A Taste of Chlorine

A Taste of Chlorine.

Did you hear the possums last night? Up in the roof?

Sorry, I say, I didn’t.

It sounded like a stampede, she says. Like a wild party.

Why weren’t we invited? I chuckle. Nah, I was asleep.

I forgot, she says. You sleep deep.

I had a dream, I say.

Now you’re sounding like Martin Luther King. What was yours?

I was swimming laps in the pool. I was the only one there. I came out exhausted but exhilarated. That’s when I came in to see you.

You better have a shower then.

Why’s that?

You smell of chlorine.

The Place where Poems Begin

At the Place where Poems Begin.

I should be grateful

she comes

at all.

It’s hardly a place

for visiting Royalty;

she doesn’t have ‘airs’, my Muse:

she’s like Diana,

‘the people’s princess’;

she pays no heed to the currawong

wolf-whistling

in the covert

of the honeysuckle bush

where the yellow-shouldered honey-eaters play

& the wattle-birds cluck;

she doesn’t mind sharing  my instant coffee

in my ramshackle carport café;

it’s where I think,

tease out my thoughts,

it’s the place where poems begin.

feet on one plastic chair,

bum on the other

cushioned by my retired blue hoodie.

Butterflies of my Mind

The Butterflies of my Mind.

I was out among the fields, here one more time

Vigorously out hunting the butterflies of my mind

All the poems, the stories that had given me the slip

And would it seem once more; I had to be quick.

All the bright, beautiful things just beyond my net

Any moment now I’ll snare one; damn! Not just yet

Is It Okay?

Is it okay to take a post down?

I took a post down the other day

but no one noticed,

said anything.

Look, it had its chance.

But no one came up and asked it

to dance.

It slumped, sad and neglected on the page,

loudly weeping.

You can’t have that on a public forum.

It’s like that Philip Hodgkins poem, ‘Shooting the Dogs’.

I had to take it down to the basement,

put it out of its misery.

I just hope no one was watching.

On the Third Day

Another soggy morning

I text my love

on the third day of rain

who likes to receive

cheery aubades.

Try squeezing some goodness

out of this one, I say

as the clothes look bedraggled

on the line

sodden, sorry smiles.

It’s La Nina, I say

you’ll have to stay out there

a little longer.

F**k La Nina,

my ripped jeans snarl.

They always had an attitude problem.

Good to Go

If you go to bed at 8.30

and spring awake

at 4.30 in the morning

with two poems

slogging it out

in yr head,

you’re good to go

you’ve had your 8 hours

Something Stupid

I wasn’t standing near a level crossing
being eaten alive by tiger mosquitoes waiting
for the train to pass when
I could be at the River Bar drinking with my buddies
under a cool fan
but I was stuck in the emergency ward of the RAH
waiting for the medicos
to attend to my heart attack or whatever I was having
and I had a killer thirst.
So just like George did something stupid —
stepping over the carriage links when the train lurched forward
so I discharged myself
so I could be at the pub by 5pm with my mates,
 I had to sign a waiver though.
 Nothing happened to me like losing a leg
but it could have, It could have.

Will It Be Painless?

Is it any good pleading? Thompson says.

For your life? Not really.

But you can’t just toss me aside like a dog carcass, not after all I’ve done for you.

You were more than serviceable, Hunter admits. But you’ve served your purpose. You can’t argue with me.

Will it be painless?

Yes.

Well, get it over with then.

One minute, Hunter says.

He reaches into his satchel and pulls out his laptop.

Finish your drink, Hunter says. Out with the old and in with the new, he smiles, keyboarding fiercely.

He taps the delete button.

And with that, Thompson is gone.

So I Tried Something New

Nothing would come.

Constipation of the mind.

So what do you take?

Something new. A photo. Chosen at random.

What to call it?

The Light at the End of the Tunnel.

That’s what it’s like now.

Masks come off just before Easter.

The QR codes are gone except for medical facilities.

It has been a dark and claustrophobic journey

especially for those in isolation.

There;s the Ukraine War.

We are still in the tunnel with that one.

But it looks as if the tide is turning.

Those rigid tracks

but the train of progress has to travel

along something.

O glorious light.

See, you can get something from nothing.

the Cop and the Comet

I grabbed the comet of a poem

by the tail as it flashed past

the windscreen

on my way to the poetry workshop

but the traffic cop was not impressed

when I wrestled it onto the page

waiting for the lights to change

at the busy intersection

& began writing something of his own

• inspired by Yard Sale of Thoughts