Put a Moat Around it

I have a mote in my left eye

not the metaphoric one that Jesus

spoke of

but an actual one of grit.

I have amoat in my head too

which is metaphoric.

It cuts me off from needy people

which is kinda funny

coz I’m needy too.

Some people are overly guarded.

Too many moats to cross.

Australia has a moat,

a helluva big one

called the Pacific Ocean

on one side

& the Indian on the other

the one that boat people crossed

to get to Australia.

One family from Vietnam

lived across the road from us

for years.

I wrote about the man, the grandfather

in my first book.

[I’ll post it tomorrow]

A moat as big as the ocean

is hazardous.

Not everyone made it back then.

The Earth is surrounded

by a moat too

the vast star-studded ocean

of space.

I could go on but this poem

is starting to drift.

so I’m going to put a moat around it

and close it off.

* photo by juvnsky-enton-maksimor on Unsplash

That Note from the Neighbours

We got a note from the young couple across the road

telling [ warning? ] us that they were holding a birthday bash

that day starting at two and going past midnight.

And, no, we were not invited.

We braced ourselves for the worst.

A few cars appeared around six, the last time we checked.

We did hear a car door slam at nine

& some intemperate laughter on the front porch a little later

& that was it.

No hordes of SUV’s. no gate crashers, no raised voices,

no loud thumping music.& no need to call the number

I set aside for the cops.

The Bacchanalia clearly hadn’t arrived.

We went to bed a little disappointed.

the Leaf Blower of Heaven

He

whines

& wails

down

the driveway

day after day

in search of

leaves.

God called him

one night.

He’s up there now

scouring

the avenues for

autumn’s discards

driving

the residents mad

like he did

down

here

 

* photo courtesy of Wiki Commons

Apparently They See Ghosts

I was talking to my rarely glimpsed neighbour who was out the front doing the gardening.

We chewed the fat for a while

and then I asked him about Gus, his elderly Jack Russel.

He doesn’t annoy you. does he? He asked.

Not at all, I said. I’m a dog person.

Well, he annoys the hell out of me, he said. The other day he was barking at the dining room wall and wouldn’t stop. There was nothing there.

Apparently, they see ghosts, I said. Even in the dark.

He stopped raking.

Or he has dementia? He offered.

Wow! I said. That would open a can of worms. Think how many documented ghost sightings could be put down to dementia.

People don’t bark at walls, he said.

Not even if they’re barking mad? I said.

We both laughed uneasily.

He went back to his raking.

Inside, the dog barked.

 

Solitary Confinement

Do you know, he said,  no one’s knocked on my door

for half a year since I moved in?

The other day I said hello to a neighbour

While putting out the bins — he jumped back

As if affronted.

And once I had to speak to Hagrid next door

about his musical tastes

I know ‘metal’ is supposed to be loud, but hey!

Well, I haven’t heard from him since.

There’s a dog that barks from time to time

whenever I hang out the washing

but I never see the owner.

We’re hermits here, he said.

I do see cars come and go and hear bins go out

So I know people are there. You just never see them,

that’s all.

That Little Guy

 

I don’t know how to take the mattress that’s been dumped in our driveway.

Admittedly it’s not as bad as the dead cat that was dumped in our rubbish bin.

But it’s harder to get rid of.

It’s an affront.

You eye yr neighbors suspiciously.

Suspect the crotchety old bloke across the road.

And then you do something nutty.

You drag it up the driveway and dump it on the street.

You don’t think. You react.

That little guy inside yr head.

Someone in the middle of the night drags it back.

So you ….

It’s like a tug-of-war.

So what’s yr next move?

One thing’s for certain.

Yr not going to take this lying down.

Who Would Do That?

Who would do that?

Put a dead pigeon in yr rubbish bin?

If it was good enough

To put in my bin

Why wasn’t it good enough

To put in theirs?

O the stink,

The weight of it!

I shovelled it out of the bin

And tossed it,

Neck all crumpled,

Into the far right hand corner of the garden

Where it could decay

In dignity

Among the cluster of leaves.

The only good thing is

It’s given me something rancorous

To write about.

 

have you had any incidents with neighbors or strangers re your rubbish bins?

Two Moons

.Look, she says. Look. There are two moons tonight. Do you think that means anything?

Like end times, you mean?

I don’t know, she says. It can’t be good.

We move closer. There they are above the rooftops, one higher and to the right of the other.

Someone in the ranch-style house switches the porch light on and joins us.

My ex-wife phoned, he says. She saw it too. She’s bit of a sky watcher.

So we stand there out the front as one then the other veer off in a north-easterly direction, silent and glowing as moons.

Barking Mad

There’s a wine called ‘Barking Mad’.

I liked it so much I bought six bottles and drank them all.

Not in one night, of course.

There have been times when I have been barking mad:

Over the insurance company’s delay in fixing my storm-damaged gate because ‘it is just a gate’,

Over next door’s yippee yappy dog who goes off when I piss under the lemon tree at night alarming the neighbours and the back lights go on to see what’s up [ Can’t a man piss in peace? ]

But mostly it’s the scammer with the heavy Slav accent who phones every few days to tell me my internet has been infected and will be turned off unless I phone a certain number.

It hasn’t been turned off yet and I haven’t phoned.

Over petrol prices that go up and down like a wild week at the Dow Jones.

I could go on but you get the idea.

Everyone is a Howard Beale barking mad at something.