One Monster at a Time

 

The honeysuckle bush out the back can wait.

I mean, how much more fecund

can one plant get

in 24 hours?

But my sister can’t.

She’s in ICU.

But I need to pick up her walker first

in the maze of streets her house is tucked into.

I just hope the German Shepherds are under control this time.

I’m ravenous but that will have to wait.

the toilet call can’t.

And when I get to the hospital I’ve got to find a park

somewhere in the surrounding street and not get lost again.

My equanimity scrambled like eggs.

So many things to accommodate.

That stobie pole like a Good Friday cross.

Then there’s the vertical coffin-shaped box I have to squeeze into

to get to ICU.

One monster at a time.

Blur

A fog comes down between you and the world.

Words have to scramble through.

A dog’s breakfast of sounds.

Turning the volume up on the TV only increases the blur.

Why does one sense desert you when others

are intact?

Every now and then yr ears pop

and the world of sounds : leaf blowers.

crows caw, the Harley revving up

across the road, the postman’s whistle,

comes rushing at you with all its

clarity and clangor.

Where They Speak Crow

I don’t speak Chinese.

Nor do I speak Russian

though I do speak Latin

[three years at Uni]

though no one speaks it anymore

nor do I speak Crow

like those blokes at the gym

who ‘follow’ the Adelaide Crows footy team,

speak the arcana of the game,

the iconography of past champions,

the minutiae of every quarter,

pumping statistics rather than iron.

I’m on the outer of the inner circle

though I get far more gym done.

Gleefully Unhinged

I suppose I should be getting ready

rather than hanging out here in the garden

drinking G & T’s

reading an ode to the art of ‘goofing off’

which is sort of like Jenny Joseph’s

‘When I am an old woman I shall wear purple’

which she wrote at 29

& that pic of Bill Murray at Cannes in his short-sleeved

psychedelic shirt, baby blue shorts & panama hat

looking ‘gleefully unhinged’

• pic from Style in ‘The Age’

One little Letter, one HUGE difference

Bev put on a Golden Oldies disc

when Hippy Hippy Shake

jumped out of the player.

Chad Romero, I said.

Who?

Chad Romero, the singer. How good is my memory?

When she went into the shower, I sneaked a look at the CD cover

to make sure I’d got it right.

Huh? Swinging Blue Jeans, it said.

That’s funny, I thought, I’m sure it was Chad Romero.

So I Googled the name.

My heart sank.

‘Chad went home to be with the Lord,’ the Obituary began, ‘on April 23rd, 2017.’

Bullshit, I said. Chad was a hell-raiser. He wouldn’t have gone meekly as that.

There was no mention of his singing career.

So I Googled ‘Hippy Hippy Shake’ and there he was : CHAN ROMERO.Singer, composer, lyricist.

The full package.

And he’s still alive. Still rocking.

Sometimes one little letter can make a HUGE difference.

Thursdays

It’s such a relief for me, Thursdays.

It’s the only day I don’t shave.

It’s my let-it-all-hang-out day.

My slob day.

I wash but don’t shave.

I wear casual, loose fitting, clean.

I eat that extra slice of cake.

I don’t do gym, exercise.

I may break into a walk now and then,

but that’s it.

It’s Thursday.

Sometimes I wish every day was Thursday

but I keep that thought in check.

Didn’t God rest one day a week?

Mine’s Thursday.

Is this even a poem or a bunch of thoughts?

On any other day it wouldn’t pass muster.

But it’s Thursday, remember?

*have you got a favorite day?

Why I Left

They didn’t sing the songs I liked.

The good old Gospel songs.

That’s why I left.

Songs like, ‘Down to the River to Pray’.

‘Keep on the Sunny Side’,

‘Leaning on the Everlasting Arms’,

songs with grit and passion,

big songs with big voices,

like Mahalia.

Instead they sang ‘white’ songs, marshmallow songs,

watered down, hollowed out, tuneless drones.

I wanted melodies that swung low and lifted me

like that Sweet Chariot.

That’s why I left

Is It Any Wonder ?

Have you got ants in yr pants? Mum would say

When I fidgeted in bed.

Once the dentist slapped me in the face

When I wouldn’t keep still

During an extraction.

My mind would wander like Wordsworth

When I was a kid.

You’d forget yr head if it wasn’t screwed on

Was a comment

That followed me like a shadow.

You’ve always got yr head in the clouds,

Barked Brother Angus

From his pulpit

During Ancient History lessons.

Well, it’s better than having it stuck up my arse,

I wanted to say.

And now my grand-daughter has been diagnosed with ADHD.

Is it any wonder?.

She Knows How to Make You Feel small

She knows how to make you feel small

loudly with-holding favours

she bestows on all

She makes you wait till the very last minute

then tends to you

but there’s not much love in it

She doesn’t brook criticism, praise

& rejects the crawl

she’ll squash you like a snail you’re so small

Her kind multiplies in prisons, offices,

re-education camps

to some she’s a monster, others a champ

pic ourtesy of Pinterest by behanc.net

Writing School

I was in writing school again.

The teacher, Mr. Wiles, was tall and totemic.

He was disparaging a writer that was currently in the ascendant.

‘His prose is loose and lumpen’, he said. ‘It clumps along the hallway of sentences like Lurch in The Adams Family’

*pic courtesy of Wikipedia