These Books

These books have been around the block.

These books have done the hard yards.

They’ve had the stuffing knocked out of them

like a much loved teddy bear,

the sort of sorry, scruffy specimens grandparents bring

to ‘The Repair Shop’ ( UK ).

Is there an equivalent place for bruised, battered books?

What happens to them?

Is there a retirement home for old books?

A Hospice where sick books go to die?

Are we allowed to visit?

Is it over for paper books,

like it is for paper bills?

Is the future for books solely digital?

I for one like to hold books

like children teddy bears.

The Naked Beach

The Naked Beach

Get your head

out of yr ass,

said my mentor;

all things must pass;

look around;

be here, now;

look at the cows

in the field,

how placid they are

learn what I cannot teach;

imbue the wisdom

of the naked beach

Oooops

Oooops. Looks like I turned the heater off prematurely.

I seem to make a habit of it.

Maybe because I was born prematurely.

I don’t finish novels either.

or most short stories.

Even half my poems I bail out from.

Relationships too.

I have meltdowns. Walkouts.

But hey ! I have three kids.

Nothing premature there.

And I’m still with my gal.

Maybe I can finally say, I’m over it.

But that might be a little premature.

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?

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 Big Day

Election day at Alberton Primary.

A long, long queue.

A slow shuffle to the front.

Hope the queue at the Pearly Gates

isn’t as long and tedious as this.

And there’s a coffee van and sausage sizzle

at the end of it

New Driver

A new driver

took over his bus

clean,

open-faced,

good-natured,

knew how to swing

a conversation.

Sure, he still liked

his cigs,

the pokies,

but he doesn’t touch

the booze.

Not any more.

He’s high

on Jesus now

and Marge.

And look how she

leans into him

as if she really belongs.

And perhaps this time

she really does.

• pic courtesy of pinterest by mugichan

Evie

People walking up and down ,

walking off their sore heads from the night before,

mothers with their daughters, mothers with no one,

people locked on their mobiles,

missing the jaunty waves,

the graffiti of gull talk

and that gorgeous fluffy white spitz from McLaren Vale walking his owner

what’s his name? I ask.

Her, he corrects me. Evie.

Ahh I say after the song.

That’s right, he says. Evie, Parts 1,2 and 3.

And we give each other the thumbs up —

not many people know that —

& could start reminiscing when we saw Little Stevie & the Easybeats

but Evie is keen to get moving

just like Little Stevie who couldn’t keep still;

And above us, because

there’s a strong breeze,

there’s wind surfers flying around

like a dazzle of butterflies,

The Way

I did not know the way to the waterfall

I was beaten,

hollowed out,

lonely as the last leaf on a tree

tramping, tramping

when suddenly my phone leapt

in my top pocket;

it was my grand-daughters,

their voices

tripping over each other with excitement,

telling me

they were coming to Adelaide,

that I would see them soon,

and suddenly

I was there, refreshed in the waterfall

of their voices,

like a baptism

*pic by Pinterest

Come Closer and Listen

I reckon if someone calls a book, ‘Come Closer and Listen’ they ought to have something to say.

Something vital, urgent, new. Provocative.

I leaned real close and listened. I wanted to be shocked out of my stodginess.

Take something away, to share with my mates at the pub Friday night.

Something revelatory.

But there was nothing.

Admittedly the poems are well crafted, And there are a few good ones

and even one stand-out poem but that’s it in 60 + pages.

But really it’s the same old stuff as in the previous 10 books.

God help us, we;re all in danger of repeating ourselves and if I do I pray someone

calls me out.

But it’s like I said of the Seinfeld book.

You coulda done better, Charles. You coulda done better.