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.
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
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.
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.
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’
Bev put on a Golden Oldies disc
when Hippy Hippy Shake
jumped out of the player.
Chad Romero, I said.
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.
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.
Sometimes I wish every day was Thursday
but I keep that thought in check.
Didn’t God rest one day a week?
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?
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
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,
to some she’s a monster, others a champ
pic ourtesy of Pinterest by behanc.net
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