This is One of Them

This is the old house on Botting St, Albert Park.

There are many stories.

This is one of them.

A Knock at the door.

It is the middle of the afternoon in the middle of the week when a tentative knock at the front door catches my attention.

A man in his mid sixties, I would say, spruce and well dressed, stands before me, a little awkwardly.

Is your mother at home? he asks.

Dad had passed away six months ago so who is this man? and why would he be wanting mum?

I’m Charley, he announces.

Ahh, mum spoke of him from time to time in dad’s absence, in a dreamy sort of way. A cheeky grin would cross her face. One of her old flames.

She’s in a nursing home, I say. She went downhill rather suddenly.

I’m sorry to hear that, he says. Can I go and see her?

I hesitate. Is it right? So soon after? Maybe it will brighten her up. What harm will it do?

I give him the address and he leaves, a little too jauntily for my liking, in his newly polished FJ Holden.

bamboozled

The leaves are frisky today

playful

coquettish, toying

with the breeze;

the butterfly looks flustered,

the bees bamboozled,

even the honey-eater doesn’t know

what to do

*pic by pinterest

Maybe: An Enigma

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

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?

In the wee small hours

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

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  

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.

Early Morning Walk

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

Secret

How was it, love? How was yr cuppa?

Dark and warm, thanks.

Dark and warm?

Yes, like a secret.

Secrets

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.