Do I have to tame you?
You’re not lions.
And this little backyard outside my unit
is not a cage
so why don’t you behave?
I only watered you a few times during the week
and you burst out like a prison break.
You leave me no choice.
No, no, it’s too late to plead.
These shears will prune you back
to more modest dimensions.
Don’t worry. The bees will still come.
the yellow-shouldered honey-eaters and wattle birds
& I’ll still write poems about you.
All will be well.
But such profuseness ….
*pic courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
On my early walk
I passed a group of musicians
Under the bridge
It sounded like
They were tuning their instruments
For a concert
Perhaps a twilight one on the bank
each other —Boing boing — like hollow
amongst the rocks and reeds already
drawing a crowd
The fat crow caws
from the top
of the peppercorn tree
kraak kraak kraak
loud, loutish, laconic
& the bloke next door calls out
to his wife
what’s that, dear?
They do not graze in meadows.
Nor do they stare listlessly
over fences at traffic .
None , to my knowledge ,
are brindled or patchwork .
Few , if any , have horns
or tails to swish flies with .
I have never heard one moo .
Nor been charged by one
when I crossed its path .
They may see red
but are little sought after
by toreadors .
Yet they are big .
And they do pack a bite.
On a road trip the other day
we got talking about birth defects you don’t see
like hunchbacks, birth marks, cleft palates
whose father was Lord Mayor of Mars had one
and spoke with a lisp.
Then at this café in the mountains
we were served
by a barista
with a raspberry stain on his left cheek
the shape of Africa.
Is that a birth mark, I asked him. We were just talking about them.
Yes, it is, he smiled.
It was just another feature on his face, like his nose.
or a mole
It was nothing special.
Yet it had a strange sort of beauty.
He poured me the greatest cup of coffee.
I was glad that I had asked him, that I didn’t wuss out.
It’s okay to be curious.
My extension cord is kinky.
It winds around itself, gets tangled up in knots.
What can you do?
Iron them out?
I have kinks too.
The world would be a straighter, sadder place were it not
Our quirks, our oddities, the little handbag we carry around our talents in.
How we’re wired, the way we spin, the bands we listen to.
They’re in me and you.
Those pairs of long thin strands coiled like the banisters of a spiral staircase.
You don’t want to untangle them.
post courtesy of dykeanddean.com on Pinterest
Beth put up a post yesterday about the joys of walking, not just the health benefits but what you come across on the way.
Here are some of the things I came across:
water tumbling over stones
a brindled dog all skin and bones
frogs jamming in baritone
the bumblebees’ gingery drone
horses cantering on their own
one jet black, the others roan,
sad girl sitting all alone
hunched over her mobile phone
the Maserati of the insect world
they leap from dawdle to dash
in one second flat
at one moment hovering helicopters
the next fighter planes
daredevil pilots at the controls
coupling in mid-air as if refuelling
how do they do it?
sex on the run
& here comes junior, red-headed
as a matchstick, parents in tow,
learning the ropes
We’re marching towards mid-summer now.
Midsummer can be murder here,
the heatwave capital of Australia.
I can feel the heat in its loins already,
smell its sweaty armpits
hear the swagger in its step.
I’m coming, he says, like a general
on the march with his troops,
heatstrokes and bushfires,
& his meddlesome minions,
mozzies, snakes, spiders,
outcasts from Eden.
Not looking forward to this
but at least there’s the beach to go to,
the air-conditioned palaces of libraries
and shopping centres, the reverse cycle at home
and, of course, beers with the boys!