I give him drugs to quieten him, talk him down, try to get him to see reason. I love the little guy. I just wish he was more like me.

 

do you find yourself warring with yourself sometimes? how do you resolve differences? is there such a thing as a fully unified being?

Little White Horses

 

music

 

I was tearing along the coastal route

The little white horses racing into shore

When this song came over the radio

And galloped into my heart.

I pulled over onto the shoulder.

I was transported.

I closed my eyes and let the music

Take me.

8.30 seconds later I was released.

It was good to hear Derek and The Dominoes again.

It was good to hear ‘Layla’

 

What songs stop you in your tracks, transport you to other places? What songs do you pull over for?

 

Too Much

 

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It’s a good day, I said, the sun angling through the red gums hooking our attention.

I don’t know, he said, Friday was pretty impressive too  [referring to the hailstorm]

then he looked at me, knowing I’m a poet, and said, you gunna write about it?

& I said, without thinking, when I get time, Mark, when I get time

& I thought about it afterwards, how you could write about almost anything at all

even the least bit startling — a rock maybe metamorphosing into a frog, the hurtle of creekwater rounding a bend, a screech of cockatoos tearing up the sky

there’d be so many you wouldn’t know where to stop. You’d be writing all day

& the night would hold some surprises too — a spider abseiling down a branch,  a fuchsia sunset or a blood moon, the soft sounds of love —-

everything offering itself into words: there’d be no end to it; in the end you’d have to

avert your eyes, close your mind, do what you were told never to do and NOT listen

to the Muse; only then would you get some peace, the world so ablaze with glory

the problem is not too little but too much.

 

is that the problem with your writing — too much to write about?

or is it writers’ block?

how do you deal with it?