Maybe: An Enigma.
Maybe if I had played my cards
a little closer to my chest,
you wouldn’t then have known
that I had played my best;
now I have to wait
for your tom foolery
to decide what to do
with the rest of me
*pic courtesy of wikipedia
Gone
Admittedly it ranks a little lower
than the mystery of the Marie Celeste.
missing Malaysia Flight A 370
or the disappearance of the Beaumont children
at our local beach on Australia Day
half a century ago
But I still want to know
what happened
to my snazzy blue, gold trimmed vest
I got for Xmas and took off for a shave
on Boxing Day
I only took it off for a minute
so I wouldn’t get it grubby.
Where did it go?
Someone’s been out in the garden
between the evening and the dawn.
I wonder what it was.
A rabbit or a fawn?
Yes, someone’s been in the garden
in the depths of the dark.
Someone fleet and nimble
who have left their mark.
Someone’s been in the garden
before the day was born —
the Xmas elf of Davis Court? —
& from their roots all weeds have torn,
Siberia
We arrived late at night. That may have been the reason.
Or maybe our reputation preceded us.
Either way we ended up in Siberia, Room 313 , the furthest most room from the front desk, next to the storage area.
Adele, the desk clerk, wasn’t much help. In her effort to be genial, she often hit the wrong note.
Eventually, we got our keys and lugged our baggage down the long, long corridor, the shadows across the carpet hulking and ominous.
By the time we got to our room we were stuffed,
We stripped off and hopped beneath the covers of the king size bed.
That’s when I realized we had company.
The figure beside me shifted uneasily
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.
On my early walk
I passed a group of musicians
Under the bridge
It sounded like
They were tuning their instruments
In preparation
For a concert
Perhaps a twilight one on the bank
The notes
Bouncing off
each other —Boing boing — like hollow
rubber balls
banjo frogs
amongst the rocks and reeds already
drawing a crowd
How was it, love? How was yr cuppa?
Dark and warm, thanks.
Dark and warm?
Yes, like a secret.
There should be secrets
For us to ponder
to worry about.
Not everything need be known
like how we got here
on this island Earth,
Why God put us here,
the point of suffering,
of brain tumors, cancer?
why some people sail through life
while others ….
What’s it all about, Alfie?
Like the house across the street.
Who lived there? Why did they go?
Why has it been left to ruin?
I could ask the guy raking the leaves
in the house next door
but if I knew, I couldn’t ponder.
There should be secrets.
There should be secrets.
Perhaps the stars weren’t aligned.
Perhaps it’s in the DNA.
Either way the reboot sags,
flaccid as a spent condom.
It walks around the ABC studio
with its hands clasped behind its back,
that gesture of defeat,
It is laboured, lassitudinous, much in need
of a cattle prod up the ass, as my old
friend, twelve years in, would say.
A bit severe perhaps.
It’s lost its zest, its zing,
It’s dead on its feet.
Even Jesus couldn’t resuscitate it.
They were in a little cottage out the back with nothing to write about on a dark and stormy night. Delia, a tall, strapping, Scandinavian woman, with long greyish blond hair down to her waist, had just given them, a small group of seniors, fifteen minutes silent writing during the class on short story writing. You should be able to come up with something, she said,almost despairing of her hopelessly floundering flock. This was the second session and still not a word had been written. The thunder boomed and lightning flashed helpfully as if to provide prompts. Delia paced up and down out the front working herself into a froth.
Just then, as if on cue, the door flew open, and a drug-addled man with straggly blond hair and black tank top stormed in, neck and arms swathed in devil tatts, shouting obscenities in a strange guttural language, throwing chairs around the room thankfully with no one in them, and then with his anger quenched, stormed out again. Where’s Security when you need them, fumed D who immediately phoned the police. Suddenly everyone started furiously writing. Delia could not stop them.
pic by pretty sleepy on pixabay
John Malone 