A Playful Panda of a Poem
She glows and she glitters
from sunset to sunrise
she is an all night lady
with tachycardic eyes
She loves the crickets of Quorrobolong
the whimsy of the wind
the noisy cross-eyed mynah
the clatter of rubbish bins
She has a tachycardic heart
and tachycardic toes
and takes herself off
wherever the wild wind blows
She loves the smell of coquetry
the stars, the perfumed black
and when she finally settles, eats
French Fries and Big Macs
*pic courtesy of pinterest
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
There’s a miniature submarine lurking
at the bottom of the aquarium .
It is smooth and black with feathery gills .
It is an axolotyly .
We call him Axle , of course .
Most of the time he just hangs around
amongst the water weeds .
Perhaps he’s lonely and depressed .
But every now and then
he rouses himself
and cruises around as if on patrol .
The other fish give him right of way .
Perhaps he thinks he really is a submarine
on an important mission ,
keeping the waters safe for democracy ,
for instance .
Sometimes when he cruises past the sides
of the tank
I give him the thumbs up .
It seems to give him a lift .
Your canal’s very narrow, he says.
Narrow?
Yes, like the Thai tunnel cave divers had to negotiate to get those boys out. Not much sound can get through. There are no cave divers small enough to help it along.
Like that film in the sixties? I say.
Which film is that?
‘Fantastic Voyage’, where a submarine crew are shrunk to microscopic size and injected into the bloodstream of a scientist to repair his brain.
Can’t help you there, he says.
Is it hereditary then?
Quite possible. The left auditory canal is quite large. Can carry a lot of sound.
Maybe that’s why I lean a little to the left, I say.
Politically? he asks.
No, doc. When I walk.
I saw it advertised in the local rag.
‘Bonsai Show’, it said.
It was a tiny notice. I had to squint to read the details.
The hall was rather tiny.
I squeezed through the entrance almost knocking my head
against several light fittings on my way in.
It looked like a huddle of hobbits around the bonsai which
were unusually tiny.
“They’re not fully grown yet,” a volunteer offered.
Like many of you, I felt like saying but bit my tongue.
The Club President gave a haiku-sized speech for which
we were all grateful.
I mingled for half an hour indulging in the small talk until
refreshments were served.
There were pies, pasties and muffins from the ovens of Lilliput.
“Would you like a short black?” the serving lady asked.
“Any chance of some wine ?” I said.
“Sorry,” she answered, “It’s in very short supply.”
I had had about enough of pint-sized jokes,
and headed out into the big, wide world.
*pic by backyard boss on pinterest
Comes out every now and then
When I lose the thread of an argument and desperately try to sew it up
When I chat with Tiff in her tank at night when there’s nothing on TV
When I slapstick my way across the mall just for the hell of it
In the bath on Sundays when I sing ‘Deep Water’ backwards, inside out and upside down to give my vocal chords a workout
At the hairdressers when I talk to Simon with the harelip about his dad’s imminent retirement as Lord Mayor of Mars
And lastly when we all stand together in Alex’s Salon and sing the Mars National Anthem on International Mars Day
Waddle waddle
toil and twaddle
the cat’s in its cradle
the boy’s in the bubble
The king’s in the counting house
counting out his money
the red back’s on the toilet seat
in the outdoor dunny
Old Mother Hubbard’s
in lockdown at home
the poor little dog
still hasn’t a bone
but the cow’s over the moon
the sun’s in the stubble
and Basho’s feisty frog
plops in the puddle
Let me see.
There must be some nice things
I can say about you.
I get to hang out with my inner hermit again.
Where you been? he asks sullenly.
Busy, I say, busy. But hey! It’s good to see you.
Can we, you know, have a beer together? Bring in a Pizza? Watch ‘The Farmer Wants a Wife?’
Sure, I say, sure.
We hug each other. It’s like old times. There’s a tear in his rheumy eyes.
I got time now.
I go to the old bookshelf. It’s pretty dusty. Don’t get much reading done when you’re out and about.
And I grab one, that big Collected Graham Greene
and we settle into ‘The Quiet American’.
There are some stories you can’t read enough.
You could do with a shower, I say. So could you, says hermit.
We give each other a playful punch. It’s like old times.
I watch his hands, his fingers twitching. He pulls back the curtain, peers outside.
Do you reckon we could ,,,,?.
Why not? I say. It’s the season for it.
We stoke up the fire, sit side by side, writing our shivery little three liners, haiku on wind, frost, ice, hailstones.
Winter, you’re not all bad.
Are you lost? he asks.
I don’t know, I say. I think so.
What’s that bracelet around your ankle?
Oh that, it’s a monitoring device in case I get lost.
So are you?
I guess so. I was wandering like Wordsworth. Only he saw daffodils.
So what do you see?
I was just looking at the windy lake, how the waves arch like dolphins through the water and i thought of that song
What song?
The one that goes: ‘I wish I could swim like dolphins can swim’
You see that?
Yes, don’t you? Excuse me, that’s my phone ringing. I really have to take this. Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m coming right now. I have to go, I say.
So you’re okay then?
Yes, Someone’s waiting for me, waiting out the front.
That’s good. Anyone you know?
Yes, someone I know very well. But it’s okay.. He found me. We lose each other from time to time.
Pardon?
Soon as I get home, I’ll lock myself in. for the night. That’s when my mother used to wander too. It’s for my own good.
John Malone 