Where is Raymond?
Everyone loves Raymond.
But no one is saying.
Christine is gone too.
But no one is asking after her.
It’s Raymond we love,
Raymond the Joker,
the Energiser Bunny that kept
the whole thing humming,
the convivialist who could talk
to children, animals.
Why, he could talk to a stone
& it’d open up.
Did he blot his copybook?
Perhaps he ran off with Christine,
some wag suggests.
The world just seems smaller
I put up a post the other minute that I knew might offend people but I wanted to honour the veracity of the experience. Would it be more acceptable if the man was the one shouting, and he was the bear of the title rather than his female partner? She did unleash a scatological attack upon the poor guy. What he had done was unclear; more likely it was what he hadn’t done. The title of the piece was unavoidable, though might have been more acceptable were it the man hurling abuse.
It was what happened. Security was called. I overheard the remark, ‘woman screaming in the mall’. It was quite an event. It stopped everyone in their tracks. I could bend over backwards to sugar-coat the experience or ignore it but I’m a writer. How could I not respond to it?
I was sitting at Maccas
on a cheeseburger
what the Buddha had to say
how it benefits both the giver and receiver
when this aboriginal woman
came up to me and said,
have you got two dollars. For chips?
Sure, I said,
pulling out a coin I plonked
in her hand.
Gee thanks, she said,
It’s my birthday today. I’m 29.
Lucky you. I said. Have a good one
and go easy on those chips.
She beamed me a smile
big as Uluru
& I knew what the Buddha meant.
Whenever I come across you, you light me up.
Helen of Troy,
that host of golden daffodils Wordsworth came across in the field,
I drop everything,
reach for my ruler, my pen and underline you
firmly and lovingly with indelible pink:
you are the amazing phrase,
the freshest of images,
the startling sentence,
the delightful ambush hidden in my reading.
pic courtesy of Unsplash by Alexander Krivitskly
Look, I’m sorry I have to show you this but I deliberately left it blurry so you would not have to confront its ugliness.
No, it’s not a mouse or rat that the cat I haven’t got killed.
It’s an ugly mass of dust particles that we call ‘fluff’ in this neck of the woods.
It’s what the cleaner left in the bedroom wardrobe after I had paid him sixty bucks for doing ‘such a superb job’ [my words]
It was like the shower scene in ‘Psycho’ for me where instead of being confronted with a blade I’m confronted with a rat-sized piece of woolly fluff.
I almost fell backwards and yes I did utter the blanked out word above and I photographed the evidence straight away.
I just had to tell you about it and I feel better already.
Get thee to a rubbish bin, I said, and to its credit, it hopped in the one provided.
The funny thing is, the rest of the house is spick and span. So how did he miss this?!
and btw I’ve just been informed this is my 500th post 🙂
have you ever had anything like that happen to you?
I heard there were whales lunging out of the water
At Henley South,
“sleek and smooth as peach slices”,
One eye witness said.
I finished what I was doing and went down
For a look.
But the sea was flat and empty.
There were only a pair of cyclists on the other side
Doing up their clips
And a pelican amongst the gulls gazing wistfully to a spot
Where something might have been.
No sun was out. The sky was whale-grey.
I had missed the moment.
That little kid in Maccas
from Aldinga Primary
with one hand on his yellow scooter
is picking up his order as I
am putting mine through.
Hello, he says brightly
& I say, hello, back
& I think should I be even speaking
with this kid?
[hasn’t he heard of stranger danger?]
so I ask him when did school go back
& he says, Monday so I ask him what grade he is in
[ he isn’t that little]
so I guess, Year seven
& he says, Year 5
& adds he comes each morning to Maccas
to fill up his tummy
so he can work hard .
He collects his pancake with chocolate syrup and strawberry milkshake
& scoots off
with his bag of calories and good work ethic.
*pic courtesy of Wiki Commons
I was walking along the Semaphore jetty
when a roly-poly guy from the Gospel Ministry
waddled up to me with a pamphlet, asking:
Are you a friend of Jesus, friend?
I said that I was but I didn’t know about
my web-footed friend almost at my side, but
if you threw him a fish I’m sure that he
would be too.
Now I don’t know whether Jesus had a sense
of humor but this guy didn’t even crack a smile
I don’t want to face him again today. Each morning it’s the same. He’s hung over, strung out, bleary-eyed, unshaven and his hair —- it looks like something slept in it overnight. He could make an effort. Spruce himself up a bit but no, the same old, same old. Mr, Ragamuffin. And the way he glares at me first thing in the morning. Is that really necessary, moaned the mirror ?
Maybe it’s the way I look or how I carry myself
but each time I go to the service station for fuel,
the attendant takes a good look at me and says
“Have a good day. [pause]. If you can”
as if I was constitutionally incapable of it.
It makes me try a little harder.