The Roofs of Queenstown

The Roofs of Queenstown.

I can look all day at the metal roofs of Queenstown

like Jacob, wearing coats of many colors:

this one matte black like my Cruize that beat

the  Monaro at the lights ; that one on the corner rust red,

the colour you see striated on the tin roofs of settler cottages,

the one just built, Tomahawk with its brash of burnt umber

and my favourites, Blue Balm, and Winnipeg Fog,

the two beside the park that calm and soothe;

I raise my hat to the metal roofs of Queenstown,

stylish and stately hats worn on the heads of houses.

Bella

the breeze is slurping my face

like Bella’s pink dog tongue

when sick, I slumped on the sofa

Ramshackle

Ramshackle ….

I’ve made the place neat and tidy just ramshackle enough

so it looks lived in

*pic courtesy of pinterest

Stunned and Panicky

Stunned and Panicky

I wake up suddenly

stunned and panicky

like a ‘roo caught in the headlights

of a big rig

an eighteen wheeler

tunneling thru the darkness.

My senses are all rinsed.

I leap out of bed

into the hysterical light of morning

pour myself a coffee

settle back into my little

skew whiff home.

• pic courtesy of pinterest

Houdini

Houdini
 
She’s the Houdini of hounds

getting in and out of tight spaces .

Her piece de resistance ?
The burying-in-the-blanket trick .

Performed while we’re asleep .

The props ?

A wicker basket with ground sheet
and blanket .

The technique ?

A mystery BUT
she wraps herself inside that blanket —
a hot dog —
against the cold .

In the morning we go out eyes
wide with amazement .

At the sound of biscuits sprinkled
in the bowl
she extricates herself
 
from her woolen prison
faster than Houdini
from his padlock and chains .
 
 

Interloper

 
I was doing yoga
 
when
 
I heard it fall;
 
that cranky cat, I thought
 
but when I got up
 
to look
 
it was the photo of poor late Milly,
 
our beloved Burmese,
 
she had knocked off
 
the cabinet;
 
I know what she was thinking,
 
that interloper,
 
her photo all over the house
 
but not one
 
of me,
 
the new kid on the block.
  

A Cheeky Question

Out already?

Yes.

So what do you do in there? You’re in and out like a flash.

I wash.

In that short time? Where do you wash?

Oh, you know, in the immortal words of The Yardbirds: Over, Under, Sideways, down

Home

Lola’s in her basket.

Tiffany’s in her tank.

I wouldn’t want to sleep

out. It is cold and dank.

Soph is in her frame

that sits upon the wall.

She is twenty eight forever

and loves us all.

The food lives in the bread bin,

the pantry and the fridge.

It is there to succour us

that we all may live

Stragglers

Don’t be in a hurry, the buds tell me.

Open when you’re ready.

What does it matter if others blossom

before you?

Remember the gulls

how they fly in loose formation over the sea

at sunset,

how there’d always be some bringing up the rear,

the stragglers.

It’s not a race as our Prime Minister said.

They get there in their own sweet time.

Like my teachers said of me, you may be slow, John,

but you get there in the end,

It’s okay to be a straggler.

On My Own Again

I’m on my own again.

My partner’s hit the sack.

The cat’s snuggled up in her basket.

Tiffany’s asleep in the tank, light out.

Even the mozzies have called it a day..

There’s nothing on TV.

Perhaps someone will text. Someone …

Is this what it’s going to be like?