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.
You smell of chlorine.
At the Place where Poems Begin.
I should be grateful
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
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.
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 to take a post down?
I took a post down the other day
but no one noticed,
Look, it had its chance.
But no one came up and asked it
It slumped, sad and neglected on the page,
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.
Another soggy morning
I text my love
on the third day of rain
who likes to receive
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.
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?
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.
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
O glorious light.
See, you can get something from nothing.
I grabbed the comet of a poem
by the tail as it flashed past
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